McBain, Ed - Killer's Wedge

Yes.

In all fairness, she could have. There was no need for a melodramatic declaration of what she was about to do, no need to sit in judgment over the law enforcers as they had sat in judgment over her husband, no need to hold life or death in the palms of her hands, no need to play God to the men who had robbed her of everything she loved.

Or was there a very deep need?

She sat now with her private thoughts.

The gun in her hand was steady. The bottle on the table before her caught the slanting rays of the overhead light.

She smiled grimly.

They're wondering, she thought, whether the liquid in this bottle is really nitroglycerin.

"What do you think?" Bucky said.

"I think it's a bunch of crap," Jim said.

"Let's go get the Spanish girls."

"Now, wait a minute," Bucky said.

"Don't just brush this off. Now just wait a minute."

"Look," Jim said, "you want to play cops and robbers, fine. Go ahead. I don't. I want to go find the Spanish girls. I want to find Mason Avenue. I want to curl up on somebody's big fat bosom. For God's sake, I wanna get laid, for God's sake."

"All right, that can wait. Now suppose this is legit?"

"It isn't," Sammy said flatly.

"Damn right," Jim said.

"How do you know?" Bucky asked.

"In the first place," Sammy said, his eyes bright behind his spectacles, "anybody looking at the thing can see it's a phony right off.

"Detective Division Report'! Now what kind of crap is that?"

"Huh?" Bucky said.

"I mean, Bucky, for cris sakes be sensible.

"Detective Division Report'! Now, you know what this is, men?"

"What?" Bucky said.

"This is a thing, you send away the top of a carton of Chesterfields to Jack Webb, and he sends you back a bunch of blue sheets together with a Dragnet gun and a whistle so you can keep everybody in the neighborhood up nights."

"It looks legitimate to me," Bucky said.

"It does, huh? Do you see the name of the city anywhere on it? Huh? Tell me that."

"Well, no, but ..

"When are you going to grow up, Bucky?" Jim said.

"This is the same kind of stuff you get from Buck Rogers. Only his say "Space Division Report," and he sends you a disintegrator and a secret decoder."

"What about the message?" Bucky said.

"What about it?" Sammy wanted to know.

"Look~ at it. A woman with a gun and a bottle of nitroglycerin. Boy!"

"What's the matter with that?" Bucky said.

"Completely implausible," Sammy said.

"And tell me something. If this crazy dame is sitting there with a gun and a bottle of TNT." how in the hell did this Detective Whatever-His-Name-Is manage to type up this note and put it out on the street, nuw."

Implausible, Bucky. Completely implausible."

"Well, it looks legitimate to me," Bucky said doggedly.

"Look..." Jim started. And Sammy interrupted with, "Let me handle this, Jimbo."

"Well, it looks legitimate to me," Bucky said doggedly.

"Is it signed?" Sammy said.

"Do you see a signature?"

"Sure," Bucky said.

"Detective 2nd/Gr ..

"It's typed. But is it signed?"

"So?"

"So what?"

"So, look. You want to stew about this thing all night?"

"No, but ..

"What'd we come up here for?"

"Well ..

"To play space patrol with Buck Rogers?"

"No, but ..

"To waste our time with phony cops and robbers messages typed up by some kid on his brother's typewriter?"

"No, but ..

"I'm gonna ask you a simple question, man," Sammy said.

"Plain and simple. And I want a plain and simple answer, man.

Okay?"

"Sure," Bucky said.

"But it looks legit ..

"Did you come up here to get laid or didn't you?"

"I did."

"Well?"

"V,/ell ..

"Come on. Throw that away. Let's get started. The night is young. Huh?" Sammy grinned.

"Huh? Come on, man. Come on, huh? What do you say? How about it? Huh?

Okay?"

Bucky thought it over for a moment.

Then he said, "You go ahead without me.

I want to call this number."

"Oh, for the love of holy Buddha!"

Sammy said.

The telephone in the squad room rang at 6:55. Hal Willis waited for Virginia's signal, and then picked up the receiver.

"Eighty-seventh Squad," he said.

"Detective Willis speaking."

"Just a second," the voice on the other end said. The voice retreated from the phone, obviously talking to someone else in the room.

"How the hell do I know?" it said.

"Turn it over to the Bunco Squad. No, for Christ's sake, what would we be doing with a pickpocket file? Oh, Riley, you're the stupidest sonofabitch I've ever had to work with. I'm on the phone, can yo~i wait just one goddamn minute?" The voice came back onto the line.

"Hello?"

"Hello?" Willis said. At the desk opposite him, Virginia Dodge watched and listened.

"Who'm I speaking to?" the voice asked.

"Hal Willis."

"You're a detective, did you say?"

"Yes."

"This the 87th Squad?"

"Yes."

"Yeah. Well then I guess it's a crank."

"Huh?"

"This is Mike Sullivan down Headquarters. We got a call a little while ago, clocked in at ... ah ... just a second..."

Sullivan rattled some papers on the other end of the line ..... six forty-nine. Yeah."

"What kind of a call?" Willis said.

"Some college kid. Said he picked up a D.D. report in the street. Had a message typed on it. Something about a broad with a bottle of nitro. Know anything about it?"

At her desk, Virginia Dodge stiffened visibly. The revolver came up close to the neck of the bottle. From where Willis stood, he could see her trembling.

"Nitro?" he said into the phone, and he watched her hand, and he was certain the barrel of the gun would collide with the bottle at any moment.

"Yeah. Nitroglycerin. How about that?"

"No," Willis said.

"There's... there's nothing like that up here."

"Yeah, that's what I figured. But the kid gave his name and all, so it sounded like it might be a real squeal. Well, that's the way it goes. Thought I'd check anyway, though.

No harm in checking, huh?" Sullivan laughed heartily.

"No," Willis said, desperately trying to think of some way to tell Sullivan that the message was real; whoever had sent it, the damn thing was real.

"There's certainly no harm checking." He watched Virginia, watched the trembling gun in her hand.

Sullivan continued laughing.

"Never know when there'll really be some nut up there with a bomb, huh, Willis?" Sullivan said, and he burst into louder laughter.

"No, you.." you never know," Willis said.

"Sure." Sullivan's laughter trailed off.

"Incidentally, is there a cop up there by the name of Meyer?"

Willis hesitated. Had Meyer sent the message? Was it signed? If he said "Yes," would that be the end of it, and would Sullivan make the connection? If he said "No," would Sullivan investigate further, check to see which cops manned the 87th.

And would Meyer .

"You with me?" Sullivan asked.

"What? Oh, yes."

"Answer him!" Virginia whispered.

"We sometimes get a lousy counection," Sullivan said, "I thought maybe we'd got cut off."

"No, I'm still here," Willis said.

"Yeah. Well, how about it Any Meyer there?"

"Yes. We have a Meyer."

"Second grade?"

"Yes."

"That's funny," Sullivan said.

"This kid said the note was signed by a second grade named Meyer. That's funny, all right."

"Yes," Willis said.

"And you got a Meyer up there, huh?"

"Yes."

"Boy, that sure is funny," Sullivan said.

"Well, no harm in checking, huh? What?

For God sake's, Riley, can't you see I'm on the phone? I gotta go, Willis. Take it easy, huh? Nice talking to you."

And he hung up.

Willis put the phone back into the cradle.