Ed McBain: McBain's Ladies: The Women of the 87th Precinct

“They were men first. Cops only coincidentally and secondarily.”

“You feel, then, that the fact that they were cops had nothing to do with the reason they were killed.”

“Maybe. That’s what I want to dig into a little deeper.”

“I’m not sure I understand you.”

“It’s this,” Carella said. “We knew these men well, we worked with them every day. Cops. We knew them as cops. We didn’t know them as men. They may have been killed because they were men, and not because they were cops.”

“Interesting,” Savage said.

“It means digging into their lives on a more personal level. It won’t be fun because murder has a strange way of dragging skeletons out of the neatest closets.”

“You mean, for example…” Savage paused. “Well, let’s say Reardon was playing around with another dame, or Foster was a horseplayer, or Bush was taking money from a racketeer, something like that.”

“To stretch the point, yes.”

“And somehow, their separate activities were perhaps tied together to one person who wanted them all dead for various reasons. Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s a little complicated,” Carella said. “I’m not sure the deaths are connected in such a complicated way.”

“But we do know the same person killed all three cops.”

“Yes, we’re fairly certain of that.”

“Then the deaths are connected.”

“Yes, of course. But perhaps…” Carella shrugged. “It’s difficult to discuss this with you because I’m not sure I know what I’m talking about. I only have this idea, that’s all. This idea that motive may go deeper than the shields these men wore.”

“I see.” Savage sighed. “Well, you can console yourself with the knowledge that every cop in the city probably has his own ideas on how to solve this one.”

Carella nodded, not exactly understanding Savage, but not willing to get into a lengthier discussion. He glanced at his watch.

“I’ve got to go soon,” he said. “I’ve got a date.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“What’s her name?”

“Teddy. Well, Theodora really.”

“Theodora what?”

“Franklin.”

“Nice,” Savage said. “Is this a serious thing?”

“As serious as they come.”

“These ideas of yours,” Savage said. “About motive. Have you discussed them with your superiors?”

“Hell, no. You don’t discuss every little pang of inspiration you get. You look into it, and then if you turn up anything that looks remotely promising, well, then you air the idea.”

“I see. Have you discussed it with Teddy?”

“Teddy? Why, no, not yet.”

“Think she’ll go for it?”

Carella smiled uneasily. “She thinks I can do no wrong.”

“Sounds like a wonderful girl.”

“The best. And I’d better get to her before I lose her.”

“Certainly,” Savage said understandingly. Carella glanced at his watch again. “Where does she live?”

“Riverhead,” Carella said.

“Theodora Franklin of Riverhead,” Savage said.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ve appreciated listening to your ideas.”

Carella rose. “None of that was for print, remember,” he said.

“Of course not,” Savage assured him.

“Thanks for the drink,” Carella said.

The man in the black suit stood outside the apartment door, listening. A copy of the afternoon newspaper stuck up from the righthand pocket of his jacket. His left shoulder throbbed with pain, and the weight of the .45 automatic tugged at the other pocket of his jacket, so that — favoring the wound, bearing the weight of the gun — he leaned slightly to his left while he listened.

There was no sound from within the apartment.

He had read the name very carefully in the newspaper, Theodora Franklin, and then he had checked the Riverhead directory and come up with the address. He wanted to talk to this girl. He wanted to find out how much Carella knew. He had to find out.

She’s very quiet in there, he thought. What’s she doing?

Cautiously, he tried the doorknob. He wiggled it slowly from side to side. The door was locked.

He heard footsteps. He tried to back away from the door too late. He reached for the gun in his pocket. The door was opening, wide, wider.

The girl stood there, surprised. She was a pretty girl, small, dark-haired, wide brown eyes. She wore a white terry robe. The robe was damp in spots. He assumed she had just come from the shower. Her eves went to his face, and then to the gun in his hand. Her mouth opened, but no sound came from it. She tried to slam the door, but he rammed his foot into the wedge and then shoved it back.

She moved away from him, deeper into the room. He closed the door and locked it.

“Miss Franklin?” he asked.

She nodded, terrified. She had seen the drawing on the front pages of all the newspapers, had seen it broadcast on all the television programs. There was no mistake, this was the man Steve was looking for.

“Let’s have a little talk, shall we?” he asked.

His voice was a nice voice, smooth, almost suave. He was a good-looking man, why had he killed those cops? Why would a man like this…?

“Did you hear me?” he asked.

She nodded. She could read his lips, could understand everything he said, but…

“What does your boyfriend know?” he asked.

He held the .45 loosely, as if he were accustomed to its lethal power now, as if he considered it a toy more than a dangerous weapon.

“What’s the matter, you scared?”

She touched her hands to her lips, pulled them away in a gesture of futility.

“What?”

She repealed the gesture.

“Come on,” he said, “talk, for Christ’s sake! You’re not that scared!”

Again, she repeated the gesture, shook her head this time. He watched her curiously.

“I’ll he damned,” he said at last. “A dummy!” He began laughing. The laugh filled the apartment, reverberating from the walls. “A dummy! That don’t take the cake! A dummy!” His laughter died. He studied her carefully. “You’re not trying to pull something, are you?”

She shook her head vigorously. Her hands went to the opening of her robe, clutching the terry to her more tightly.

“Now this has definite advantages, doesn’t it?” he said, grinning. “You can’t scream, you can’t use the phone, you can’t do a damned tiling, can you?”

Teddy swallowed, watching him.

“What does Carella know?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“The paper said he’s got a lead. Does he know about me? Does he have any idea who I am?”

Again, she shook her head.

“I don’t believe you.”

She nodded, trying to convince him that Steve knew nothing. What paper was he referring to? What did he mean? She spread her hands wide, indicating innocence, hoping he would understand.

He reached into his jacket pocket and tossed the newspaper to her.

“Page four,” he said. “Read it. I’ve got to sit down. This goddamn shoulder…”

He sat, the gun leveled at her. She opened the paper and read the story, shaking her head as she read.

The bar was cool and dim.

We sat opposite each other, Detective Stephen Carella and I. He toyed with his drink, and we talked of many things, but mostly we talked of murder.

“I’ve got an idea I know who killed those three cops,” Carella said. “It’s not the kind of idea you can take to your superiors, though. They wouldn’t understand.”