by Ed McBain
"I can't believe this," she said, "it's so impossible."
"You had no idea, huh?" Brown said.
"None at all," she said, "this is a total and unimaginable surprise! Ten thousand dollars, that's a fortune*. For whatl I hardly knew the man. Are you sure this isn't a mistake?"
They assured her it was not a mistake.
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They showed her the paragraph they had copied from the will:
In appreciation of the excellent medical services provided to my beloved Labrador retriever, Amos, by the NBB Veterinary Hospital at 731 Derwood Street, Isola, I give to Dr Martin Robert Osgood the sum of Ten Thousand Dollars ($10,000.00) to further his work with animals. In similar appreciation of the excellent consultation and advice she gave to me regarding the care of the aforesaid Amos, I leave to Pauline Byerly Weed, owner of Bide-A-Wee Pets at 602 Jefferson Avenue, Isola, the sum of Ten Thousand Dollars ($10,000.00). Inasmuch as I have made prior arrangements with the Hollybrook Pet Cemetery and Crematory at 4712 Liberty Road in Pinesdale for the burial and perpetual graveside care of the aforementioned Amos, I request that my wife Margaret, should she survive me, or my daughter Lois Stein, should she survive my said wife, determine that Hollybrook Pet Cemetery and Crematory honors its contractual obligations. Of the rest, residue and remainder of my estate . . .
This is amazing," she said, "truly. I don't know what to say. I haven't seen him in ... God, it must be six, seven months since he last came in. This is incredible. Excuse me, but I can't get over it."
"What sort of 'consultation and advice' did you give him?" Carella asked. "About the dog?"
"Well, the first time he called . . . gee, this had to've been at least a year ago. Listen, are you positive this isn't a gag? I mean, all I did was sell his wife a dog."
"You do remember the dog?"
"Amos? Oh, sure, an adorable puppy. Well, you know Labs, they're the gentlest dogs on earth. I've got some back here now, come take a look."
She led them through the shop, past cages of puppies and kittens, past hanging cages of brightly colored birds and tanks of tropical fish, yet more cages with hamsters in them, endlessly paddling their wheels. There was the aroma of feathers and fur and an almost indiscernible aroma of what
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might have been cat piss disguised by litter. The Labrador retriever pups were in a cage at the back of the shop, two of them, looking up expectantly and . . . well, yes, cheerfully at Pauline as she approached them.
"Hello, babies," she said, "here're two people who brought me some very good news today."
She poked her forefinger between the strands of the cage and waggled it at the dogs, scratching first one puppy's head and then the other's, and then allowing them to nip and lick at her finger. The puppies were still frisking around the cage as she led the detectives back to the front of the shop again, explaining that she didn't like to stray too far from the cash register when she was alone in the shop . . . well, she guessed they knew what this city was like.
"So this first time he called ..." Carella prompted.
"It was about a flea collar, actually. He wanted to know how old the dog should be before he put a flea collar on him. He'd named the dog by then, on the phone he kept calling him Amos, a cute name actually ..."
Brown frowned.
"... Amos this and Amos that, and I told him if he planned to take the dog out to the beach - they had a house at the beach, Mr and Mrs Schumacher - or any place where there'd be plant life and ergo fleas or ticks - then he ought to put a collar on him right away, the dog was already three months old. So he came in sometime that week, and I sold him a collar specifically designed for puppies, there are different strengths, you know, this was a Zodiac puppy collar. I still can't get over this, forgive me," she said, shaking her head. "Just telling you about it -1 mean, I hardly knew the man."
"And you say he came in every so often . . ."
"Yes, oh, once a month, once every six weeks, something like that. He'd be passing by ... there are wonderful shops in the neighborhood, you know . . . and he'd stop in and buy a little something for Amos, a rawhide bone, or some kind of toy, we're always getting new shipments of toys, and we'd talk
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about the dog, he'd tell me stories about the dog, how Amos did this, how Amos did that..."
"In his will, he says you gave him consultation and advice ..."
"Well, hardly consultation. But advice, yes, I guess so. I mean, well, yeah, I'd give him little tips I'd picked up, things to make a dog happy, well, any animal. Animals are like people, you know. They're all individuals, you have to treat them all differently. He'd bring Amos in every now and then, I'd look him over, tell him what a good dog he was, like that. I remember once . . . well, I really shouldn't take any credit for this because I'm sure the vet would've discovered it anyway the next time Mr Schumacher took him in. But I was patting Amos on the head, and he had his tongue hanging out, panting, you know, and looking up at me, and I don't know what made me look in his mouth, I guess I wanted to see how his teeth looked, you can tell a lot about a dog's health by looking at his teeth and his gums. And I saw - I didn't know what it was at first - this sort of ridge across the roof of his mouth, like a narrow ridge on his palette. And I reached in there and it was . . . you won't believe this . . . he'd bitten down on a twig, and it had got wedged in there across his mouth, running from one side of his mouth to the other, where his teeth had bitten it off, wedged up there on the roof of his mouth with his teeth holding it in place on either side. And I yanked that out of there . . . Jesus He didn't even bleed. The thing just came free in my hand and that dog looked as if he was going to get up on his hind legs and kiss me! Can you imagine the pain that must've been causing him? Wedged up there like that? Like a toothache day and night, can you imagine? That poor dog. But, you know . . . that wasn't worth ten thousand dollars. I mean, nothing I did was worth ten thousand dollars."
"Apparently Mr Schumacher thought so," Carella said.
"But you didn't know you were in the will, is that right?" Brown asked.
"Oh my God, no Wait'll I tell my mother! She'll die."
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"He never mentioned it to you."
"Never."
"Not any of the times he stopped by ..."
"Never."
"When did you say the last time was?" Brown asked.
"That he came in? January? February? At least that long ago. I really can't believe this!"
"How about his wife? Did she ever come into the shop?"
"Not after she bought the dog, no."
"You never talked to her after that?"
"Never."
"Or saw her?"
"Never. Look at me, I'm shaking. I am positively shocked!"
Brown was wondering how come he didn't know any people who might want to leave him ten thousand smackers.
Arthur Schumacher had really loved that dog.
He could not have known they would die together in the same angry fusillade, but nonetheless he had made provision in his will for "the burial and perpetual graveside care of the aforementioned Amos," in addition to the ten grand each he'd left to Dr Martin Osgood and Miss Pauline Weed for remembered little courtesies and services.
Of the rest, residue, and remainder of his estate, of whatsoever nature and wheresoever situated, he had given, devised, and bequeathed fifty percent to his wife, Margaret Schumacher, twenty-five percent to his daughter Lois Stein, and twenty-five percent to his daughter Betsy Schumacher. The detectives still didn't know the total worth of the estate, but according to Gloria Sanders, his embittered grass widow, it came to a considerable sum of money.
There was no mention of Susan Brauer in the will.
But in addition to the safe-deposit box Schumacher had kept at Union Savings downtown near his office, there was also a checking account in his name. A perusal of his statements - after obtaining a court order granting the privilege -revealed that he had, in fact, been taking five th
ousand dollars
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in cash from this account at the beginning of every month, and there now seemed little doubt that this money found its way into Susan's personal checking account. Unaccounted for, however, was the twelve thousand dollars they'd found in her closet cash box. Had Schumacher been giving her additional money? If so, where had it come from?
Maybe he was stealing it, Teddy signed.
Carella looked at her, wondering how such a generous and lovely person could come up with thoughts that attributed such devious machinations to human beings.
From his firm, she signed. Or from his wife's account, if she had one.
"I don't think he was stealing," Carella said, talking and signing at the same time.
But where had the money come from?
"Maybe he had some other bank accounts," he said. "He was keeping this one from his wife, so why not some others? I mean, the guy wasn't exactly what you'd call trustworthy, was he? Divorced Gloria to marry one blonde and then started carrying on with yet another one. So maybe he kept secret bank acounts as a life-style. In preparation, you know?"
Teddy watched his hands as if she were watching a television mini-series, his words conjuring banks all over town, tall granite pillars and brass tellers' cages, long black limousines and beautiful blonde women, champagne chilling in silver buckets, clandestine passion on red silk sheets.
But he was kind to his dog, she signed, her hands somehow managing to convey the dryness of her words.
"Oh yes," Carella said. "And the vet who took care of the dog, and the woman who'd sold Margaret the dog. Ten thousand each, can you imagine? Margaret," he said, seeing her puzzlement, and signing the name letter by letter. "The first blonde. Susan was the second one. Susan. S-U-S-A-N."
Maybe I should open a pet shop, Teddy signed. Or become a vet.
"Good idea, we can use the money. She was pretty fore-sighted, wasn't she? Gloria, I mean, the first wife. The
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bleached blonde, Gloria. G-L-O-R-I-A. Getting it put in their settlement agreement, I mean. That he'd leave the daughters fifty percent of the estate? Lots of guys remarry, they forget they ever had kids. Speaking of which . . . Mark!" he yelled. "April! Five minutes."
"Aw, shit!" Mark yelled from down the hall.
"We still can't find the hippie daughter," Carella said. "Remember I was telling you . . .?"
Teddy nodded.
"She disappeared," Carella said. "Let me go tuck them in, I'll be right back. There's something else I have to tell you."
She looked up at him.
"When they're alseep."
She frowned, puzzled.
He mouthed the word Tommy.
Teddy sighed.
The twins were in the bathroom brushing their teeth. Eleven years old already, my how the time flew by.
"Mark said shit," April said.
"I heard him."
"You're supposed to fine him."
"I will. That's ten cents, Mark."
"Did Mom hear it?"
"No."
"Then it's only a nickel."
"Who says?"
"If only one of you hears it, it's half the price."
"He's making that up, Dad."
"I know he is. Ten cents, Mark."
"Shit," Mark said, and spat into the sink.
"That's twenty," Carella said. "Go kiss your mother, then bedtime."
"Why don't you ever curse?" Mark asked his sister as they went out of the bathroom.
"I do," she said. "I know even dirtier words than you."
"So how come I never hear you saying them?"
"I say them in the dark."
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r
"That's ridiculous," Mark said.
"Maybe, but it doesn't cost me any money."
He could hear them in the living room, saying goodnight to Teddy. He waited in the hallway, very tired all at once, remembering his father all at once. When he and Angela were small, his father used to read them to sleep every night. He sometimes thought his father got a bigger kick out of the bedtime stories than either of the kids did. Now there was only television.
"See you in the morning!" April called. A ritual with her. Saying it would make it true. She would see them in the morning if only she said it each night. He took them to their rooms, separate rooms now, they were getting older, separate prayers. He tucked Mark in first.
"I like swearing," Mark said.
"Okay, so pay for it."
"It isn't fair."
"Nothing is."
"Grandpa said to always be fair."
"He was right. You should."
"Do you miss him?"
"Yes. Very much."
"I do, too."
Carella kissed him on the forehead.
"Goodnight, son," he said.
"G'night, Dad,"
"I love you."
"Love you too."
He went into the room next door and listened to April's prayers and at last said, "Goodnight, angel, sleep well."
"See you in the morning," she said.
"See you in the morning."
"I don't really, you know," she said. "Curse in the dark."
"Much better to light a single candle," Carella said, and smiled.
"Huh?" she said.
"I love you," he said, and kissed her on the forehead.
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"I love you, too. See you in the morning," she said.
"See you in the morning," he said.
Teddy was waiting in the living room. Sitting under the Tiffany-style lamp, reading. She put down the book the moment he came in. Her hands signed Tell me.
He told her about following Tommy the night before. Told her he'd seen Tommy getting into a red Honda Accord driven by a woman.
"I don't know what to tell Angela," he said.
Just be sure, Teddy signed.
Their informant told them he'd seen these two dudes from Washington, DC, one of them named Sonny and the other named Dick, in an abandoned building off Ritter. There was a girl with them, but he didn't know the name of the girl at all; she wasn't from Washington, she was from right here in this city. All three of them were crackheads.
This was the information Wade and Bent had.
They had got it at a little after nine o'clock that night from a man who himself was a crackhead and who had volunteered the information because they had him on a week-old pharmacy break-in. He said word was out they was looking for a dude named Sonny and that's who he'd seen earlier tonight, Sonny and this other dude and a girl couldn't be older than sixteen, he was being cooperative, wasn't he? They told him he was being real cooperative, and then they clapped him in a holding cell downstairs to wait for the ten o'clock van pickup.
The building was around the corner from Ritter Avenue, on a street that had once been lined with elegant apartment buildings, most of them occupied by Jews who'd moved up here a generation after their parents made the long journey from Poland and Russia to settle in the side streets of Lower Isola. The Jews had long since left this section of Riverhead. The area became Puerto Rican until they, too, left because landlords found it cheaper to abandon rent-controlled buildings than to maintain them. Ritter Avenue and its surrounding side streets now looked the way London or Tokyo or Berlin
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had looked after World War II - but America had never suffered any bombing raids. What had once been a thriving commercial and residential community was now as barren as a moonscape. Here there was only an unsteady mix of rubble and buildings about to fall into rubble. Here there was no pretense of rescue, no fancy plastic flowerpot decals promising later reconstruction; the jungle had already reclaimed what had once been a rich and vibrant community.
Sonny and Dick and the sixteen-year-old girl were presumably holed up at 3341 Sloane, the only building still standing in a field of jagged brick and concrete, strewn mattresses and rubbish, roaming dogs and skittering rats. Clouds scudded across a thin-mooned sky as the detecti
ves got out of their car and looked up at the building. Something flickered in one of the gutted windows.
Third floor up.
Wade gestured.
Bent nodded.
They both figured it was a candle flickering up there. Too hot for a fire unless they were cooking food. Probably just sitting around a candle, smoking dope. Sonny and Dick and the sixteen-year-old girl. Sonny who had been carrying a gun on the night Anthony Carella got killed. Sonny who was maybe still carrying that same gun unless he'd sold it to buy more crack.
Neither Wade nor Bent said a word. Both of them drew their guns and entered the building. The shots came as they rounded the second-floor landing. Four shots in a row, cracking on the night air, sundering the silence, sending the cops flying off in either direction, one to the right, one to the left of the staircase, throwing themselves out of the line of fire. Someone was standing at the top of the stairs. A cloud passed, uncovering a remnant moon, revealing a man in silhouette on the roofless floor above, huge against the sky, gun in hand, but only for an instant. The figure ducked away. There was noise up there, some frantic scrambling around, a girl's nervous giggle, a hushed whisper, and then rapid footfalls on
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the night - but no one coming down this way. Wade stepped out. Bent covered him, firing three shots in rapid succession up the stairwell. Both men pounded up the steps, guns fanning the air ahead of them. The apartment to the right of the stairwell was vacant save for a handful of empty crack vials and a guttering votive candle in a red glass holder. It took the detectives only a moment to realize where everyone had gone; there was a fire escape at the rear of the building.
But there were spent cartridge cases at the top of the staircase, and they now had something they could compare with what they'd found on the floor of the A & L Bakery on the night Anthony Carella was killed.
Friday could not make up its mind. It had been threatening rain since early morning, the sky a dishwater gray that changed occasionally to a pale mustard yellow that promised sunshine and then dissipated again into the drabs. At six that evening, the heat and humidity were still with the suffering populace, but nothing else was constant. There was not the slightest breeze to indicate an oncoming storm, and yet the sky seemed roiling with the promise of rain.
