Ed McBain - Another Part of the City

“How’s the hot chocolate?” he asked.

“Yummy,” she said.

They were silent for a moment. The organ player was slaughtering a Stones’ tune. A lone skater on the floor twirled like a break dancer.

“Honey,” Reardon said, “there’s something I’ve got to tell you. I want you to be a big girl now, and try to understand.”

“I am a big girl,” she said. Chocolate rimming her mouth. God, how he loved her!

“I know that.”

“Bigger even than Suzie, and she’s seven.”

“Yes, sweetie. So please try to understand what I’m going to tell you.”

“Sure, Dad.” Her face suddenly solemn, blue eyes wide.

“Liz... your mother and I are separated.” He looked into her eyes. “Do you know what that means?”

“No, what does it mean?” she said. That innocent face. Christ!

“It means... it means we’re not living together anymore. All those stories she told you about me having to go down to Miami on an extradition case... they weren’t true, Liz.”

“Then where were you, if not in Miami?” Her eyes puzzled.

“In a hotel. In the city. In New York. I’ve been living in a hotel, Liz.”

“Where?”

“On Twenty-sixth and Broadway.”

“Can I come there sometime?” she asked.

“I don’t think you’d like it much, Liz.”

“When will you be going to Miami?”

“I’m not,” he said. “That was a lie, Liz. I’m not going to Miami at all.”

She stared at him.

“Liz... your mother and I are getting a divorce.”

“Oh,” she said.

The single word. Nothing more. Everything in that single word. And in her wide blue eyes.

“Do you know what divorce means?”

“Yes,” she said. “Suzie’s divorced.”

“Her parents,” he said.

“Whoever,” she said. She was thoughtful for a moment. Then she asked, “Is that why I’m in New Jersey?”

“Until the lawyers work it out, yes.”

“Work what out?”

“Well, the alimony payments, and child support, and... there’s a lot to be worked out, Liz.”

She nodded.

The organ player started “Tennessee Waltz.”

“Who will I live with, Dad?” she asked. “After the divorce, I mean.”

“Mom, I guess.”

“I want to live with both of you,” she said.

“Well... honey. I’d like that, too, but...”

“I love you both,” she said, “and I want to live with both of you.” Another nod. A child’s simple logic. You love two people, you live with both of them. Period.

“Honey.” he said, “that won’t be possible.”

“Why not?”

“When two people break up...”

“Well, why do you and Mom have to break up?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know, darling.”

She looked into his face. She must have seen something on it — his pain and confusion perhaps, although he was trying very hard to hide it — because suddenly she threw herself into his arms. He held her tight, squeezing his eyes shut, clinging to her desperately.

A kerosene heater was going in the squadroom at four-thirty that afternoon, enabling the men to work in relative comfort. It was colder outside than it had been this morning. The sun was gone now, the meshed windows showed as only frost-rimed black rectangles. Reardon had been fifteen minutes late, relieving at four on the dot, rather than at the customary fifteen minutes to the hour. He was on the phone now, trying to get through to Washington, D.C. At his own desk, Gianelli was also on the phone.

“Okay, I’ll wait,” Gianelli said, and rolled his eyes at Reardon. “Ballistics,” he said. “I hate Ballistics.”

“I know I can dial it direct,” Reardon said into his phone. “I’ve dialed it direct three times, and all I get is nothing. Nothing, yes. Zilch. Silence.” He listened, and then said, “Well, could you please try it for me?”

“Ballistics and the telephone company ought to go partners,” Gianelli said.

Haggerty, one of the Fifth’s clerks, wearing a blue V-neck sweater over his uniformed shirt and a bulky blue cardigan over that, came into the office carrying a sheet of paper. “Here’s the flyer went out,” he said to Reardon. “It ain’t much for anybody to go on. No year, no plate, just a brown Benz.”

“Who got it?” Reardon asked.

“Every precinct in the city.”

“I want the whole tri-state area covered.”

“Yeah. I’m here,” Gianelli said into his phone. “I been here forever.”

“Won’t do no good anyway, Bry.” Haggerty said. “This’s the week before Christmas, today’s already the eighteenth. What cop out there is gonna be looking for cars?”

“A what?” Gianelli said into the phone. “I never heard of such a thing. All right, give it to me. Nice and slow, please.”

“What they’ll be looking for is presents for their wives,” Haggerty said.

“Send it out, anyway,” Reardon said.

“Or their girlfriends,” Haggerty said. “They won’t be looking for no brown Benz ain’t even got a year or a plate.”

“Hello?” Reardon said into the phone, and waved Haggerty out. “Is this the Café de la Daine?”

“Out, bien sur, ” the voice on the other end said.

“This is Detective Reardon, I’m calling from the Fifth P.D.U. in New York. I’d like to speak to Mr. John D’Annunzio, please. Is he there?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“May I speak to him, please?”

“Un moment, s’il vous plait.”

“Accommodate the what?” Gianelli said into his phone. “Well, was it? Then what are you wasting my time for?” He paused and then said, “What’s the capacity? Right. Anything else? Okay, thanks.” He slammed the receiver down on the cradle.

“Hello?” a man’s voice said.

“Mr. D’Annunzio?” Reardon said.

“Yes?”

“This is Detective Reardon in Manhattan...”

“Yes?”

“I’m assuming you were notified of your brother’s death...”

“Yes?”

“There are a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

“What questions, Mr. Reardon?”

“I understand he went to Washington on the fourteenth of December. Did he go down there to see you, Mr. D’Annunzio?”

“Yes, he did.” D’Annunzio said.

“That would have been a Sunday...”

“Yes, he came to the restaurant. We’re open for dinner on Sunday night.”

“Why did he come to see you, Mr. D’Annunzio? Can you tell me that?”

Farmer came limping out of his office. He put his hands on his hips and listened to Reardon’s end of the conversation.

“Did he say who’d made this loan to him?” Reardon asked.

Farmer stood listening.

“What?” Reardon said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize... well, what would be a convenient time for you?” He listened and then said, “I’ll try you later then, thanks.”

He replaced the receiver on the cradle, looked up at Farmer.

“D’Annunzio went there to borrow seventy-five hundred bucks. Told his brother he needed the money to meet a loan.”

“Who from?” Farmer asked.

“He doesn’t know. They’re setting up for dinner, he wants me to call him back in an hour or so.” He turned to Gianelli. “What’d Ballistics say?”

“Is anyone on this squad working anything but the D’Annunzio murder?” Farmer asked.

“Priorities, boss,” Gianelli said.

“Priorities, my ass.”

“The slugs were nine millimeter Parabellums. The gun... just a second.” He looked at his notes. “Was a SIG P-210-5.”

“A what?” Farmer said.

“Foreign pistol. Made in Switzerland, imported here by H.F. Grieder. It can be made to accommodate the 7.65 cartridge, but this one wasn’t. The bullets were nine millimeters.”