At fifteen minutes to eight, give or take, the eight-man team of detectives on the day shift had relieved six of the detectives on the morning shift, but not Carella and Hawes, who were still out in the field. They were there, instead of home in bed, because maybe they had something to go on in the murder of Yolande Marie Marx. Her death might never make newspaper headlines; she was not Sw Even if they caught whoever had brutally slain her, murder would never result in anything more than media mention. But they had the name of her pimp And the man had a substantial record, including arrest for a New Orleans murder some ten years afor which he had done time at Louisiana's An State Penitentiary. He was now gracing this city with his presence; a policeman's lot was not a happy one.
Especially not at eight in the morning, when Carel and Hawes knocked on Jamal Stone's door and bullets came crashing through the wood even when they announced themselves.
"Gun!" Hawes shouted, but Carella had already hit the deck, and Hawes came tumbling immediately afterward. Both men lay side by side the hallway outside the door now, breathing sweating heavily despite the cold, heads close together, guns in their hands.
"Guy's a mind reader," Hawes whispered.
Carella was wondering when the next shots would come.
Hawes was wondering the same thing. The door opened, surprising them.
They almost shot him.
"Who the fuck are you?" Jamal asked.
What it was or so he explained in the secon interrogation room up at the old Eight-Seven he was expecting someone else, was what it was.
Instead, he got two policemen breaking down the door. Crack of dawn.
Two cops.
"You always shoot at people who knock on your door?" Hawes asked.
"Only when I expect them to shoot me," Jamal said. This was now beginning to get interesting. In fact, Bert Kling was almost happy they'd asked him and Meyer to sit in on the interrogation. It was still early enough on the shift to enjoy a cup of coffee with colleagues who'd been out in the freezing cold all night long. But aside from the camaraderie, and the bonhomie, and the promise of some entertainment from a man who'd been around the block once or twice and who felt completely at home in a police station, the doubling-up was a way of bringing them up to speed on one of the two squeals Carella and Hawes had caught during the night.
There used to be a sign on the squad room wall (before Detective Andy Parker tore it down in a fit of pique) that read: IT'S YOUR CASE! STICK WITH IT! The Dyalovich murder and the Marx murder did indeed belong to Carella and Hawes as the detectives who'd caught them. But they would not be on duty again until 11:45 tonight and meanwhile there were two long eight-hour shifts between now and then. In police work, things could become fast-breaking in the wink of an eye; briefing the oncoming team was a ritual these men observed more often than not.
Jamal figured the two new cops for the brains here. The ones asking the questions were the ones almost got themselves shot, so how smart could they be? But the big bald-headed guy his ID tag read DET/2ND GR MEYER MEYER, must've been a computer glitch looked smart as could be.
The tall blond guy with the appearance of a farm boy, DET/3RD BERT KLING, was probably the one played Go, Cop to the bald guy's Bad Cop when they had some cheap thief. Right now, though, both of them were as still as coiled snakes, watching, listening.
"Who were you expecting to shoot you?" Carella asked.
This was all vamping till ready. They didn't actually care who wanted to shoot him, good riddance to bad rubbish, as Carella's mother was fond of saying. All they really wanted to know was whether Jamal was the one who'd put that freezer bag over Yolande's head. Toward that end, they would let him talk forever all his real or imagined enemies out there, make him feel comfortable, ply him with cigarettes and wait for him to reveal through word or gesture that they already knew why he was here being questioned by a pair of detectives, which no one had yet told him, which he hadn't yet asked about, either. Which might or might not have meant something. felons, it was difficult to tell.
Jamal puffed on his cigarette.
Meyer and Kling watched him.
