Ed McBain - Kiss

"Juror number two, Maria Catalina Perez, how do you find the defendant?”

"Not guilty.”

And now Carella sat stunned and silent as the names were called and each member of the jury rose in turn to respond to the clerk's question, how do you find the defendant, the answers seeming to resound into that paneled chamber, rising to its vaulted ceiling, not guilty, cascading down onto the grinning faces at the back of the courtroom, not guilty, rushing down through the center aisle, not guilty, not guilty, and settling at last on Carella in a final fading roar where he sat feeling oddly embarrassed and utterly alone, not guilty, not guilty, not guilty.

The night could not be trusted, winter could not be trusted.

What had started as a bright and sunny day was now, at eight-forty P.M., bitterly cold.

Meyer and Carella stood in their heavy overcoats outside the Smoke Rise building where murder had been committed, talking to the Chief of Detectives, who had come all the way uptown on this one because he was afraid of what the media might make of it.

Blue-and-white radio cars were angle-parked into the curb across the street from the building.

Directly in front of the building's green canopy, an ambulance was backed into the curb, its rear doors open. Grayish-blue exhaust fumes floated up on the night. Uniformed cops with nothing to do stood around near the front door. Monoghan and Monroe, who had got here ten minutes before the chief arrived, were talking to the doorman, trying to appear actively essential to the investigation.

The Chief of Detectives was named Lou Fremont, and he had been appointed only recently by the new commissioner, an act of conciliation in that he was both white and a man who had come up through the ranks right here in this city and not in some little Southern town where the only action on a Saturday night was the blinking of a traffic light on Main and Cucumber. Both Meyer and Carella knew Fremont from when he'd been in command of the Seven-Three in Majesta. A gruff, no-nonsense man in his late fifties, he had a reputation for being short of temper and quick with his fists. But he knew what it was like to be a street cop, and they knew he would go to bat for them if this thing got out of hand. What they were all worried about was something called Prior K.

"Said somebody was trying to kill her, huh?”

Fremont asked.

"Well, someone pushed her off a subway platform," Carella said. "And later, he ...”

"What'd you find out about that?”

“It's a complicated story, Chief.”

"I'm not going anyplace," Fremont said.

"Are you going someplace?”

"No, sir.”

The chief nodded. He was anticipating the media saying the police had known there was murder in the air, the woman had come to them after a murder attempt, and now there was an actual murder, never mind attempted murder. Twist this around a bit, it could look like they'd been negligent in their investigation. Thank God it didn't involve race. All they needed was another goddamn racially motivated incident in this city.

Carella was telling him how the guy who'd shoved her off the platform had tried to run her down later on and had finally ended up dead himself, the victim of a shooting. This was- "What shooting?" Fremont asked. "Where?”

He told the chief all about Roger Turner Tilly hanging from the ceiling in a Diamondback basement- "Hanging? I thought you said he was shot.”

"Shot first, hanged later," Carella said.

"In Diamondback? That's the Eight-Three, isn't it?”

"Yes, sir.”

"Then how'd you get ...?was "First Man Up, sir.”

"Because the woman came to see you on the murder attempts?”

"Yes, sir.”

"Two of them, I'm now hearing. I don't like this, I can tell you that.”

"Yes, sir. We were looking for Tilly because she'd identified him as the man who'd tried to run her down. So when Tilly turned up dead, there was some question about whether or not FMU applied here.”

"I would say it did.”

"Well, Lieutenant Byrnes wanted to check that. But meanwhile, he advised us to stay on the case.”

"Do you think this might be the same person?”

"Sir?”

"Who killed Tilly and did this one?”

"Oh. No, sir. No, we've already got Tilly's murderer. He was arraigned Monday, and the judge denied bail. It couldn't possibly be the same person.”

“Good work," Fremont said.

"Thank you, sir.”

"But I'm still worried about Prior Knowledge here.”

"Yes, sir.”

"I know it's a stretch ...”

"Well, yes, sir, I think actually it might be.”

"But the media has ways of making something out of nothing, you know that.”

"Yes, sir.”

"She did come to you ...”

"Yes, sir ...”

"And now ...”

Fremont shook his head.

"What's it look like upstairs?" he asked.

Meyer filled him in on what it looked like upstairs. The safe broken into, tool marks around the dial and the edge of the door, victim lying on the- "Where is this? The safe?”

"In the master bedroom, sir," Meyer said.

"Closet in the master bedroom.”

-victim lying on the floor just inside the bedroom door, shot in the face at close range. Three spent cartridge cases recovered, as well as two bullets that went right on through, exiting at the back of the head, the other bullet presumably still someplace inside the head.

"Anything left in the safe?”

"Dry as a bone, sir.”

"Any idea what was in it?”

"We found a list in the desk drawer, yes, sir.”

"How about the casings and bullets? What do they look like?”

"Forty-fives," Meyer said. "Clearly stamped on the casing. Remington forty-five Auto Colt.”

"Better run them down to Ballistics right away.”

"Yes, sir.”

"Because what I want here is immediate action.

Immediate. Before those television assholes get on our backs.”

"Yes, sir," Carella said.

"What we were thinking, sir," Meyer said, "is that the perp may be someone we've had under investigation.”

"Oh?”

“Yes, sir.”

"Let me hear it.”

They told him about Andrew Denker, alias Andrew Darrow, who'd presented himself to Emma Bowles as a man her husband had hired to protect her- "I don't like that," Fremont said, shaking his head. "That brings us right back to Prior Knowledge again.”

"Well, we don't know for sure that this man was actually hired to kill her, sir. What we do know is he bought a Colt forty-five when he got here ...”

"What do you mean got here?”

"From Chicago?”

"Any record on him there?”

"No, sir.”

"Do you know where to find this guy?”

"Well, we have him at an address on Lewiston, but his answering machine says he's back in Chicago.”

"Doesn't mean a thing, nowadays you can change a message long-distance.”

"Yes, sir, that's what we ...”

"All you have to do is push a few buttons on your phone and then do the recording.”

"Yes, sir.”

"Get a search warrant, go ...”

"We were turned down on a wiretap, sir, we figured we'd wait till we get the Ballistics report.”

"Hell with Ballistics. You've got your stamped casings, you know the gun was a forty-five.”

"Yes, sir.”

"So get your warrant, and then go toss this guy and his apartment. Because I'll tell you, the sooner we wrap this one, the happier I'll be.”

"Yes, sir.”

"Did you talk to the doorman here?”

"Yes, sir.”

"What'd he have to say?”

"Nothing much, sir.”

"A man gets in here, pumps three slugs in a person's face, he had to get in one way or another.”

"Yes, sir.”

"So did he see anyone going in or out?”

"No, sir.”

"Did you describe your man to him?”

“Yes, sir.”