Ed McBain_87th Precinct 48

by Nocturne

  Hand and head dipped at precisely the same moment.

  “Keep Thou my all, O Lord, hide my life in thine …

  “Oh let Thy sacred light o’er my pathway shine …”

  The central portal doors opened.

  A very fat man stepped into the narthex and looked up the aisle.

  “Kept by Thy tender care, gladly the cross I’ll bear …

  “Hear Thou and grant my prayer …”

  “Professor Eaton?’

  The fat man.

  Calling from the back of the church.

  “Hold it, hold it,” Eaton said, and turned with obvious annoyance toward where the fat man was coming down the aisle now, a lightweight trench coat open over his beer barrel belly. Under the trench coat Richard could see a plaid sports jacket, also unbuttoned, and a very loud tie. Now he was reaching into the back pocket of his trousers.

  “What is it?” Eaton asked.

  Now he was holding some kind of small leather case in his hand, a fob, whatever it was, the flap falling open as he waddled toward the altar. Sunlight caught glittering gold and enameled blue, sending shivers of reflected light into the echoing stillness of the church.

  “Detective Oliver Weeks,” he said. “There’s some hairs I need to match. You got any singing football players?”

  Georgie was expecting her at six-thirty. The arrangement was that she’d stop by at her own apartment to change clothes after work, and then come to his place for a drink before they went to dinner. That was why he’d gone downstairs to the liquor store to pick up a bottle of Canadian Club, because what she drank was Canadian Club and ginger ale, she’d informed him on the phone. He was downstairs for no more than fifteen minutes. The phone was ringing when he got back to the apartment. He put the brown paper bag with the booze in it on the pass-through between the kitchen and living room, yanked the wall phone from the hook and said, “Hello?”

  It was Tony again.

  “What time do you think you’ll be here?” he asked.

  “Sometime after dinner,” Georgie said. “But I may be a little late.”

  “Like how late?”

  “Maybe eleven, twelve o’clock.”

  “Why so late?”

  “Well.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll tell you later. I got to go, Tony. She’ll be here any minute.”

  “Bring me half of her, too,” Tony said.

  Smiling, Georgie put up the phone, and checked his watch. Six-twenty. Plenty of time to go look at the money again. It never failed to delight him, looking at all that money. Still smiling, he went into the bedroom.

  The window was open.

  The smile dropped from his face.

  The drawers had been pulled out of his dresser and his shirts and socks and sweaters and underwear were strewn all over the floor and the bed. The closet door was open, too. Jackets and suits had been ripped from their hangers and thrown everywhere.

  An open shoebox was lying on the floor.

  Two black patent-leather shoes lay on the floor beside the box.

  Both shoes were empty.

  All of fifteen minutes downstairs, he thought.

  This city.

  Carella woke up at a quarter to seven that evening. The house was very still. He put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and padded around looking for someone. Not a soul was in sight.

  “Fanny?” he called.

  No answer.

  “Dad?”

  Mark, calling from his bedroom down the hall. He was sitting up in bed, reading, when Carella walked in.

  “Hi, Dad,” he said. “Have a good sleep?”

  “Yes. How do you feel?”

  “Much better.”

  “Let’s see,” Carella said, and sat on the edge of the bed, and put the palm of his hand on Mark’s forehead.

  “Where is everybody?” he asked.

  “Fanny took April to ballet and Mom’s out shopping.”

  “Shopping or marketing?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “About five hundred dollars.”

  “How can you tell my temperature that way?” Mark asked.

  “Your forehead’s supposed to feel hot at first. If it continues feeling hot, you’ve got a fever.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “Trust me.”

  “So what’s my temperature?”

  “Ninety-eight point five. Wait,” he said, and looked at his palm. “Five and a half,” he corrected. “Either way, you’ll be ready for school tomorrow.”

  “Good. Did you like school when you were a kid?”

  “I loved it,” Carella said.

  “So do I.”

  “How’s the book?”

  “Crap.”

  “Then why are you reading it?”

  “It’s the best Mom could find at the supermarket.”

  “Speaks well for our culture.”

  He tousled Mark’s hair, kissed him on the cheek, and was heading into the living room when Fanny came through the front door.

  “Well, look who’s up and about,” she said. “Wipe your feet, April.”

  April shuffled her feet on the hall mat, put down her black tote bag with the ballet school’s name and logo on it, and sat on the hall bench to take off her boots.

  “How’s Mark?” she asked.

  “Better.”

  “Good,” she said.

  “Better get dinner started,” Fanny said, and went off into the kitchen.

  Carella watched his daughter, her head bent, as she struggled with the zipper on the left boot. Of the twins, she was the one who most resembled Teddy. The same black hair and dark brown eyes, the same beautifully expressive face. Mark favored his father, poor kid, Carella thought.

  “How was dance?” he asked.

  “Okay,” she said, shrugging. “Where’s Mom?”

  “Shopping.”

  “Did you sleep good?”

  “Well,” he said.

  “Well what?”

  “Not good,” he said.

  “That’s too bad,” she said, and suddenly looked up at him. “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The other day, when Mark was feeling so awful, you know?”

  “Yeah?”

  “And I thought he might die?”

  “He wasn’t going to die, honey.”

  “I know, but that’s what I thought.”

  “Well, don’t worry, he’s okay now.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not what I’m trying to say, Dad.”

  She seemed suddenly distraught, her brow furrowed, her eyes troubled. He sat beside her on the bench, put his arm around her, and said, “What is it, darling?”

  “When I thought he was going to die?”

  “Yes?”

  “I wished I would inherit his guitar.”

  And suddenly she was crying.

  “I didn’t want him to die,” she said.

  “I know you didn’t.”

  Tears streaming down her face.

  “But I wanted his guitar.”

  “That’s all right, honey.”

  Sobbing bitterly.

  “Am I a terrible person?”

  “No, darling, you’re a wonderful person.”

  “I love him to death, Dad.”

  “We all do.”

  “He’s my very best brother.”

  “In fact, he’s your only brother,” Carella said.

  April burst out laughing, almost choking on her own tears. He held her close, and said into her hair, “Why don’t you go say hello to him?”

  “I will,” she said, “thanks, Dad,” and rushed out of his arms and out of the room, yelling, “Mark! Wake up! I’m home!”

  The old house was still again.

  He went into the living room, and turned on the imitation Tiffany lamp, and sat in the comfortable easy chair under it, thinking about Mark’s guitar and Svetlana’s cat and t
he dead hooker with the plastic bag over her head.

  When Teddy came home some five minutes later, he watched her as she eased the door shut with her hip, and then put two shopping bags brimming with groceries on the chair near the mirror. Watched her silently in her silent world as she took off her coat and hung it in the closet, thinking that here in this violent city where he plied his daily trade …

  Here in a universe that seemed to grow darker and darker each day until every day threatened to become eternal night …

  Here there was Teddy to come home to.

  He almost called her name out loud.

  But she hadn’t yet seen him, would not have heard him in any event. He kept watching her. She turned toward the living room, seeing him at last, surprised, her eyes widening, a smile blossoming on her face.

  He rose and went to her.

  “Ed McBain is a master. He is a superior stylist, a spinner of artfully designed and sometimes macabre plots.”

  —Newsweek