Ed Mcbain - Cop Hater

"No."

"What's your next step?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Homicide North is up a tree on these killings, and I guess we are, too. I've got a few ideas kicking around, though."

"A lead?" she asked.

"No. Just ideas."

"What kind of ideas?"

"They'd bore you."

"My husband's been killed," Alice said coldly. "I assure you I will not be bored by anything that may lead to finding his killer."

"Well, I'd prefer not to air any ideas until I know what I'm talking about."

Alice smiled. "That's different. You haven't touched your drink."

He raised the glass to his lips. The drink was very strong.

"Wow!" he said. "You don't spare the alcohol, do you?"

"Hank liked his strong," she said. "He liked everything strong."

And again, like an interwoven thread of personality, a personality dictated by the demands of a body that could look nothing but blatantly inviting, Alice Bush had inadvertently lighted another fuse. He had the feeling that she would suddenly explode into a thousand flying fragments of breast and hip and thigh, splashed over the landscape like a Dali painting.

"I'd better be getting along," he said. 'The City doesn't pay me for sipping drinks all morning."

"Stay a while," she said. "I have a few ideas myself."

He glanced up quickly, almost suspecting an edge of double entendre in her voice. He was mistaken. She had turned away from him and was looking out the window again, her face in profile, her body in profile.

"Let me hear them," he said.

"A cop hater," she replied.

"Maybe."

"It has to be. Who else would senselessly take three lives? It has to be a cop hater, Steve. Doesn't Homicide North think so?"

"I haven't talked to them in the past few days. That's what they thought in the beginning, I know."

"What do they think now?"

"That's hard to say."

"What do you think now?"

"Maybe a cop hater. Reardon and Foster, yes, a cop hater. But Hank... I don't know."

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"Well, Reardon and Foster were partners, so we could assume that possibly some jerk was carrying a grudge against them. They worked together . . . maybe they rubbed some idiot the wrong way."

"Yes?"

"But Hank never worked with them. Oh, well maybe not never. Maybe once or twice on a plant or something. He never made an important arrest with either of them along, though. Our records show that."

"Who says it has to be someone with a personal grudge, Steve? This may simply be some goddamned lunatic." She seemed to be getting angry. He didn't know why she was getting angry because she'd certainly been calm enough up to this point. But her breath was coming heavier now, and her breasts heaved disconcertingly. "Just some crazy, rotten, twisted fool who's taken it into his mind to knock off every cop in the 87th Precinct. Does that sound so far-fetched?"

"No, not at all. As a matter of fact, we've checked all the mental institutions in the area for people who were recently released who might possibly have had a history of ..." He

shook his head. "You know, we figured perhaps a paranoiac, somebody who'd go berserk at the sight of a uniform. Except these men weren't in uniform." "No, they weren't. What'd you get?"

"We thought we had one lead. Not anyone with a history of dislike for policemen, but a young man who had a lot of officer trouble in the Army. He was recently released from Bramlook as cured, but that doesn't mean a goddamned thing. We checked with the psychiatrists there, and they felt his illness would never break out in an act of violence, no less a prolonged rampage of violence."

"And you let it drop?"

"No, we looked the kid up. Harmless. Alibis a mile long."

"Who else have you checked?"

"We've got feelers out to all our underworld contacts. We thought this might be a gang thing, where some hood has an alleged grievance against something we've done to hamper him, and so he's trying to show us we're not so high and mighty. He hires a torpedo and begins methodically putting us in our places. But there's been no rumble so far, and underworld revenge is not something you can keep very quiet."

"What else?"

"I've been wading through F.B I. photos all morning. Jesus, you'd never realize how many men there are who fit the possible description we have." He sipped at the scotch. He was beginning to feel a little more comfortable with Alice. Maybe she wasn't so female, after all. Or maybe her femaleness simply enveloped you after a while, causing you to lose all perspective. Whatever it was, the room wasn't as oppressive now.

'Turn up anything? From the photos?"

"Not yet. Half of them are in jail, and the rest are scattered all over the country. You see, the hell of this thing is ... well..."

"What?"

"How'd the killer know that these men were cops? They were all in plainclothes. Unless he'd had contact with them before, how could he know?"

"Yes, I see what you mean."

"Maybe he sat in a parked car across from the house and watched everyone who went in and out. If he did that for a while, he'd get to know who worked there and who didn't."

"He could have done that," Alice said thoughtfully. "Yes,

he could have." She crossed her legs unconsciously. Carella looked away.

"Several things against that theory, though," Carella said. "That's what makes this case such a bitch." The word had sneaked out, and he glanced up apprehensively. Alice Bush seemed not to mind the profanity. She had probably heard enough of it from Hank. Her legs were still crossed. They were very good legs. Her skirt had fallen into a funny position. He looked away again.

"You see, if somebody had been watching the house, we'd have noticed him. That is, if he'd been watching it long enough to know who worked there and who was visiting ... that would take time. We'd surely have spotted him."

"Not if he were hidden."

"There are no buildings opposite the house. Only the park."

"He could have been somewhere in the park . . . with binoculars, maybe."

"Sure. But how could he tell the detectives from the patrolmen, then?"

"What?"

"He killed three detectives. Maybe it was chance. I don't think so. All right, how the hell could he tell the patrolmen from the detectives?"

"Very simply," Alice said. "Assuming he was watching, he'd see the men when they arrived, and he'd see them after muster when they went out to their beats. They'd be in uniform then. I'm talking about the patrolmen."

"Yes, I suppose." He took a deep swallow of the drink. Alice moved on the love seat.

"I'm hot," she said.

He did not look at her. He knew that his eyes would have been drawn downward if he did, and he did not want to see what Alice was unconsciously, obliviously showing.

"I don't suppose this heat has helped the investigation any," she said.

"This heat hasn't helped anything any."

"I'm changing to shorts and a halter as soon as you get out of here."

"There's a hint if ever I heard one," Carella said.

"No, I didn't mean . . oh hell, Steve, I'd change to them now if I thought you were going to stay longer. I just thought you were leaving soon. I mean . . ." She made a vague motion with one hand. "Oh, nuts."

"I am leaving, Alice. Lots of photos to look through back there." He rose. "Thanks for the drink." He started for the door, not looking back when she got up, not wanting to look at her legs again.

She took his hand at the door. Her grip was firm and warm. Her hand was fleshy. She squeezed his hand.

"Good luck, Steve. If there's anything I can do to help ..."

"We'll let you know. Thanks again."

He left the apartment and walked down to the street It was very hot in the street.

Curiously, he felt like going to bed with somebody.