At a little past seven-thirty, the detectives began drifting in for the shift change. Officially this was called the eight-to-four, but it started at seven forty-five, because many uniformed cops were relieved on post, and detectives all of whom had once pounded beats honored the timeworn tradition. They hung their hats and coats on the rack in the corner, and exchanged morning greetings. Complaining about the vile coffee from the pot brewing in the clerical office down the hall, they sat nonetheless on the edges of their desks and sipped it " from soggy cardboard containers. Outside the wind raged at the windows.
They double-teamed this one because it was more than thirty-one hours since they'd Dyalovich squeal and they were not very much to finding the person or persons who'd killed It was also two full days since they'd discovered the body of Yolande Marie Marx in the alleyway Sab's and First. But whereas the Marx murder was officially theirs under the First Man Up rule, they had been informed that Fat Ollie Weeks of the Eight-eight had caught a related double murder, and they were more than content to leave the three-way investigation to him. A hooker, a pimp, and a smalltime dealer? Let Ollie's mother worry.
So here they all were, those legendary stalwarts the Eight-Seven, gathered in Lieutenant Byrnes sunny corner office at ten minutes to eight Monday morning, Carella and Hawes telling others what they had so far, and hoping that in this brilliant think tank would offer a clue or that would help them crack the case wide open.
"What it sounds like to me," Andy Parker said, you have nothing."
Parker was a good friend of Ollie Weeks. because they were both bigots. But whereas Ollie also a good detective, Parker only rarely rose heights of deductive dazzle. He was almost as big a slob, as Ollie, however, favoring unpressed soiled suits, unpolished shoes, and an unshaven face he believed made him resemble a good television cop. Parker figured there were only two kinds of cop shows. The lousy ones, which he called The Cops of Madison County, and the good ones, which he called Real Meat Funk.
As a detective, albeit not a very good one, Parker knew that the word "funk" descended from the word "funky," which in turn evolved from a style of jazz piano-playing called "funky butt," which translated as "smelly asshole." He was amused the other day when a radio restaurant critic mentioned that the food in a downtown bistro was "funky."
Not many things amused Parker.
Especially so early in the morning.
"Well, we do have the guy's name," Hawes said. "What guy?"
"The guy who bought the murder weapon."
"Who you can't find."
"Well, he moved out yesterday," Carella said.
"So he's in flight, is that what you figure?" Willis asked.
He was poised on the edge of the lieutenant's desk like a gargoyle on Notre Dame cathedral, listening carefully, brown eyes intent. Byrnes liked him a lot. He liked small people, figured small people had to try harder. Willis had barely cleared the minimum-height requirement for policemen in this city, but he was an expert at judo and could knock any cheap thief flat on his ass in less than ten seconds. His girlfriend had been shot and killed only recently, by a pair of Colombian goons who'd broken into her apartment. Willis never much talked about her, but he hadn't been the same since. Byrnes worried.
He worried about all of his people. after the murder, he "Day powders,"
Kling
"it's got to be flight."
Worried a lot about Kling, too. Never had any trouble with women, it seemed.
Byrnes understood he'd split up with a black woman, a deputy chief in department, no less, as if the black-white thing wasn't difficult enough.
Byrnes wished him the best, but remained to be seen. Next chapter, he thought. Life always full of next chapters, some of them written.
"Maybe he's already back in Italy," Brown said. Scowling. Always scowling. Made it look as if he was angry all the time, like a lot of black people in the city were, with damn good cause. But in all the time he'd known Brown, he'd never seen him lose his temper. Giant of a man, could have been for a professional football team, reminded him a lot of Rosie Grier, in fact, though Grier was now, what, minister? He tried to imagine Brown as a minister. imagination would not take him quite that far. "Maybe," Carella said.
"Where in Italy?" Meyer asked.
"Don't know."
"What'd you find when you tossed her
Byrnes asked.
"Me?"
"You."
"Dead cat lying alongside her," Carella said. "Skip the cat."
"Fish bones all over the kitchen floor."
"I said skip the cat."
"Savings account passbook in a dresser drawer, hundred-and twenty-five thou withdrawn the morning before she got killed."
"What time?"
"Ten twenty-seven A.M."
"Cash or bank check?"
"Don't know.
"What do you know?" Parker asked.
Carella merely looked at him.
"We know the guy's name," Hawes said.
"If he killed her," Parker said.
"Whether he killed her or not, we know his name."
"But not where he is."
