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

She hesitated.

“To keep him, you’d kill for him, wouldn’t you?” he repeated.

She nodded.

“So? So there.” He smiled. “I’m not a professional, you know. I’m a mechanic. That’s my line. I’m a damn good mechanic, too. Think I’ll be able to get work in Mexico?”

Teddy shrugged.

“Sure, they must have cars down there. They’ve got cars everywhere. Then, later, when things have cooled down, we’ll come back to the States. Hell, things should cool down sooner or later. But what I’m trying to tell you, I’m not a professional killer, so don’t get that idea. I’m just a regular guy.”

Her eyes did not believe him.

“No, huh? Well, I’m telling you. Sometimes, there’s no other way out. If you see something’s hopeless, and somebody explains to you where there’s some hope, okay, you take it. I never harmed nobody until I killed those cops. You think I wanted to kill them? Survival, that’s all. Some things, you’ve got to do. Agh, what the hell do you understand? You’re just a dummy.”

She sat silent, watching him.

“A woman gets under your skin. Some women are like that. Listen, I’ve been around. I’ve been around plenty. I had me more dames than you could count. But this one — different. Different right from the beginning. She just got under my skin. Right under it. When it gets you like that, you can’t eat, you can’t sleep, nothing. You just think about her all day long. And what can you do when you realize you can’t really have her unless….well…unless you…hell, didn’t she ask him for a divorce? Is it my fault he was a stubborn son of a bitch? Well, he’s still stubborn — only now he’s dead.”

Teddy’s eyes moved from his face. They covered the door behind him, and then dropped to the doorknob.

“And he took two of his pals with him.” He stared into his glass. “Those are the breaks. He should’ve listened to reason. A woman like her…Jesus, you’d do anything for a woman like her. Anything! Just being in the same room with her, you want to…”

Teddy watched the knob with fascination. She rose suddenly. She brought back her glass and then threw it at him. It grazed his forehead, the liquid splashing out of the glass and cascading over his shoulder. He leaped to his feet, his face twisted in fury, the .45 pointed at her.

“You stupid bitch!” he bellowed. “Why the hell did you do that?”

Carella left the precinct at six-thirty on the button. Havilland had not yet come back from supper, but he could wait no longer. He did not want to leave Teddy alone in that apartment, not after the fool stunt Savage had pulled.

He drove to Riverhead quickly. He ignored traffic lights and full stop signs. He ignored everything. There was an all-consuming thought in his mind, and that thought included a man with a .45 and a girl with no tongue.

When he reached her apartment building, he glanced up at her window. The shades were not drawn. The apartment looked very quiet. He breathed a little more easily, and then entered the building. He climbed the steps, his heart pounding. He knew he shouldn’t be alarmed but he could not shake the persistent feeling that Savage’s column had invited danger for Teddy.

He stopped outside her door. He could hear the persistent drone of what sounded like the radio going inside. He reached for the knob. In his usual manner, he twisted it slowly from side to side, waiting for her footsteps, knowing she would come to the door the moment she saw his signal.

He heard the sound of a chair scraping back and then someone shouted, “You stupid bitch! Why the hell did you do that?”

His brain came alive. He reached for his .38 and snapped the door open with his other hand.

The man turned.

“You…!” he shouted, and the .45 bucked in his hand.

Carella fired low, dropping to the floor the instant he entered the room. His first two shots took the man in the thigh. The man fell face forward, the .45 pitching out of his fist. Carella kicked back the hammer on the .38, waiting.

“You bastard,” the man on the floor said. “You bastard.”

Carella got to his feet. He picked up the .45 and stuck it into his back pocket.

“Get up,” he said. “You all right, Teddy?”

Teddy nodded. She was breathing heavily, watching the man on the floor.

“Thanks for the warning,” Carella said. He turned to the man again. “Get up!”

“I can’t, you bastard. Why’d you shoot me? For Christ’s sake, why’d you shoot me?”

“Why’d you shoot three cops?”

The man went silent.

“What’s your name?” Carella asked.

“Mercer. Paul Mercer.”

“Don’t you like cops?”

“I love them.”

“What’s the story, then?”

“I suppose you’re going to check my gun with what you’ve already got.”

“Damn right,” Carella said. “You haven’t got a chance, Mercer.”

“She put me up to it,” Mercer said, a scowl on his dark face. “She’s the real murderer. All I done was pull the trigger. She said we had to kill him, said it was the only way. We threw the others in just to make it look good, just to make it look as if a cop hater was loose. But it was her idea. Why should I take the rap alone?”

“Whose idea?” Carella asked.

“Alice’s,” Mercer said. “You see… we wanted to make it look like a cop hater. We wanted…”

“It was,” Carella said.

When they brought Alice Bush in, she was dressed in gray, a quiet gray. She sat in the squad room, crossing her legs. “Do you have a cigarette, Steve?” she asked.

Carella gave her one. He did not light it for her. She sat with the cigarette dangling from her lips until it was apparent she would have to light it herself. Unruffled, she struck a match.

“What about it?” Carella asked.

“What about it?” she repeated, shrugging. “It’s all over, isn’t it?”

“You must have really hated him. You must have hated him like poison.”

“You’re directing,” Alice said. “I’m only the star.”

“Don’t get glib, Alice!” Carella said angrily. “I’ve never hit a woman in my life, but I swear to God…”

“Relax,” she told him. “It’s all over. You’ll get your gold star, and then you’ll…”

“Alice…”

“What the hell do you want me to do? Break down and cry? I hated him, all right? I hated his big, pawing hands and I hated his stupid red hair, and I hated everything about him, all right?”

“Mercer said you’d asked for a divorce. Is that true?”

“No, I didn’t ask for a divorce. Hank never would’ve agreed to one.”

“Why didn’t you give him a chance?”

“What for? Did he ever give me a chance? Cooped up in that goddamn apartment, waiting for him to come off some burglary or some knifing or some mugging? What kind of life is that for a woman?”

“You knew he was a cop when you married him.”

Alice didn’t answer.

“You could’ve asked for a divorce, Alice. You could’ve tried.”

“I didn’t want to, damnit. I wanted him dead.”

“Well, you’ve got him dead. Him and two others. You must be tickled now.”

Alice smiled suddenly. “I’m not too worried, Steve.”

“No?”

“There have to be some men on the jury.” She paused. “Men like me.”

There were, in fact, eight men on the jury.

The jury brought in a verdict in six minutes flat.

Mercer was sobbing as the jury foreman read off the verdict and the judge gave sentence. Alice listened to the judge with calm indifference, her shoulders thrown back, her head erect.

The jury had found them both guilty of murder in the first degree, and the judge sentenced them to death in the electric chair.