by Ed McBain
The weather on Tuesday, the seventeenth of July, is swel-teringly hot, the three horsemen of haze, heat, and humidity riding roughshod over a city already trampled into submission. She is going there only to talk to her. She has called first to say she is holding some lingerie here for delivery, would it be all right if one of the girls stopped by with it later this afternoon? He had to have gifted her with sexy lingerie in the past, no? The whole garter-belt-and-panties routine? The bra with the cutout nipple holes? Oh sure.
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Little Suzie says, "Ob, yes, please, just leave it with the doorman, please."
Little Minnie Mouse voice. First time she's ever heard the voice.
"The gentleman asked us to make sure you got it personally," she says into the phone. "The gentleman insisted that you sign for delivery."
"What gentleman?" Little Suzie asks in her little Minnie Mouse voice. "May I have his name, please?"
"Arthur Schumacher," she says.
"Oh well then all right," Suzie says in the same rushed, breathless voice, "can you send it by at the end of the day?"
"What time would be most convenient for you, Miss?"
"I just said the end of the day, didn't I? The end of the day is five o'clockl"
Q: How'd you feel about that? The way she answered you?
A: I thought what a little bitch she was.
Q: Yes, but did her response have anything to do with what
happened later? The impatience of her response? A: No, I just thought what a bitch she was, but I was still
planning to go up there only to talk to her. Q: All right, what happened next? A: There was a doorman to contend with, but I knew there'd
be a doorman. I was wearing . . .
She is wearing a beige silk scarf to hide her blonde hair, dark glasses to hide the color of her eyes, dressed entirely in the same indeterminate beige, a color - or lack of color - she hates and rarely wears. She is wearing it today only because it matches the color of the store's shopping bag. She wants to pass for someone delivering from the store. Beige polyester slacks and a beige cotton blouse, gold leather belt, the temperature hovering in the high eighties, approaching the doorman in his gray uniform with its red trim, carrying in her right hand the big beige shopping bag with its gold lettering. She has spoken to this doorman before, he is the short, fat one with the accent. She tells him now . . .
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Q: When was that?
A: I'm sorry?
Q: That you'd spoken to him?
A: Oh. When I was still trying to find out her name. But he can barely speak English, so I finally gave up on him. He was the one on duty that day. I stated my business . . .
"Miss Brauer, please."
"You are who, please?"
Looking her up and down, she hates when they do that.
"Just tell her Victoria's Secret is here," she says.
"Moment," he says, and buzzes the apartment upstairs.
"Yes?"
Her voice on the intercom.
"Lady?" he says.
"Yes, Ahmad?"
"Vittoria Seegah here," he says.
"Yes, send it right up, please."
Bingo.
Still wanting only to talk to her.
But, of course, there is no talking to some people.
Little Suzie is annoyed that she's been tricked. Two black leather sofas in the living room, one on the long wall opposite the door that led into it, the other on the shorter window wall at the far end of the room. Glass-topped coffee table in front of the closest sofa, martini glass sitting on it, lemon twist floating, the little lady has been drinking. She stands before the sofa, all annoyed and utterly beautiful, all blonde and blue-eyed in a black silk kimono that has itself probably come from Victoria's Secret, patterned with red poppies, naked beneath it judging from the angry pucker of her nipples.
"You had no right coming here," she says.
"I only want to talk to you."
"I'm going to call him right this minute, tell him you're here."
"Go ahead, call him."
"I will," she says.
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"It'll take him at least half an hour to get here. By then, we'll be finished."
"By then you'll be finished."
"I really would like to talk to you. Can't we please talk?"
"No."
"Please. Please, Susan."
Perhaps it is the note of entreaty in her voice. Whatever it is, it stops Little Suzie cold on her way to the phone and brings her back to the coffee table, where she picks up her martini glass and drains it. She goes back to the bar then, bare feet padding on the thick pile rug, and - charming hostess that she is - pours herself and only herself another drink. There is a whole lemon sitting on the bartop, so yellow. There is a walnut-handled bottle opener. There is a paring knife with a matching walnut handle. Late-afternoon sunlight streams through the sheer white drapes behind the black leather sofa on the far wall. Little Suzie Doll walks back to the coffee table, stands posed and pretty beside it, barefoot and petulant, the kimono loosely belted at her waist. There is a hint of blonde pubic hair.
"What is it you want?" she asks.
"I want you to stop seeing him."
"No."
"Hear me out."
"No."
"Listen to me, Suzie ..."
"Don't call me Suzie. No one calls me Suzie."
"Do you want me to tell him?"
"Tell him what?"
"I think you know what."
"No, I don't. And, anyway, I don't care. I'd bke you to go now."
"You want me to tell him, right?"
"I want you to get out of here," Suzie says, and turns to put the martini glass on the table behind her, as if in dismissal -end of the party, sister, no more cocktails, even though I haven't yet offered you a drink.
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"Okay, fine, I'll tell him what's been going on between you and. . ."
"So tell him," Suzie says, and turns again to face her, grinning now, hands on her hips, legs widespread, pubic patch blatantly defiant. "He won't believe you," she says, and the grin widens, mocking her.
Which is only the truth. He will not believe her, that is the plain truth. He will think this is something she's invented. A lie to break them apart. And facing the truth, feeling helpless in the cruel and bitter glare of the truth, she becomes suddenly furious. She does not know what she says in the very next instant, perhaps she says nothing at all, or perhaps she says something so softly that it isn't even heard. She knows only that the paring knife is suddenly in her hand.
Q: Did you stab and kill Susan Brauer?
A: Yes.
Q: How many times did you stab her?
A: I don't remember.
Q: Do you know there were thirty-two stab and slash wounds?
A: Good.
Q: Miss Weed . . .
A: My clothes were covered with blood. I took a raincoat from her closet and put it on. So the doorman wouldn't see all that blood when I was going out.
Q: Miss Weed, did you also kill Arthur Schumacher?
A: Yes. I shouldn't have, it was a dumb move. I wasn't thinking properly.
Q: How do you mean?
A: Well, she was gone, you see. I had him all to myself again.
Q: I see.
A: But, of course, I didn't, did I?
Q: Didn't what, Miss Weed?
A: Didn't have him all to myself again. Not really. Because he was the one who'd ended it, you see, not me. And if he'd found somebody else so quickly, well, he'd jast find somebody else again, it was as simple as that, wasn't it? He was finished with me, he'd never come back to me, it was as simple as that. He'd find himself another little cutie, maybe
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even younger this time - he'd once asked me to set up something with Hannah from the shop, can you believe it? She was fifteen at the time, he asked me to set up a three-way with her. So I. . .1 guess I realized I'd lost him forever. And that was when I began getti
ng angry all over again. About what he'd done. About leaving me like that and then starting up with her. About using me. I don't like to be used. It infuriates me to be used. So I... he'd given me this gun as a gift. I went up there and waited outside . . . Q: Up where, Miss Weed?
Nellie's voice almost hushed. Wanting to pin down the address for later, for when this thing came to trial. Getting all her ducks in a row in this day and age when even videotaped confessions sometimes didn't mean a thing to a jury.
A: His apartment. On Selby Place.
Q: When was this, can you remember?
A: Yes, it was the twentieth. A Friday night.
Q: And you say you went there and waited outside his
building . . . A: Yes, and shot him.
Q: How many times did you shoot him? Do you remember? A: Four.
Q: Did you also shoot the dog? A: Yes. I was sorry about that. But the dog was a gift from
her, you see. Q: From . . .? A: Margaret. His wife. I knew all about Margaret, of course,
Margaret was no secret, we talked about Margaret all the
time.
Q: Did you kill her, too? A: Yes. Q: Why? A: All of them. Q: I'm sorry,-what. . .?
A: Any woman he'd ever had anything to do with. Q: Are you saying . . .? A: All of them, yes. Did you see his will? The insult of it!
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Q: No, I haven't seen it. Tell me what. . .
A: Well, you should take a look at it. I was never so insulted in my life! Ten thousand dollars! Is that a slap in the face, or what is it? After all we meant to each other, after all we did together? He left the same amount to his fucking veterinarian! Jesus, that was infuriating] What did he leave the other ones, that was the question? How much did he leave his beloved Margaret, or his first wife, who by the way used to go with him to bars to pick up hookers, he told me they'd once had three of them in the apartment at the same time, three black hookers, this was when his precious daughters were away at camp one summer. Or how about them"} The Goody-Two-Shoes dentist's wife and the stupid hippie he gave that house in Vermont to? How much did he leave them in his will? Oh, Jesus, I was furious! Did he take me for a fool? I'm no fool, you know. I showed him.
Q: How did you show him?
A: I went after all of them. I wanted to get all of them. To show him.
Q: When you say 'all of them . . .'
A: All of them. Margaret and the first wife and the two darling daughters, all of them, what do you think all of them means? His womenl His fucking women]
Q: Did you, in fact, kill Gloria Sanders?
A: Yes, I did. I said so, didn't I?
Q: No, not until this . . .
A: Well, I did. Yes. And I'm not sorry, either. Not for her, not for any of them. Unless . . . well, I suppose maybe . . .
Q: Yes?
A: No, never mind.
Q: Please tell me.
A: I guess I'm sorry about. . . about hurting ...
Q: Yes?
A: Hurting Arthur.
Q: Why is that?
A: He was such a wonderful person.
A knock sounded on the door. "Busy in here!" Byrnes shouted. "Excuse me, sir, but. . ."
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"I said we're busy in here!"
The door opened cautiously. Miscolo from the Clerical Office poked his head into the room.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said, "but this is urgent."
"What is it?" Byrnes snapped.
"It's for you, Steve," Miscolo said. "Detective Wade from the Four-Five."
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The cars nosed through the night like surfaced submarines, two big sedans with five detectives in each of them. The detectives were all wearing bulletproof vests. Carella was riding in the lead car, with Wade and Bent and two cops they'd introduced as Tonto and the Lone Ranger. Tonto didn't look the slightest bit Indian. Carella had suited up with the others at the Four-Five, and was sitting on the backseat between Wade and Bent. They were all big men. Wearing the vests made them even bigger. The car felt crowded.
"The one done the shooting is named Sonny Cole," Wade said. "He's packing a nine-millimeter for sure, and from the way the girl described it, it's probably the Uzi we're looking for."
"Okay," Carella said, and nodded. Sonny Cole, he thought. Who killed my father.
"The other one's named Diz Whittaker. I think his square handle is Desmond, we're running computer checks on both of them right this minute. From what she told us, Diz is the brains of the operation."
"Some brains," Bent said sourly.
"Anyway, he's the one planned the holdup in your father's shop and also another one last Thursday night, when we almost got them."
"A liquor store," Bent said. "This is how they keep themselves in dope, they do these shitty little holdups."
Wade looked at him sharply.
Carella was thinking A shitty little holdup. My father got killed for twelve hundred dollars. He was thinking he was going to enjoy meeting these two punks. He was going to enjoy it a lot.
"Girl's been living with them a coupla weeks now, they picked her up on Cemetery Row one night, she's a hooker," Wade said.
"A junkie, too," Bent said.
"An all-around straight arrow," Wade said.
"The house is on Talley Road, in the Four-Six, mostly black and Hispanic, they're renting a room on the second floor. Two-family house, wide open, bulldozed lots on either side of it, getting ready for another project."
"Means they can see us coming a mile away."
"Yeah, well, that's life," Bent said.
The house was a two-story clapboard building with an asphalt shingle roof. Empty sandlots on either side of it, looked like somebody had built it in the middle of a desert. New low-cost housing project just up the street, not a block away, looking as though it had already been taken over by a marauding army, graffiti all over the brick walls, benches torn up, windows broken.
There were eight detectives waiting across the street under the trees, all of them from the Four-Six, all of them wearing bulletproof vests. This was a big one; a cop's father had been shot. A slender moon hung over the trees, casting a silvery glow on the scraggly lawn in front of the house. Night insects were singing. It was almost midnight. There was not a police vehicle in sight yet. They were all up the street in the project's parking lot, out of sight and just a radio call away; nobody wanted to spook the perps. The two cars from the Four-Five dropped eight of the ten detectives into the silent dark and moved off into the night. Under the trees, the sixteen detectives huddled, whispering like summer insects, planning their strategy.
"I want the door," Carella said.
"No," Wade said.
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"He was my ..."
"The door's mine."
None of the other cops argued with him. What they were discussing here was something called taking the door, and that meant they were discussing sudden death. Taking the door was the most dangerous thirty seconds in any policeman's life. Whoever was the point of the attacking wedge could be next in line for a halo and a harp because you never knew what was inside any apartment, and with today's weaponry bullets could come flying through even a metal-clad door. In this case, they knew what was inside that house across the street. What was in there was a killer with a nine-millimeter semi-automatic weapon. Nobody in his right mind wanted to take that door. Except Carella. And Wade.
"We'll take it together," Carella said.
"Can't but one man kick in a door," Wade said, and grinned in the moonlight. "It's mine, Carella. Be nice."
The hands on Carella's watch were standing straight up. Tonto put in a call to the patrol sergeant waiting in his car in the project's parking lot. There were six other cars with him. He told the sergeant they were going in. The sergeant said, "Ten-four."
The detectives all looked at each other.
Wade nodded and they started across the street.
The eight detectives from the Four-Six and four of the detectives from the Four-Five split into
teams of six each and headed around to cover the sides and back of the house. Carella and Wade started up the walkway with the Lone Ranger and Tonto close behind them.
There was a low, virtually flat flight of steps leading up to a railed porch on the front of the house. This looked like a house on the prairie someplace. You expected to see tumble-weeds rolling by. Dolly had told them they were renting a room on the second floor front, right-hand side of the house. But there were no lights showing anywhere. Four black windows on the upper level, two black windows to the left of the blue entrance door. The walkway was dark, too, except
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for pale moonlight; someone had knocked out the street lamp. The walkway was covered with gravel.
They'd have preferred sand or snow or even mud; the goddamn gravel went off like firecrackers under their feet. They moved up the walk two abreast, swiftly, silently except for the crunching of the gravel, wincing at each rattle of stone, heading in a straight line for that blue front door. Wade and Carella had just gained the porch steps when the shots came.
They went flying off the steps like startled bats, throwing themselves into the low bushes on either side, one to the left, one to the right, three more shots on the right, the Lone Ranger and Tonto hurling themselves off the path and rolling away onto the patchy lawn, bracing themselves for whatever might come next.
The next shot came almost at once, but this time they saw where it was coming from, a yellow flash in one of the pitch-black windows on the left-hand side of the porch, followed by the immediate roar of a high-powered pistol slamming slugs into the night, and then yellow and bam, and yellow and bam, and four and five - and silence again.
Either Dolly had been wrong about which room she and her pals were renting, or Sonny and Diz had moved downstairs to another room.
That's what they were thinking.
It never crossed their minds that Dolly might have -
"Don't shoot!" she yelled. "They got me in here!"
"Shit," Wade said.
Three minutes into the job and they already had a hostage situation.
The people from the nearby project all came out to watch the Late Night Show. This was either Die Hard or Die Harder on a summer's night at the very top of August. Except that this wasn't a high rise in LA or an airport in DC. What this was here was a shitty little house scheduled for the bulldozer to make room for another project exactly like the one these people lived in. And there weren't thousands of trapped
