Len Levinson - Without Mercy

He led her to the small adjoining office; the two other detectives following them in. Jenkins was seated behind his desk, talking on the telephone. Rackman motioned for Dorothy to sit down, then he and the other detectives sat on the other chairs. They all looked at Jenkins, who was talking so softly you couldn’t make out what he was saying. His desk was piled with correspondence, newspapers, photographs, and fingerprint cards. Finally he hung up the phone and looked at Dorothy.

“You must be the decoy from downtown,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied. “I’m Detective Dorothy Owens.”

Jenkins looked her up and down. “Do you know what we want you for?”

“To help catch the Slasher,” she said.

“He’s a pretty big guy, and I’m wondering if you’re strong enough to deal with him if he gets out of hand.”

“I’ve got a brown belt in karate.”

“But he’s got a knife, and he’s extremely strong.”

“Well I’m not going to be all alone, am I?”

“No, but if he pulls that knife of his you’re going to be alone for a few seconds until somebody can get to you.”

“I think I could handle anybody for a few seconds.”

Jenkins shrugged. “I don’t know.” He looked at Rackman. “What do you think?”

“It’s up to her,” Rackman replied. “If she wants to do it, we’ll let her do it. If she doesn’t, we’ll get somebody else.”

Dorothy was getting annoyed; as usual the experienced men were treating her like a second class cop.

“I’ll do it,” she said pleasantly.

“You’re sure?” Jenkins asked, narrowing his eyes.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Jenkins picked up a copy of the New York Review of Sex that would hit the stands tomorrow. He opened it to the back pages and handed it to her. “Read the ad that’s marked in red.”

Dorothy took the paper and looked at the ad.

W/F, 25, Seeks Big Stout Man for any sexual pleasures you enjoy. I like anything and everything, I am clean, and big heavy guys really turn me on. Call Kim at 757-9424 after 6 p.m.

She handed back the paper. “There must be a million guys in this city who fit that description,” she said.

Jenkins frowned as he folded the paper on the pile of junk on his desk. “You got a better idea to catch the Slasher?”

“No, but you’re going to get a lot of phone calls from that ad.”

“Correction,” Jenkins said. “You’re the one who’s gonna get a lot of phone calls from that ad.” He pointed to a phone on his desk. “And that’s the phone.” He explained how she’d take the calls and arrange to meet the men in various outdoor public places. Detectives would be close by to take the suspects into custody as soon as they approached her.

“Got it?” Jenkins asked.

“What if he wants to meet me in a bar?”

“Insist on some outdoor public place. Tell him you don’t drink. We don’t want to start any hassles in some poor bastard’s bar. This Slasher is a pretty violent guy, you know.”

“I know,” Dorothy said.

“Okay,” Jenkins said. “You can go now, but I want you to report for work here at five o’clock tomorrow. And maybe you’d better bring your gun along in your pocketbook just in case.”

Rackman knocked on Francie’s door, and when she opened it he handed her the twelve red roses.

She stared at them dumbfounded. “Are they for me?”

“No, they’re for the girl down the hall. ,,

“They’re really for me?”

“I told you they’re for the girl down the hall.”

“But…” She looked at him, then at the roses again. “How come?”

“I thought you might like them. Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

He stepped over her threshold and smiled, seeing how rattled she was. He’d never brought her flowers before and doubted whether many other guys had either.

She closed the door and bolted it. “I’ll get a vase. There must be a vase around here someplace.”

“An empty milk container might do.”

“I think there’s a vase someplace.”

She went to her kitchen and rattled around in the cupboards. A box of corn flakes fell out and a glass went crashing to the floor.

He stood in the doorway and watched her. “Are you all right or are you going to have to call your psychiatrist?”

She put her hands on her hips and wrinkled her nose, the shards of glass lying around her feet. “What’s this all about, Danny Rackman!” she demanded.

“You mean the flowers?” he asked.

“First you call me and say you want to take me to dinner, and then you bring me flowers. This isn’t the Danny Rackman I’m used to. What are you up to?”

“Who me?”

“Yes you.”

“I’m not up to anything.”

“You must be up to something.”

“Be careful with your feet there.”

He took the broom and dustpan from their hooks on the wall and began to sweep up the glass around her feet. She stepped back and looked down at him.

“This is a new trick,” she said.

“What’s a new trick?”

“All this.”

He emptied the glass into the garbage and hung up the broom and dustpan. “You were looking for a vase, I believe.”

“That’s right too.”

She went into the cupboards again and this time knocked down four bottles of vitamin pills but they were made of plastic and didn’t break. He picked them up and set them on the counter. Finally she found the vase, jade green. She filled it with water, put the roses in, and carried them into the living room, placing them on the coffee table.

“They look very nice there,” he said.

“What are you up to, Danny Rackman?”

“I’m not up to anything, I told you. You haven’t even thanked me for the roses.”

“How can I thank you for the roses if I know you’ve got something up your sleeve.”

He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, showing his forearms. “See?”

She pinched her lips together. “I think we’d better sit down and talk about this,” she said. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I thought we were going out.”

“We’re not going out until we settle this.”

“Settle what?”

“Are you drinking bourbon?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Sit down and don’t try anything funny while I’m in the kitchen.”

He sat on the sofa and looked at the roses as she went into the kitchen again. Across the room, Ziggy ran on his treadmill. Ziggy lived in his own little world, just like most people. Only most people didn’t realize how small their worlds were.

Francie returned with two drinks. She placed one before Rackman and then sat in a chair on the other side of the room instead of on the sofa beside him. Rackman raised the glass to his lips and took a sip of bourbon. It was eight years old and went down like velvet.

“Now let me get this straight,” Francie said, crossing her legs. She was wearing a long brown dress and brown boots, looking very Bloomingdales. “You call to ask me to dinner, which you haven’t done for years, and then you bring me a dozen roses, which you’ve never done in your life. Now people don’t do things without reasons. Sometimes they may not be aware of the reason, but there is always a reason nonetheless. Are you aware of why you’re being so nice all of a sudden, or are you unconscious as usual?”

“Well,” he replied, passing the glass from hand to hand, “starting tomorrow I’m going to be working every night for awhile, so I thought I’d have a little fun with you tonight before all the work starts.”

“That explains why you’re here, but it doesn’t explain the dinner and the flowers.”

He lit a cigarette and blew smoke out the corner of his mouth. “I’ve decided that I haven’t been very nice to you in the past, and that maybe I should change a little.”