Ed McBain - Another Part of the City

“What we’re interested in knowing,” Reardon said, “is whether or not any bullets were recovered during autopsy.”

“We never did an autopsy,” Patterson said.

“According to Dr. Hemkar, your wagon made the pickup at...”

“Indeed,” Patterson said. “But it was forced off the road somewhere between Elmhurst and here.”

“Forced off the...?”

“Yes, sir, at gun point,” Patterson said.

“Gun point?” Hoffman said.

“Yes, sir. The body was removed from the wagon at gun point. What I’m saying, sir, is that the body never got here. It was transferred to the automobile that forced the wagon off the road.”

“What kind of automobile?” Reardon asked at once.

“I believe our driver described it as a brown Mercedes-Benz,” Patterson said.

It was ten minutes to eleven when Rothstein finally got through to Phoenix. Charles, the Kidd butler, answered the phone. Rothstein recognized the man’s voice immediately, pseudo-British, somewhat high and nasal.

“Charles,” he said, “this is Lowell Rothstein. 1 just read about...”

“Yes, Mr. Rothstein?” Charles said. “How are you, sir?”

“Fine, thank you. How’s the Captain, that’s the question. May I speak to Miss Kidd, please?”

“Miss Kidd is not taking any calls,” Charles said, and hung up.

Two doctors hovered over him, one of them taking his pulse.

Olivia sat beside the bed, holding her father’s other hand. He looked gray and gaunt. Spittle bubbled onto his lips as he spoke.

“Historically true,” he said, and nodded. “Oil through the roof, then silver and gold...”

She watched the doctor. His strong fingers on her father’s thin wrist.

“Well?” she said.

“He’s weakening, Miss Kidd. His pulse rate...”

“Then give him something!” Olivia said.

“There’s nothing more I can give him. You have to understand...”

“If you let him die...” Olivia said warningly.

“Miss Kidd, please. We’ve done everything possible. The best we can hope for now...”

“I don’t want to hear it!”

Her father chuckled.

“Kidd fire and iron,” he said. “Nothing’ll stop you, Livvie...”

He tried to sit up, fell back against the pillows again.

“Livvie?” he said.

“I’m here, Daddy.”

“Don’t go ’way,” he said.

“I won’t,” she said.

“Noise, Livvie,” he said, “so much noise in my head, I... Livvie?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Her father shuddered. She gripped his hand tightly.

“Got to do it for me, Livvie,” he said, “too much noise. Christmas Eve, nail it all down, Livvie.” He opened his eyes wide. “Livvie? Where are you?”

“Here, Daddy.”

“Wind tunnel,” he said. “Noise... voices.” He shook his head. “Silver used to be on a par with gold,” he said, and laughed. “Says so in the Bible, go read it. Could be again, who knows? Still, small potatoes, the oil’s the thing. Finish it for me. Livvie. Finish it all on Christmas... big... Christmas... big...”

His voice trailed.

“Daddy?” she said.

His eyes were still wide open.

“Daddy!” she said, alarmed.

One of the doctors shook his head.

“Oh, my God!” she said, and threw herself onto her father’s chest, holding him close and tight.

Reardon didn’t have to meet Kathy and Liz till one o’clock, when Kathy had promised he could have his daughter for lunch. On the phone, she had actually said, “You can have Liz for lunch,” which sounded cannibalistic but he hadn’t dared laugh, not at the language separation and divorce forced upon people. He was glad he had a little time. He still hadn’t shown the D’Annunzios the picture he’d got from Weissman up at the Two-Four.

Mark D’Annunzio was out, his mother didn’t know where.

She’d been crying, Reardon could see that.

She offered him a cup of coffee.

He sat at the table with her and asked her how it was going.

She told him she didn’t want to open the restaurant tomorrow. She said Christmas was on Thursday, they’d be closed then, anyway, and if they did open tomorrow they’d close early on Wednesday, wouldn’t they? Christmas Eve? So what was the sense of opening tomorrow? It was too soon, opening tomorrow. It wasn’t showing the proper respect.

Reardon told her that when his mother died, his father went to work the very next day.

He did not tell her that he’d hated his father from that day to the day he got killed by a bus on Columbus Avenue, coming out of a saloon, drunk, crossing the street against a light. Hated him all that time, and then suddenly stopped hating him. Figured him for a poor old drunk instead. Maybe a poor old drunk he loved.

“Well,” Mrs. D’Annunzio said, and sighed.

He guessed she was thinking Well, the Irish.

He showed her the picture. The picture that looked like a studio shot. Peter Dodge smiling into the camera. Not the picture with his hands tied behind his back with a wire hanger and blood all over the white tile floor. “Has this man ever been in the restaurant?” he asked.

Mrs. D’Annunzio squinted at the picture. She took her eyeglasses from the pocket of the black sweater she was wearing over a black dress, put them on, and held the picture closer to her face.

“You kidding me?” she asked.

“Do you know him?”

“Sure,” she said. “He’s the lawyer made the contract.”

“What contract?” Reardon said at once.

“For the restaurant. To buy the restaurant.”

“Peter Dodge is your lawyer?”

“Well, Ralph’s. Ralph was the one talked to him. I only met him once or twice.”

“When did you see him last?” Reardon asked.

“Not too long ago,” Mrs. D’Annunzio said. “A few days, maybe.”

“When?”

“Let me see,” she said. She was silent, thinking. “Could it be?”

“Could what be, Mrs. D’Annunzio?”

“I think he came in Monday. For lunch Monday.”

“The day your husband was killed?”

“Yes. I saw my husband talking to him, in fact. Yes. It was Monday. I’m sure.”

Their eyes met.

“Does it mean something?” she asked.

“Maybe,” he said.

They were waiting outside the Rice Bowl restaurant as agreed, mother and daughter looking very blonde and blue-eyed in the sunshine, one prettier than the other, Liz carrying a handbag like a proper lady, six years old, her face breaking into a wide grin when she saw him. Reardon walked over. He felt a little guilty about having a real lunch, even if it was only with his daughter. Usually the detectives grabbed a bite on the run. He also felt a little guilty about taking her to the Rice Bowl, where he hoped to catch Benny Wong, ask if he’d heard anything in the Chinese community. He took his daughter’s hand, held it in his own. She looked up at him shyly, like a teenager on her first date.

“You’re early,” he said to Kathy.

“You said one o’clock.”

“It’s only ten to.”

“Well... I thought... I have to drive her back to Jersey, you know, I’m working the midnight tonight. So I figured if you were a little early...”

“Sure,” Reardon said, “no problem.” He hesitated. “Why don’t you join us?” he asked.

“Thanks, no. I... uh... there are some things I wanted to look at. While Tm down here. I never get to Chinatown anymore.”

“Come on in, have a cup of tea, anyway.”

“Yeah, come on. Mommy,” Elizabeth said.

“Bry, I don’t want to make this a family get-together, okay?” Kathy said.

“A lousy cup of tea?”

“I’ll see you in an hour,” she said, and turned and walked off.