Ed Mcbain: Cop Hater

He generally, therefore, cut his conversations with Alice short, feeling somewhat guilty about the artistic inclinations of his mind. This morning, though, Alice seemed to be in a talkative mood.

"I understand one of your colleagues got knocked off," she said.

Carella smiled, in spite of the topic's grimness. Alice sometimes had a peculiar way of mixing the King's English with choice bits of underworld and police vernacular.

"Yes," he said.

"I'm awfully sorry," she answered, her mood and her voice changing. "Please be careful, you and Hank. If a cheap hood is shooting up the streets ..."

"We'll be careful," he said. "I've got to go now, Alice,"

"I leave Hank in capable hands," Alice said, and she hung up without saying goodbye.

Carella grinned and shrugged, and then put the receiver back into the cradle. David Foster, his brown face looking scrubbed and shining, ambled over to the desk. "Afternoon, Steve," he said.

"Hi, Dave. What've you got?"

"Ballistics report on that .45 you brought in last night."

"Any luck?"

"Hasn't been fired since Old King Cole ordered the bowl."

"Well, that narrows it down," Carella said. "Now we've only got the nine million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand other people in this fair city to contend with."

"I don't like it when cops get killed," Foster said. His brow lowered menacingly, giving him the appearance of a bull ducking his head to charge at the muleta. "Mike was my partner. He was a good guy."

"I know."

"I been trying to think who," Foster said. "I got my personal I.B. right up here, and I been leafing through them mug shots one by one." He tapped his temple. "I been turning them over and studying them, and so far I haven't got anything, but give me time. Somebody musta had it in for Mike, and when that face falls into place, that guy's gonna wish he was in Alaska."

"Tell you the truth," Carella said, "I wish I was there right now."

"Hot, ain't it?" Foster said, classically understating the temperature and humidity.

"Yeah." From the corner of his eye, Carella saw Bush walk down the corridor, push through the railing, and sign in. He walked to Carella's desk, pulled over a swivel chair and plopped into it disconsolately.

"Rough night?" Foster asked, grinning. "The roughest," Bush said in his quiet voice.

"Clarke was a blank," Carella told him.

'I figured as much. Where do we go from here?"

"That's a good question."

"Coroner's report in yet?"

"No."

"The boys picked up some hoods for questioning," Foster said. "We might give them the once over."

"Where are they? Downstairs?" Carella asked.

"In the Waldorf Suite," Foster said, referring to the detention cells on the first floor of the building.

"Why don't you call down for them?"

"Sure," Foster said.

"Where's the Skipper?"

"He's over at Homicide North. He's trying to goose them into some real action on this one."

"You see the paper this morning?" Bush asked.

"No," Carella said.

"Mike made the front page. Have a look." He put the paper on Carella's desk. Carella held it up so that Foster could see it while he spoke on the phone.

"Shot him in the back," Foster mumbled. "That lousy bastard." He spoke into the phone and then hung up. The men lighted cigarettes, and Bush phoned out for coffee, and then they sat around gassing. The prisoners arrived before the coffee did.

There were two men, both unshaven, both tall, both wearing short-sleeved sports shirts. The physical resemblance ended there. One of the men owned a handsome face, with regular features and white, even teeth. The other man looked as if his face had challenged a concrete mixer and lost. Carella recognized both of them at once. Mentally, he flipped over their cards in the Lousy File.

"Were they picked up together?" he asked the Uniformed cop who brought them into the squad room.

"Yeah," the cop said.

"Where?"

"13th and Shippe. They were sitting in a parked car."

"Any law against that?" the handsome one asked.

"At three in the morning," the uniformed cop added.

"Okay," Carella said. "Thanks."

"What's your name?" Bush asked the handsome one.

"You know my name, cop."

"Say it again. I like the sound."

"I'm tired."

"You're gonna be a lot more tired before this is finished. Now cut the comedy, and answer the questions. Your name?"

"Terry."

'Terry what?"

"Terry McCarthy. What the hell is this, a joke? You know my name."

"How about your buddy?"

"You know him, too. He's Clarence Kelly."

"What were you doing in that car?" Carella asked.

"Lookin" at dirty pictures," McCarthy said.

"Possession of pornography," Carella said dully. "Take that down, Hank."

"Hey, wait a minute," McCarthy said. "I was only wise-crackin'."

"DON'T WISECRACK ON MY TIME!!" Carella shouted.

"Okay, okay, don't get sore."

"What were you doing in that car?"

"Sitting."

"You always sit in parked cars at three in the a.m.?" Foster asked.

"Sometimes," McCarthy said.

"What else were you doing?"

"Talking."

"What about?"

"Everything."

"Philosophy?" Bush asked.

"Yeah," McCarthy said.

"What'd you decide?"

"We decided it ain't wise to sit in parked cars at three in the morning. There's always some cop who's got to fill his pinch book."

Carella tapped a pencil on the desk. "Don't get me mad, McCarthy," he said. "I just come from six hours sleep, and I don't feel like listening to a vaudeville routine. Did you know Mike Reardon?"

"Who?"

"Mike Reardon. A detective attached to this precinct."

McCarthy shrugged. He turned to Kelly. "We know him, Clarence?"

"Yeah," Clarence said. "Reardon. That rings a bell."

"How big a bell?" Foster asked.

"Just a tiny tinkle so far," Kelly said, and he began laugh-ing. The laugh died when he saw the bulls weren't quite appreciating his humor.

"Did you see him last night?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"We didn't run across any bulls last night," Kelly said. "Do you usually?" "Well, sometimes."

"Were you heeled when they pulled you in?" "What?"

"Come on," Foster said. "No."

"We'll check that."

"Yeah, go ahead," McCarthy said. "We didn't even have a water pistol between us."

"What were you doing in the car?"

"I just told you," McCarthy said.

"The story stinks. Try again," Carella answered.

Kelly sighed, McCarthy looked at him.

"Well?" Carella said.

"I was checkin' up on my dame," Kelly said.

"Yeah?" Bush said.

"Truth," Kelly said. "So help me Jesus, may I be struck dead right this goddamn minute."

"What's there to check up on?" Bush asked.

"Well, you know."

"No, I don't know. Tell me."

"I figured she was maybe slippin' around."

"Slipping around with who?" Bush asked.

"Well, that's what I wanted to find out."

"And what were you doing with him, McCarthy?"

"I was helping him check," McCarthy said, smiling.

"Was she?" Bush asked, a bored expression on his face.

"No, I don't think so," Kelly said.

"Don't check again," Bush said. "Next time we're liable to find you with the burglar's tools."

"Burglar's tools!" McCarthy said shocked.

"Gee, Detective Bush," Kelly said, "you know us better than that."

"Get the hell out of here," Bush said. "We can go home?"

"You can go to hell, for my part," Bush informed them.

"Here's the coffee," Foster said.

The released prisoners sauntered out of the Squad Room. The three detectives paid the delivery boy for the coffee and then pulled chairs up to one of the desks.

"I heard a good one last night," Foster said.

"Let's hear it," Carella prompted.