Tricks

by Ed McBain

"Halloween ain't what it used to be," Monroe said.

  "You just got yourself another backup," Kling said.

  "No," Eileen said.

  "What do you mean no? You're going into one of the worst sections in the city hellip;"

  "Without you," she said.

  " hellip; looking for a guy who's already killed hellip;"

  "Withoutyou , Bert."

  "Why?"

  They were in an Italian restaurant near the Calm's Point Bridge. It was twenty minutes past six; Eileen had to be at the Seven-Two in forty minutes. She figured five minutes over the bridge, another five to the precinct, plenty of time to eat without hurrying. She probably shouldn't be eating, anyway. In the past, she'd found that going out hungry gave her a fighter's edge. Plenty of time to eatafter you caught the guy. Have two martinis after you caught him, down a sirloin and a platter of fries. After you caught him. If you caught him. Sometimes you didn't catch him. Sometimes he caught you.

  She was carrying her hooker threads and her hardware in a tote bag sitting on the floor to the left of her chair. Kling was sitting opposite her, hands clasped on the tabletop, leaning somewhat forward now, blond hair falling onto his forehead, intent look in his eyes, wanting to know why she didn't need a tagalong boyfriend tonight.

  "Why do you think?" she asked.

  The chef had overcooked the spaghetti. They'd specifiedal dente but this was the kind of dive where the help thought Al Dente was some guy with Mafia connections.

  "I think you're crazy is what I think."

  "Thanks."

  "Damn it, if I can throw some extra weight your way hellip;"

  "I don't want you throwing anything my way. I've got a guy who's twice your size and a woman who can shoot her way out of a revolution. That's all I need. Plus myself."

  "Eileen, I won't get in your way. I'll just hellip;"

  "No."

  "I'll just be there if you need me."

  "You really don't understand, do you?"

  "No, I don't."

  "You're not just another cop, Bert."

  "I know that."

  "You're my hellip;"

  She debated saying "boyfriend" but that sounded like a teenager's steady. She debated saying "lover" but that sounded like a dowager's kept stud. She debated saying "roommate" but that sounded like you lived with either another woman or a eunuch. Anyway, they weren't actually living together, not in the same apartment. She settled for what had once been a psychologist's term, but which had now entered the jargon as a euphemism for the guy or girl with whom you shared an unmarried state.

  "You're my S.O.," she said.

  "Your what?"

  "Significant Other."

  "I should hope so," Kling said. "Which is why I want to hellip;"

  "Listen, are you dense?" she asked. "I'm a cop going out on a job. What the hell's the matter with you?"

  "Eileen, I hellip;"

  "Yes,what? Don't you think I can cut it?"

  She had chosen an unfortunate word.

  Cut.

  She saw the look on his face.

  "That's just what I mean," she said.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm not going to get cut again," she said, "don't worry about it."

  He looked at her.

  "This time I shoot to kill," she said.

  He took a deep breath.

  "This spaghetti tastes like a sponge," she said.

  "What time are you due there?"

  "Seven."

  He looked up at the clock.

  "Where are they planting you?"

  "A bar called Larry's. On Fairview and East Fourth."

  "This guy Shanahan, is he any good?"

  "I hope so," she said, and shoved her plate aside. "Could we get some coffee, do you think? And how come you're chalking off Annie?"

  "I'm not hellip;"

  "I'd trade a hundred Shanahans for Annie."

  "Calm down, Eileen."

  "I'm calm," she said icily. "I just don't like your fucking attitude. You want to hand wrestle me? Prove you can go out there tonight and do the job better than I can?"

  "Nobody said hellip;"

  "I can do the job," she said.

  He looked into her eyes.

  "I can do it," she said.

  He didn't want to leave the parts where they'd be found too easily, and yet at the same time he didn't want to hide them so well that they wouldn't be discovered for weeks. This was tricky business here. Putting the pieces of the jigsaw in different places, making sure he wasn't spotted while he was distributing the evidence of bloody murder.

  He'd dropped the first one behind a restaurant on Culver, near Sixth, figuring they'd be putting out more garbage when they closed tonight, hoping they'd discover the upper torso then and immediately call the police. He didn't want to scatter the various parts in locations too distant from each other because he wanted this to remain a strictly local matter, one neighborhood, one precinct,this precinct. At the same time, he couldn't risk someone finding any one of the parts so quickly that there'd be police crawling all over the neighborhood and making his job more difficult.

  He wanted them to put it all together in the next little while.

  Two, three days at the most, depending on how long it took them to find the parts and make identification.

  By then, he'd be far, far away.

  He cruised the streets now, driving slowly, looking for prospects.

  The other parts of the body mdash;the head, the hands, the arms, the lower torso mdash;were lying on a tarpaulin in the trunk.

  More damn kids in the streets tonight.

  Right now, only the little ones were out. In an hour or so, you'd get your teenyboppers looking for trouble, and later tonight you'd get your older teenagers, the onesreally hoping to do damage. Kick over a garbage can, find a guy's arm in it. How does that grab you, boys?

  He smiled.

  Police cars up ahead, outside a liquor store.

  Bald guy coming out to the curb, studying the sidewalk and then the street.

  Trouble.

  But nothis trouble.

  He cruised on by.

  Headed up to the Stem, made a right turn, scanning the storefronts. Kids swarming all over the avenue, trick or treat, trick or treat. Chinese restaurant there on the right. All-night supermarket on the corner. Perfect if there was a side alley. One-way side street, he'd have to drive past, make a right at the next corner, and then another right onto Culver, come at it from there. Stopped for the red light at the next corner, didn't want some eager patrolman pulling him over for a bullshit violation. Made the right turn. Another light on Culver. Waited for that one to change. Turned onto Culver, drove up one block, made another right onto the one-way street. Drove up it slowly. Good! An alley between the corner supermarket and the apartment house alongside it. He drove on by, went through the whole approach a second time. Guy in an apron standing at the mouth of the alley, lighting a cigarette. Drove by again. And again. And again and again until the alley and the sidewalk were clear. He made a left turn into the alley. Cut the ignition, yanked out the keys. Came around the car. Unlocked the trunk. Yanked out one of the arms. Eased the trunk shut. Walked swiftly to the nearest garbage can. Lifted the lid. Dropped the arm in it. Left the lid slightly askew on top of the can. Got back in the car again, started it, and backed slowly out of the alley and into the street.

  Two down, he thought.

  CHAPTER 3

  The police stations in this city all looked alike. Even the newer ones began looking like the older ones after a while. A pair of green globes flanking the entrance steps, a patrolman standing on duty outside in case anybody decided to go in with a bomb. White numerals lettered onto each of the globes: 72. Only the numbers changed. Everything else was the same. Eileen could have been across the river and uptown in the Eight-Seven.

  Scarred wooden entrance doors, glass-paneled in the upper halves. Just inside the doors was the muster room. High desk on the right, l
ooked like a judge's bench, waist-high brass railing some two feet in front of it, running the length of it. Sergeant sitting behind it. On the wall behind him, photographs of the mayor and the police commissioner and a poster printed with the Miranda-Escobedo warnings in English and in Spanish. Big American flag on the wall opposite the desk. Wanted posters on the bulletin board under it. She flashed her shield at the sergeant, who merely nodded, and then she headed for the iron-runged steps at the far end of the room.

  Rack with charging walkie-talkies on the wall there, each unit stenciled PROPERTY OF 72ND PRECINCT. Staircase leading down to the holding cells in the basement, and up to the Detective Division on the second floor, hand-lettered sign indicating the way. She climbed the steps, apple green walls on either side of her, paint flaking and hand-smudged. She was wearing sensible, low-heeled walking shoes, a cardigan sweater over a white cotton blouse and a brown woolen skirt. The hooker gear was still in the tote bag, together with her hardware.

  Down the corridor past the Interrogation Room, and the Clerical Office, and the men's and women's toilets, and the locker rooms, through a wide doorway, and then to the slatted wooden rail divider with green metal filing cabinets backed up against it on the inside. Stopped at the gate in the railing. Flashed the potsy again at the guy sitting behind the closest desk.

  "Eileen Burke," she said. "I'm looking for Shanahan."

  "You found him," Shanahan said, and got to his feet and came around the desk, hand extended. He was not as big as Annie had described him, five-eleven or so, maybe a hundred and seventy pounds, a hundred and eighty. Eileen wished he were bigger. Black hair and blue eyes, toothy grin, what Eileen's father used to call a black Irishman. "Mike," he said, and took her hand in a firm grip. "Glad to have you with us. Come on in, you want some coffee?"

  "Sounds good," she said, and followed him through the gate in the railing and over to his desk. "Light with one sugar."

  "Coming right up," he said, and went to where a Silex pot of water was sitting on a hot plate. "We only got instant," he said, "and that powdered creamer stuff, but the sugar's real."

  "Good enough," she said.

  He spooned instant coffee and creamer into a cup, poured hot water over it, spooned sugar into it with the same white plastic spoon, stirred it, and then carried the cup back to his desk. She was still standing.

  "Sit down, sit down," he said. "I'll buzz Lou, tell him you're here."

  He looked up at the clock.

  Ten minutes to seven.

  "I thought you and Annie might be coming over together," he said, and picked up the phone receiver. "Good lady, Annie, I used to work with her in Robbery." He stabbed at a button on the base of the phone, waited, and then said, "Lou? Eileen Burke's here, you want to come on back?" He listened. "No, not yet." He looked at the clock again. "Uh-huh," he said. "Okay, fine." He put the receiver back on the cradle. "He'll be right here," he said to Eileen. "He's down the hall in Clerical, thought you might want to look over the reports on the case. We been working it together, Lou and me, not that we're getting such hot results. Which is why Homicide's on our backs, huh?"

  She registered this last silently. She did not want a backup harboring a grudge over Homicide's interference. Some cops treated a tough case as if it were a sick child. Nurse it along, take its temperature every ten minutes, change the sheets, serve the hot chicken soup. Anybody else went near it, watch out. She hoped that wasn't the situation here. She wished the Seven-Two hadasked for assistance, instead of having it dumped on them.

  "How's the coffee?" Shanahan asked.

  She hadn't touched it. She lifted the cup now. Squadroom coffee cups all looked alike. Dirty. In some squadrooms, the detectives had their initials painted on the cups, so they could tell one dirty cup from another. She sipped at the coffee. The imprint of her lipstick appeared on the cup's rim. It would probably still be there a month from now.

  "Okay?" he said.

  "Yes, fine," she said.

  "Ah, here's Lou," he said, looking past her shoulder toward the railing. She turned in the chair just in time to see a slight, olive-complexioned man coming through the gate. Small mustache under his nose. Thick manila file folder in his right hand. Five-nine, she estimated. Moved like a bullfighter, narrow shoulders and waist, delicate hands. But you could never tell. Hal Willis at the Eight-Seven was only five-eight and he could throw any cheap thief on his ass in three seconds flat.

  "Burke?" he said. "Nice to see you." No trace of an accent. Second- or third-generation American, she guessed. He extended his hand. Light, quick grip, almost instant release. No smile on his face. "Lou Alvarez," he said. "Glad to have you with us, we can use the help."

  Party manners? Or a genuine welcome? She wished she knew. It would be her ass on the line out there tonight.

  "I've got the file here," he said, "you might want to take a look at it while we're waiting for Rawles." He looked up at the clock. Still only five minutes to Seven, but he nodded sourly. Was this an indication that he thought all women were habitually late? Eileen took the manila folder from him.

  "You can skip over the pictures," he said.

  "Why?"

  Alvarez shrugged.

  "Suit yourself," he said.

  She was looking at the photographs when Annie walked in.

  "Hi," Annie said, and glanced up at the clock.

  Seven sharp.

  "Hello, Mike," she said, "how's The Chameleon these days?"

  "Comme-çi, comme-ça," Shanahan said, and shook her hand.

  "We used to call him The Chameleon," she explained to Eileen, and then said, "Annie Rawles," and offered her hand to Alvarez.

  "Lou Alvarez."

  He took her hand. He seemed uncomfortable shaking hands with women. Eileen was suddenly glad it would be Shanahan out there with her tonight.

  "Why The Chameleon?" she asked.

  "Man of a thousand faces," Annie said, and looked at the photograph in Eileen's hand. "Nice," she said, and grimaced.

  "Never mind the pictures," Alvarez said, "the pictures can't talk. We got statements in there from a couple of girls working the Zone, they give us a pretty good idea who we're looking for. Homicide's been pressuring us on this from minute one. That's 'cause the mayor made a big deal in the papers about cleaning up the Zone. So Homicide dumps it on us. You help us close this one out," he said to Eileen, "I'll personally give you a medal. Cast it in bronze all by myself."

  "I was hoping for gold," Eileen said.

  "You'd better take a look at those other pictures," Shanahan said.

  "She don't have to look at them," Alvarez said.

  "Which ones?" Eileen asked.

  "You trying to spook her?"

  "I'm trying to prepare her."

  "She don't have to look at the pictures," Alvarez said.