Эд Макбейн - Ice

“Dominus vobiscum,” Brother Anthony said, lifting his own glass.

Emma put her fleshy hand on his knee.

“Did you hear anything else?” she whispered.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Did you?”

“Only that he had eleven bills in his wallet when he caught it.”

“Eleven bills,” Brother Anthony whispered.

“And also, it was a .38. The gun.”

“Who told you that?”

“I heard two cops talking in the diner.”

“A .38,” Brother Anthony said. “Eleven bills.”

“That’s the kind of bread I’m talking about,” Emma said. “That’s cocaine bread, my dear.”

Brother Anthony let his eyes slide sidelong down the bar, just to make sure neither the bartender nor the black hooker was tuning in. The bartender was leaning over the bar, in deep and whispered conversation with the hooker. His fingertips roamed the yoke front of her dress, brushing the cleft her cushiony breasts formed. Brother Anthony smiled.

“The death of that little schwanz has left a gap,” Emma said.

“Indeed,” Brother Anthony said.

“There are customers adrift in the night,” Emma said.

“Indeed,” Brother Anthony said again.

“It would be nice if we could fill that gap,” Emma said. “Inherit the trade, so to speak. Find out who the man was servicing, become their new candyman and candylady.”

“There’s people who might not like that,” Brother Anthony said.

“I don’t agree with you. I don’t think the little pisher was killed for his trade. No, my dear, I definitely disagree with you.”

“Then why?”

“Was he killed? My educated guess?”

“Please,” Brother Anthony said.

“Because he was a stupid little man who probably got stingy with one of his customers. That’s my guess, bro. But, ah, my dear, when we begin selling the nose dust it’ll be a different story. We will be sugar-sweet to everybody; we will be Mr. and Mrs. Nice.”

“How do we get the stuff to sell?” Brother Anthony asked.

“First things first,” Emma said. “First we get the customers, then we get the candy.”

“How many customers do you think he had?” Brother Anthony asked.

“Hundreds,” Emma said. “Maybe thousands. We are going to get rich, my dear. We are going to thank God every day of the week that somebody killed Paco Lopez.”

“Dominus vobiscum,” Brother Anthony said, and made the sign of the cross.

Timothy Moore came into the squadroom not ten minutes after a package of Sally Anderson’s effects was delivered by a patrolman from Midtown East. The accompanying note from Detective Levine mentioned that he had talked with the dead girl’s boyfriend and they ought to expect a visit from him. So here he was now, standing just outside the slatted rail divider and introducing himself to Genero, who immediately said, “That ain’t my case.”

“In here, sir,” Meyer said, signaling to Moore, who looked up, nodded, found the release catch on the inside of the gate, and let himself into the squadroom. He was a tall, angular young man with wheat-colored hair and dark brown eyes. The trench coat he was wearing seemed too lightweight for this kind of weather, but perhaps the long striped muffler around his neck and the rubber boots on his feet were some sort of compensation. His eyes were quite solemn behind the aviator eyeglasses he wore. He took Meyer’s offered hand and said, “Detective Carella?”

“I’m Detective Meyer. This is Detective Carella.”

“How do you do?” Carella said, rising from behind his desk and extending his hand. Moore was just a trifle taller than he was; their eyes met at almost the same level.

“Detective Levine at Midtown East—”

“Yes, sir.”

“Told me the case had been turned over to you.”

“That’s right,” Carella said.

“I went up there the minute I learned about Sally.”

“When was that, sir?”

“This morning. I heard about it this morning.”

“Sit down, won’t you? Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you. I went up there at about ten o’clock, it must’ve been, right after I heard the news on the radio.”

“Where was this, Mr. Moore?”

“In my apartment.”

“And where’s that?”

“On Chelsea Place. Downtown, near the university. Ramsey.”

“We understand you’re a medical student there,” Carella said.

“Yes.” He seemed puzzled as to how they already knew this, but he let it pass, shrugging it aside. “I went back up there a little while ago—”

“Up there?”

“Midtown East. And Mr. Levine told me the case had been turned over to you. So I thought I’d check with you, just to see if there was anything I could do to help.”

“We appreciate that,” Carella said.

“How long had you known Miss Anderson?” Meyer asked.

“Since last July. I met her shortly after my father died.”

“How’d you happen to meet her?”

“At a party I crashed. She... the minute I saw her...” He looked down at his hands. The fingers were long and slender, the nails as clean as a surgeon’s. “She was... very beautiful. I... was attracted to her from the first minute I saw her.”

“So you began seeing her—”

“Yes—”

“Last July.”

“Yes. She’d just gotten the part in Fatback.”

“But you weren’t living together or anything,” Meyer said. “Or were you?”

“Not officially. That is, we didn’t share the same apartment,” Moore said. “But we saw each other virtually every night. I keep thinking...” He shook his head. The detectives waited. “I keep thinking if only I’d been with her last night...” He shook his head again. “I usually picked her up after the show. Last night...” Again he shook his head. The detectives waited. He said nothing further.

“Last night...,” Carella prompted.

“It’s stupid the way things work sometimes, isn’t it?” Moore said. “My grades were slipping. Too much partying. Okay. I made a New Year’s resolution to spend at least one weekend night studying. Either Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. This week it was Friday.”

“You’re saying—”

“I’m saying... look, I don’t know who did this to her, but chances are it was just some lunatic who ran across her on the street, am I right? Saw her on the street and killed her, am I right? A chance victim.”

“Maybe,” Carella said.

“So what I’m saying is if this had been last week, I’d have been there to pick her up on Friday night. Because last week I stayed home on Sunday to study. I remember there was a party she wanted me to go to on Sunday, and I told her no, I had to study. Or the week before that, it would’ve been a Saturday. What I’m saying is why did it have to be a Friday this week, why couldn’t I have been waiting for her last night when she came out of that theater?”

“Mr. Moore,” Meyer said, “in the event this wasn’t a crazy—”

“It had to be,” Moore said.

“Yes, well,” Meyer said, and glanced at Carella, looking for some sort of expression on his face that would indicate whether or not it would be wise to mention Paco Lopez. Carella’s face said nothing, which was as good as telling Meyer to cool it. “But we have to explore every possibility,” Meyer said, “which is why the questions we’re about to ask may sound irrelevant, but we have to ask them anyway.”

“I understand,” Moore said.

“As the person closest to Miss Anderson—”

“Well, her mother is alive, you know,” Moore said.