The Best of the Best American Mystery Stories

by Otto Penzler

  Marino shook his head and turned his lips downward. “Yeah, sure, a favor. I’ll go sniff some ether or something.” He walked away, his head still shaking.

  McQueen looked around the brightly lit emergency room. He saw Rizzo down a hall, leaning against a wall, talking to a bleached-blond nurse who looked to be about Rizzo’s age: fifty. McQueen walked over.

  “Hey, Joe, you going to introduce me to your niece?”

  Joe turned and looked at McQueen with a puzzled look, then smiled.

  “Oh, no, no, turns out she’s not working tonight. I’m just making a new friend here, is all.”

  “Well, we need to go talk to the victim, this Amy Taylor.”

  Rizzo frowned. “She a ditsoon?”

  “A what?” McQueen asked.

  Rizzo shook his head. “Is she black?”

  “No, cop told me Caucasian. Why?”

  “Kid, I know you’re new here to Bensonhurst, so I’m gonna be patient. Anybody in this neighborhood named Amy Taylor is either a ditsoon or a yuppie pain-in-the-ass moved here from Boston to be an artist or a dancer or a Broadway star, and she can’t afford to live in Park Slope or Brooklyn Heights or across the river. This here neighborhood is all Italian, kid, everybody—cops, crooks, butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers. Except for you, of course. You’re the exception. By the way, did I introduce you two? This here is the morning-shift head nurse, Rosalie Mazzarino. Rosalie, say hello to my boy wonder partner, Mike Mick-fucking-Queen.”

  The woman smiled and held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mike. And don’t believe a thing this guy tells you. Making new friends! I’ve known him since he was your age and chasing every nurse in the place.” She squinted at McQueen then and slipped a pair of glasses out of her hair and over her eyes. “How old are you—twelve?”

  Mike laughed. “I’m twenty-eight.”

  She twisted her mouth up and nodded her head in an approving manner. “And a third-grade detective already? I’m impressed.”

  Rizzo laughed. “Yeah, so was the mayor. This boy’s a genuine hero with the alma mater gals.”

  “Okay, Joe, very good. Now, can we go see the victim?”

  “You know, kid, I got a problem with that. I can tell you her whole story from right here. She’s from Boston, wants to be a star, and as soon as you lock up the guy raped her, she’s gonna bring a complaint against you ’cause you showed no respect for the poor shit, a victim of society and all. Why don’t you talk to her, I’ll go see the doctor and get the rape kit and the panties, and we’ll get out of here.”

  McQueen shook his head. “Wrong crime, partner. No rape, some kind of sexual assault or abuse or whatever.”

  “Go ahead, kid, talk to her. It’ll be good experience for you. Me and Rosalie’ll be in one of these linen closets when you get back. I did tell you she was the head nurse, right?”

  McQueen walked away with her laughter in his ear. It was going to be a long night. Just like Joe had figured.

  He checked the room number twice before entering. It was a small room with barely enough space for the two hospital beds it held. They were separated by a seriously despondent-looking curtain. The one nearest the door was empty, the mattress exposed. In the dim lighting, McQueen could see the foot of the second bed. The outline of someone’s feet showed through the bedding. A faint and sterile yet vaguely unpleasant odor touched his nostrils. He waited a moment longer for his eyes to adjust to the low light, so soft after the harsh fluorescent glare of the hall. He glanced around for something to knock on to announce his presence. He settled on the footboard of the near bed and rapped gently on the cold metal.

  “Hello?” he said softly. “Hello, Ms. Taylor?”

  The covered feet stirred. He heard the low rustle of linens. He raised his voice a bit when he spoke again.

  “Ms. Taylor? I’m Detective McQueen, police. May I see you for a moment?”

  A light switched on, hidden by the curtain but near the head of the bed. McQueen stood and waited.

  “Ms. Taylor? Hello?”

  The voice was sleepy, possibly sedated. It was a gentle and clear voice, yet it held a tension, an edginess. McQueen imagined he had awoken her and now the memories were flooding through her, the reality of it: yes, it had actually happened, no, it hadn’t been a dream. He had seen it a thousand times: the burglarized, the beaten, the raped, robbed, shot, stabbed, pissed on whole lot of them. He had seen it.

  “Detective? Did you say ‘detective’? Hello? I can’t see you.”

  He stepped further into the room, slowly venturing past the curtain. Slow and steady, don’t move fast and remember to speak softly. Get her to relax, don’t freak her out.

  Her beauty struck him immediately. She was sitting, propped on two pillows, the sheet raised and folded over her breasts. Her arms lay beside her on the bed, palms down, straight out. She appeared to be clinging to the bed, steadying herself against some unseen, not possible force. Her skin was almost translucent, a soft glow emanating from it. Her wide-set eyes were like liquid sapphire, and they met and held his own. Her lips were full and rounded and sat perfectly under her straight, narrow nose, her face framed with shoulder-length black hair. She wore no makeup, and an ugly purple-yellow bruise marked her left temple and part of her cheekbone. Yet she was the most beautiful woman McQueen had ever seen.

  After almost three years working the richest, most sophisticated square mile in the world, here, now, in this godforsaken corner of Brooklyn, he sees this woman. For a moment, he forgot why he had come.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” she asked as he stood in her sight.

  He blinked himself back and cleared his throat. He glanced down to the blank page of the notepad in his hand, just to steal an instant more before he had to speak.

  “Yes, yes, Ms. Taylor. I’m Detective McQueen, six-two detective squad. I need to see you for a few minutes. If you don’t mind.”

  She frowned, and he saw pain in her eyes. For an instant he thought his heart would break. He shook his head slightly. What the hell? What the hell was this?

  “I’ve already spoken to two or three police officers. I’ve already told them what happened.” Her eyes closed. “I’m very tired. My head hurts.” She opened her eyes and they were welled with tears. McQueen used all his willpower not to move to her, to cradle her head, to tell her it was OK, it was all over, he was here now.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know that,” he said instead. “But my partner and I caught the case. We’ll be handling it. I need some information. Just a few minutes. The sooner we get started, the better chance we have of catching this guy.”

  She seemed to think it over as she held his gaze. When she tried to blink the tears away, they spilled down onto her cheeks. She made no effort to brush them away. “All right,” was all she said.

  McQueen felt his body relax, and he realized he had been holding himself so tightly that his back and shoulders ached. “May I sit down?” he asked softly.

  “Yes, of course.”

  He slid the too-large-for-the-room chair to the far side of the bed and sat with his back to the windows. He heard rain rattle against the panes and the sound chilled him and made him shiver. He found himself hoping she hadn’t noticed.

  “I already know pretty much what happened. There’s no need to go over it all, really. I just have a few questions. Most of them are formalities, please don’t read anything into it. I just need to know certain things. For the reports. And to help us find this guy. OK?”

  She squeezed her eyes closed again and more tears escaped. She nodded yes to him and reopened her eyes. He couldn’t look away from them.

  “This happened about eleven, eleven-ten?”

  “Yes, about.”

  “You had gotten off the train at the Sixty-second Street subway station?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “What train is that?”

  “The N.”

  “Where were you going?”

>   “Home.”

  “Where were you coming from?”

  “My art class in Manhattan.”

  McQueen looked up from his notes. Art class? Rizzo’s inane preamble resounded in his mind. He squinted at her and said, “You’re not originally from Boston, are you?”

  For the first time she smiled slightly, and McQueen found it disproportionately endearing. “No, Connecticut. Do you think I sound like a Bostonian?”

  He laughed. “No, no, not at all. Just something somebody said to me. Long story, pay no attention.”

  She smiled again, and he could see it in her eyes that the facial movement had caused her some pain. “A lot of you Brooklynites think anyone from out of town sounds like they come from Boston.”

  McQueen sat back in his chair and raised his eyebrows in mock indignation. “‘Brooklynite?’ You think I sound like a Brooklynite?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Well, Ms. Taylor, just so you know, I live in the city. Not Brooklyn.” He kept his voice light, singsong.

  “Isn’t Brooklyn in the city?”

  “Well, yeah, geographically. But the city is Manhattan. I was born on Long Island but I’ve lived in the city for fifteen years.”

  “All right, then,” she said, with a pitched nod of her head.

  McQueen tapped his pen on his notepad and looked at the ugly bruise on her temple. He dropped his gaze to the splinted, bandaged broken fingers of her right hand.

  “How are you doing? I know you took a bad fall and had a real bad scare. But how are you doing?”

  She seemed to tremble briefly, and he regretted having asked. But she met his gaze with her answer.

  “I’ll be fine. Everything is superficial, except for the fingers, and they’ll heal. I’ll be fine.”

  He nodded to show he believed her and that yes, of course, she was right, she would be fine. He wondered, though, if she really would be.

  “Can you describe the man to me?”

  “It happened very fast. I mean, it seemed to last for hours, but . . . but . . .”

  McQueen leaned forward and spoke more softly so she would have to focus on the sound of his voice in order to hear, focus on hearing the words and not the memory at hand.

  “Was he taller than you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How tall are you?”

  “Five-eight.”

  “And him?”

  She thought for a moment. “Five-nine or -ten.”

  “His hair?”

  “Black. Long. Very dirty.” She looked down at the sheet and nervously picked at a loose thread. “It . . . It . . .”

  McQueen leaned in closer, his knees against the side of the bed. He imagined what it would be like to touch her. “It what?” he asked gently.

  “It smelled.” She looked up sharply with the near panic of a frightened deer in her eyes. She whispered, “His hair was so dirty, I could smell it.”

  She started to sob. McQueen sat back in his chair.

  He needed to find this man. Badly.

  “I want to keep this one.”

  McQueen started the engine and glanced down at his wristwatch as he spoke to Rizzo. It was two in the morning, and his eyes stung with the grit of someone who had been too long awake.

  Rizzo shifted in the seat and adjusted his jacket. He settled in and turned to the younger detective.

  “You what?” he asked absently.

  “I want this one. I want to keep it. We can handle this case, Joe, and I want it.”

  Rizzo shook his head and frowned. “Doesn’t work that way, kid. The morning shift catches and pokes around a little, does a rah-rah for the victim, and then turns the case to the day tour. You know that, that’s the way it is. Let’s get us back to the house and do the reports and grab a few Z’s. We’ll pick up enough of our own work next day-tour we pull. We don’t need to grab something ain’t our problem. OK?”

  McQueen stared out of the window into the falling rain on the dark street. He didn’t turn his head when he spoke.

  “Joe, I’m telling you, I want this case. If you’re in, fine. If not, I go to the squad boss tomorrow and ask for the case and a partner to go with it.” Now he turned to face the older man and met his eyes. “Up to you, Joe. You tell me.”

  Rizzo turned away and spoke into the windshield before him. He let his eyes watch McQueen’s watery reflection. “Pretty rough for a fuckin’ guy with three days under his belt.” He sighed and turned slowly before he spoke again.

  “One of the cops in the ER told me this broad was a looker. So now I get extra work ’cause you got a hard-on?”

  McQueen shook his head. “Joe, it’s not like that.”

  Rizzo smiled. “Mike, you’re how old? Twenty-seven, twenty-eight? It’s like that, all right, it’s always like that.”

  “Not this time. And not me. It’s wrong for you to say that, Joe.”

  At that, Rizzo laughed aloud. “Mike,” he said through a lingering chuckle, “there ain’t no wrong. And there ain’t no right. There just is, that’s all.”

  Now it was McQueen who laughed. “Who told you that, a guru?”

  Rizzo fumbled through his jacket pockets and produced a battered and bent Chesterfield. “Sort of,” he said as he lit it. “My grandfather told me that. Do you know where I was born?”

  McQueen, puzzled by the question, shook his head. “How would I know? Brooklyn?”

  “Omaha-fuckin’-Nebraska, that’s where. My old man was a lifer in the Air Force stationed out there. Well, when I was nine years old he dropped dead. Me and my mother and big sister came back to Brooklyn to live with my grandparents. My grandfather was a first-grade detective working Chinatown back then. The first night we was home, I broke down, crying to him about how wrong it was, my old man dying and all, how it wasn’t right and all like that. He got down on his knees and leaned right into my face. I still remember the smell of beer and garlic sauce on his breath. He leaned right in and said, ‘Kid, nothing is wrong. And nothing is right. It just is.’ I never forgot that. He was dead-on correct about that, I’ll tell you.”

  McQueen drummed his fingers lightly on the wheel and scanned the mirrors. The street was empty. He pulled the Impala away from the curb and drove back toward the Belt Parkway. After they had entered the westbound lanes, Rizzo spoke again.

  “Besides, Mike, this case won’t even stay with the squad. Rapes go to sex crimes and they get handled by the broads and the guys with the master’s degrees in fundamental and advanced bullshit. Can you imagine the bitch that Betty Friedan and Bella Abzug would pitch if they knew an insensitive prick like me was handling a rape?”

  “Joe, Bella Abzug died about twenty years ago.”

  Rizzo nodded. “Whatever. You get my point.”

  “And I told you already, this isn’t a rape. A guy grabbed her, threatened her with a blade, and was yanking on his own chain while he held her there. No rape. Abuse and assault, tops.”

  For the first time since they had worked together, McQueen heard a shadow of interest in Rizzo’s voice when the older man next spoke.

  “Blade? Whackin’ off? Did the guy come?”

  McQueen glanced over at his partner. “What?” he asked.

  “Did the guy bust a nut, or not?”

  McQueen squinted through the windshield: Had he thought to ask her that? No. No, he hadn’t. It simply hadn’t occurred to him.

  “Is that real important to this, Joe, or are you just making a case for your insensitive-prick status?”

  Rizzo laughed out loud and expelled a gray cloud of cigarette smoke in the process. McQueen reached for the power button and cracked his window.

  “No, no, kid, really, official request. Did this asshole come?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask her. Why?”

  Rizzo laughed again. “Didn’t want to embarrass her on the first date, eh, Mike? Understandable, but totally unacceptable detective work.”

  “Is this going somewhere, Joe?”

  Rizzo n
odded and smiled. “Yeah, it’s going toward granting your rude request that we keep this one. If I can catch a case I can clear up quick, I’ll always keep it. See, about four, five years ago we had some schmuck running around the precinct grabbing girls and forcing them into doorways and alleyways. Used a knife. He’d hold them there and beat off till the thing started to look like a stick of chop meat. One victim said she stared at a bank clock across the street the whole time to sort of distract herself from the intimacy of the situation, and she said the guy was hammering himself for twenty-five minutes. But he could never get the job done. Psychological, probably. Sort of a major failure at his crime of choice. Never hurt no one, physically, but one of his victims was only thirteen. She must be popping Prozac by the handful now somewheres. We caught the guy. Not me, but some guys from the squad. Turned out to be a strung-out junkie shitbag we all knew. Thing is, junkies don’t usually cross over into the sex stuff. No cash or H in it. I bet this is the same guy. He’d be long out by now. And except for the subway, it’s his footprint. We can clear this one, Mike. You and me. I’m gonna make you look like a star, first case. The mayor will be so proud of himself for grabbing that gold shield for you, he’ll probably make you the fuckin’ commissioner!”

  Two days later, McQueen sat at his desk in the cramped detective squad room, gazing once again into the eyes of Amy Taylor. He cleared his voice before he spoke, and noticed the bruise at her temple had subsided a bit and that no attempt to cover it with makeup had been made.

  “What I’d like to do is show you some photographs. I’d like you to take a look at some suspects and tell me if one of them is the perpetrator.”

  Her eyes smiled at him as she spoke. “I’ve talked to about five police officers in the last few days, and you’re the first one to say ‘perpetrator.’”

  He felt himself flush a little. “Well,” he said with a forced laugh, “it’s a fairly appropriate word for what we’re doing here.”

  “Yes, it is. It’s just unsettling to hear it actually said. Does that make sense?”

  He nodded. “I think I know what you mean.”