Ed McBain - The Big Bad City

You got the man today so he wun't haunt you the rest of your life, that's what this was all about. Nobody ast the man's father to start a ruckus in his shop, cousin Sonny to shoot in self defense. Life was that way, man. Shit happened.

So what this was going to be tomorrow morning was a clearing of the books. Like consolidating your debts when you had too much on too many credit cards. You borrowed from one source, you wiped out all the other debts. You had just one single debt then, you didn't have to worry all the time about the collector comin round. Carella was the collector. You either worried about the collector or you set your worries aside. Tomorrow morning, Sonny'd be able to breathe free again, no more collector on his ass all the time.

He'd driven past the house three times today alone. This was his fourth and final pass. Last time around, some red-haired lady wearing eyeglasses came out carrying something over to the garage. On the path between the house and the garage was where Sonny planned to do it. Lay in wait for the man, surprise him. Redhead had glanced at the Honda as he drove on by, not the kind of hard look the big black cop had give him yesterday.

Just a curious glance, but it was enough to make Sonny think maybe she'd spotted the car doing its dry runs and it was time to quit. This time he drove past slow but not too conspicuous. Man went to work at the crack of dawn, half the neighborhood was still asleep at that hour.

Sound of the Desert Eagle be like a cannon going off in the stillness, this was one powerful pistol he had here. Man comes out his house, starts walkin to his car, gets shot in the face. In, out, been nice to know you.

The house looked like the one in that movie Psycho, where the guy was runnin aroun in drag stabbin people. Hard to believe a cop livin in a place looked like it was from olden times. Once, drivin by at night when he was still thinkin maybe the best time to do it was after dark, he could see inside to where a floor lamp was standin, looked like the shade was all different-colored jewels. Touched his heart cause he seemed to recall a similar lamp when he was comin along, maybe in his grandma's house, though he couldn't imagine her possessing anything looked like it was jewels. Took him back, though. To someplace he couldn't hardly remember. Touched him.

Do it in broad daylight, shoot the man in the face and run off to where he'd have parked the car. What he planned on doing was giving the Honda back to Coral tonight, thank her proper in bed with a yard and a half.

Then go out around midnight, boost a car on the street, use the stolen vehicle for the thing tomorrow. He planned to wake up at five in the morning, drive up here to Riverhead, be in position by six-thirty latest, case the man decided to get to work even earlier than any human being had cause to.

Red-haired lady coming out of the house again, busy, busy, busy.

Carrying garbage to the bins on the side of the house this time.

Figured her to be in her sixties, maybe she was a maid, did cops have maids? In which case, how come she wun't black, huh? Or maybe a nanny. Did he have small kids? Woman hesitated on her way, gave the Honda another look as it went by. Sonny didn't speed up, didn't do nothin to indicate he was in any way troubled by the redhead's scrutiny. She was lookin at a car'd be ancient history by sundown tonight. Wearin glasses, probly squintin through 'em, trying catch the numbers on the license plate. So long, lady, been nice to know you.

Tomorrow mornin, Carella be history, too.

Sal Roselli was giving a piano lesson when they arrived at his house that Tuesday morning. His wife said he'd be finished at eleven o'clock, would they like to wait inside for him, where it was cool? They elected to sit out back in the sun. From inside the house, they could hear some kid murdering something that used to be classical before he got his hands on it. Or she. From the pounding, Carella automatically assumed it was a boy in there venting his fury. Except for the cacophony, the neighborhood was still. Roselli's two little girls were in the pool, their mother watching them from the kitchen window. The detectives almost dozed.

Roselli was wearing black jeans, loafers without socks, and a white, long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs rolled up when he joined them at a few minutes past the hour. He appeared sleepy-eyed, though it was already late in the morning. He explained to the detectives that he'd been out jamming late the night before, sitting in with a bunch of guys he knew who had a steady gig down in The Quarter.

"It's tough to find steady work these days," he said. "I give lessons to supplement my income, got to pay the mortgage, hm? There's only one piano player in a band, you know. In a marching band, you can have seventy-six trombones, and a hundred and twelve cornets, but no piano at all. A rock group? Sometimes a keyboard, but just as often not. A symphony orchestra? One piano, but only sometimes.”

"I used to play clarinet when I was a kid," Brown said.

Roselli gave him the disinterested nod of a professional who didn't give a damn about the music lessons amateurs took when they were kids.

"So what brings you out here again?" he asked, and took a seat facing them. The detectives were looking into the sun. They shifted their chairs.

"Boyle's Landing," Carella said.

"September first, four years ago," Brown said. "Payday.”

"Charlie Custer's office.”

"What happened in there, Sal?”

First-name basis now, no more polite bullshit. You iled to us, Sal, so you're not Mr. Roselli anymore. You are Sal, and we are cops, Sal. "In where?" Roselli said. "Custer's office.”

"When you and Katie went up there?”

"It was Davey who went up there," Roselli said. "Not according to him.”

“Then he's lying.”

"Not according to Katie, either." Roselli looked at them. "Katie's dead," he said.

"She wasn't dead when she gave her statement to Detective Morris Bloom in Calusa, Florida, four years ago.”

"How'd you ... ?" Roselli started, and then closed his mouth.

"Sal?”

He looked away.

"Want to tell us what happened that night, Sal?”

He turned back sharply.

"What happened was Custer got drunk and fell in the river," he said.

"That's what happened. Just what I told you before.”

"Only after a second visit, Sal.”

"You neglected to mention the drowning the first time around.”

"You said you didn't think it was important?”

“How do you feel about being in Custer's office?”

“Alone with him and Katie?”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Do you think that's important?”

"All right, look, I didn't want to get involved.”

"Involved?”

"You were here investigating Katie's murder, I didn'.t want to get involved, that's all.”

"We're still investigating her murder, Sal.”

“And I still don't want to get involved.”

“Why'd you lie to us, Sal?”

"Because I had nothing to do with it.”

“With what?”

“Charlie drowning.”

"But he drowned after you left, didn't he?" Silence. "Sal?”

"He drowned after the band was long gone, isn't that what you told us?”

"Yes.”

"So how could you have had anything to do with it?”

“I didn't.”

"Then why'd you lie to us about being in his office?”

Silence.

"Sal?”

"Why'd you ... ?”

"Okay, I was trying to protect Katie, okay?”

“But Katie's dead.”

"You told me she was a nun.”

Ies.

"Okay, I didn't want it to reflect upon her.”

“Didn't want what to reflect upon her?”

“Didn't want it to tarnish her memory.”

“What do you mean?”

“Charlie drowning.”

"Would somehow tarnish her memory?”