Ed Mcbain - Nocturne

So here they all were, those legendary stalwarts the Eight-Seven, gathered in Lieutenant Byrnes sunny corner office at ten minutes to eight Monday morning, Carella and Hawes telling others what they had so far, and hoping that in this brilliant think tank would offer a clue or that would help them crack the case wide open.

"What it sounds like to me," Andy Parker said, you have nothing."

Parker was a good friend of Ollie Weeks. because they were both bigots. But whereas Ollie also a good detective, Parker only rarely rose heights of deductive dazzle. He was almost as big a slob, as Ollie, however, favoring unpressed soiled suits, unpolished shoes, and an unshaven face he believed made him resemble a good television cop. Parker figured there were only two kinds

of cop shows. The lousy ones, which he called The Cops of Madison County, and the good ones, which he called Real Meat Funk.

As a detective, albeit not a very good one, Parker knew that the word "funk" descended from the word "funky," which in turn evolved from a style of jazz piano-playing called "funky butt," which translated as "smelly asshole." He was amused the other day when a radio restaurant critic mentioned that the food in a downtown bistro was "funky."

Not many things amused Parker.

Especially so early in the morning.

"Well, we do have the guy's name," Hawes said. "What guy?"

"The guy who bought the murder weapon." "Who you can't find."

"Well, he moved out yesterday," Carella said.

"So he's in flight, is that what you figure?" Willis asked.

He was poised on the edge of the lieutenant's desk like a gargoyle on Notre Dame cathedral, listening carefully, brown eyes intent. Byrnes liked him a lot. He liked small people, figured small people had to try harder. Willis had barely cleared the minimum-height requirement for policemen in this city, but he was an expert at judo and could knock any cheap thief flat on his ass in less than ten seconds. His girlfriend had been shot and killed only recently, by a pair of Colombian goons who'd broken into her apartment. Willis never much talked about her, but he hadn't been the same since. Byrnes worried. He worried about all of his people.

after the murder, he

"Day powders,"

Kling

"it's got to be flight."

Worried a lot about Kling, too. Never had any trouble with women, it seemed. Byrnes understood he'd split up with a black woman, a deputy chief in department, no less, as if the black-white thing wasn't difficult enough. Byrnes wished him the best, but remained to be seen. Next chapter, he thought. Life always full of next chapters, some of them written.

"Maybe he's already back in Italy," Brown said. Scowling. Always scowling. Made it look as if he was angry all the time, like a lot of black people in the city were, with damn good cause. But in all the time he'd known Brown, he'd never seen him lose his temper. Giant of a man, could have been for a professional football team, reminded him a lot of Rosie Grier, in fact, though Grier was now, what, minister? He tried to imagine Brown as a minister.

imagination would not take him quite that far. "Maybe," Carella said.

"Where in Italy?" Meyer asked.

"Don't know."

"What'd you find when you tossed her

Byrnes asked.

"Me?"

"You."

"Dead cat lying alongside her," Carella said. "Skip the cat."

"Fish bones all over the kitchen floor."

"I said skip the cat."

"Savings account passbook in a dresser drawer, hundred-and twenty-five thou withdrawn the morning before she got killed."

"What time?"

"Ten twenty-seven A.M." "Cash or bank check?" "Don't know.

"What do you know?" Parker asked.

Carella merely looked at him.

"We know the guy's name," Hawes said.

"If he killed her," Parker said.

"Whether he killed her or not, we know his name." "But not where he is."

"Check the airlines," Brown suggested. "Maybe he did go back to Italy."

"And we've got a clear chain of custody on the murder weapon," Carella said.

"Running from where to where?"

"Registered to a private bodyguard named Rodney Pratt, stolen from his limo on the night before the murder..."

"Who boosted it?" Kling asked.

"Guy named Jose Santiago."

"The famous bullfighter?" Parker asked.

This was a line he'd used before. The expression was his way of putting down anyone of Hispanic descent. Byrnes had heard rumors which he tended to disbelieve that Parker was now living with a Puerto

Rican girl. Parker? Sleeping with a famous bullfighter? "The famous cock fighter Hawes corrected. "He fights with his cock?" Parker asked.

No one laughed.

Parker shrugged.

"So what do you figure?" Byrnes asked. " interrupted burglary?"

"If the him-twenty-five was in the apartment, yes, "What,d you find when you tossed it?" "Us?" Meyer asked. "You."

"Dead fish stinking up the joint." "Piss, too," Kling said. "Cat piss."

"Are we back to the cat again?" Byrnes asked. He was not noted as an animal lover. When he was ten, a pet turtle named Petie had suddenly died. Canary named Alice when he was twelve. And he was thirteen, his mother gave away his pet named Ruffles. For peeing all over their area Which apparently Svetlana Dyalovich's cat had been fond of doing, too. He did not want to hear a word about the dead woman's dead cat.

"Be nice if cats could bark, huh?" Parker sad.

Be nice if we could get off the goddamn

cat. Byrnes said. "What else did you find?" "Us?" Kling asked. "You." "Nothing."

"No money, huh?" "Nothing." "So maybe it was a burglar."

"The cat could explain those stains on the Carella said.

"What stains?" Brown asked.

"The fish stains. They could've got on the coat that way."

"There were fish stains on the coat?" Brown asked. Byrnes was watching him. Eyes narrowing, scowl deepening. He was looking for something. Didn't know what yet, but looking.

"If she fed the cat raw fish, I mean," Carella said.

"How do you know there were fish stains on the coat?" Byrnes asked.

"Grossman," Willis said. "I took the call."

"She was wearing a mink while she fed the goddamn cat?" Parker said.

"Are you saying the cat might've rubbed up against her?" Brown asked.

"No, these were near the collar," Carella said. "Near the collar?"

"I took the call," Willis said again.

"Well, what'd Grossman say, actually?" Byrnes asked.

"He said there were fish stains on the coat." "Near the collar?" Brown asked again.

"High up on the coat," Willis said, and opened his note-book. "These are his words," he said, and began reading. " "Stains inside and outside, near the collar. From the location, it would appear someone held the coat in both hands, one at either side of the collar, thumbs outside, fingers inside'. Quote, unquote."

"I can't visualize it," Brown said, shaking his head. "Okay to use this?" Willis asked. "Sure," Byrnes said.

Willis picked up a magazine from Byrnes's desk, handed it to Brown.

"Hold it with your fingers on the front cow thumbs on the back cover."

Brown tried it.

"That's how Grossman figures the coat was held, "You mean there were fingerprints?"

"No. But he thinks somebody with fish oil on his her hands held the coat the way you're holding the magazine."

Brown looked at his hands on the magazine Everyone in the office was looking at his hands on the magazine.

"Didn't you say she was wearing a wool coat Kling asked.

"Yeah. When she went down to buy the booze." "When was that?" Byrnes asked. "Eleven o'clock that morning." "The day she was killed?"

"Yes. Half an hour after she made the withdrawal."

"Something's fishy here," Byrnes said,

he was making a pun, and not realizing how close it was, either.

When Priscilla and the boys drove up in a taxi at eight that morning, the superintendent of the building was out front with the garbage wondering if the Sanitation Department would start pickups again. Priscilla told him she was Svetlana's granddaughter, and he expressed his sympathy, clucking his tongue and shaking his head over the mysteries and misfortunes of life. chit chatted back and forth for maybe three or four minutes before he finally mentioned that Mrs. Helder's closest friend in the building was a woman named Karen Todd, who lived just down the hall from her.