Cop Hater

by Ed McBain

  'To stretch the point, yes."

  "And somehow, their separate activities were perhaps tied together to one person who wanted them all dead for various reasons. Is that what you're saying?"

  "That's a little complicated," Carella said. "I'm not sure the deaths are connected in such a complicated way."

  "But we do know the same person killed all three cops."

  "Yes, we're fairly certain of that."

  "Then the deaths are connected."

  "Yes, of course. But perhaps . . ." Carella shrugged. "It's difficult to discuss this with you because I'm not sure I know what I'm talking about. I only have this idea, that's all. This idea that motive may go deeper than the shields these men wore."

  "I see." Savage sighed. "Well, you can console yourself with the knowledge that every cop in the city probably has his own ideas on how to solve this one."

  Carella nodded, not exactly understanding Savage, but not willing to get into a lengthier discussion. He glanced at his watch.

  "I've got to go soon," he said. "I've got a date."

  "Your girlfriend?"

  "Yes."

  "What's her name?"

  "Teddy. Well, Theodora really."

  "Theodora what?"

  "Franklin."

  "Nice," Savage said. "Is this a serious thing?"

  "As serious as they come."

  "These ideas of yours," Savage said. "About motive. Have you discussed them with your superiors?"

  "Hell, no. You don't discuss every little pang of inspiration you get. You look into it, and then if you turn up anything that looks remotely promising, well, then you air the idea."

  "I see. Have you discussed it with Teddy?"

  "Teddy? Why, no, not yet."

  "Think she'll go for it?"

  Carella smiled uneasily. "She thinks I can do no wrong."

  "Sounds like a wonderful girl."

  "The best. And I'd better get to her before I lose her."

  "Certainly," Savage said understandingly. Carella glanced at his watch again. "Where does she live?"

  "Riverhead," Carella said.

  "Theodora Franklin of Riverhead," Savage said.

  "Yes."

  "Well, I've appreciated listening to your ideas."

  Carella rose. "None of that was for print, remember," he said.

  "Of course not," Savage assured him.

  "Thanks for the drink," Carella said.

  They shook hands. Savage stayed in the booth and ordered another Tom Collins. Carella went home to shower and shave for his date with Teddy.

  She was dressed resplendently when she opened the door. She stood back, waiting for him to survey her splendor. She was wearing a white linen suit, white straw pumps, a red-stoned pin on the collar of the suit, bright scarlet oval earrings picking up the scream of the pin.

  "Shucks," he said, "I was hoping I'd catch you in your slip."

  She made a motion to unbutton her jacket, smiling.

  "We have reservations," he said.

  Where? her face asked.

  "Ah Lum Fong," he replied.

  She nodded exuberantly.

  "Where's your lipstick?" he asked.

  She grinned and went to him, and he took her in his arms and kissed her, and then she clung to him as if he were leaving for Siberia in the next ten minutes.

  "Come on," he said, "put on your face."

  She went into the other room, applied her lipstick and emerged carrying a small red purse.

  "They carry those on the Street," he said. "It's a badge of the profession," and she slapped him on the fanny as they left the apartment.

  The Chinese restaurant boasted excellent food and an exotic decor. To Carella, the food alone would not have been enough. When he ate in a Chinese restaurant, he wanted it to look and feel Chinese. He did not appreciate an expanded, upholstered version of a Culver Avenue diner.

  They ordered fried wonton soup, and lobster rolls, and barbecued spare ribs and Hon Shu Gai and Steak Kew and sweet and pungent pork. The wonton soup was crisp with Chinese vegetables; luscious snow peas, and water chestnuts, and mushrooms, and roots he could not have named if he'd tried. The wontons were brown and crisp, the soup itself had a rich tangy taste. They talked very little while they ate. They dug into the lobster rolls, and then they attacked the spare ribs, succulently brown.

  "Do you know that Lamb thing?" he asked. "A Dissertation on..."

  She nodded, and then went back to the spare ribs.

  The chicken in the Hon Shu Gai was snappingly crisp. They polished off the dish. They barely had room for the Steak Kew, but they did their best with it, and when Charlie —their waiter—came to collect their dishes, he looked at them reproachfully because they had left over some of the delicious cubes of beef.

  He cut a king pineapple for them in the kitchen, cut it so that the outside shell could be lifted off in one piece, exposing the ripe yellow meat beneath the prickly exterior, the fruit sliced and ready to be lifted off in long slender pieces. They drank their tea, savoring the aroma and the warmth, their stomachs full, their minds and their bodies relaxed.

  "How's August nineteenth sound to you?"

  Teddy shrugged.

  "It's a Saturday. Would you like to get married on a Saturday?"

  Yes, her eyes said.

  Charlie brought them their fortune cookies and replenished the tea pot.

  Carella broke open his cookie. Then, before he read the message on the narrow slip of paper, he said, "Do you know the one about the man who opened one of these in a Chinese restaurant?"

  Teddy shook her head.

  "It said, 'Don't eat the soup. Signed, a friend.'"

  Teddy laughed and then gestured to his fortune slip. Carella read it aloud to her:

  "You are the luckiest man alive. You are about to marry Theodora Franklin."

  She said "Oh!" in soundless exasperation, and then took the slip from him. The slender script read: "You are good with figures."

  "Your figure," he said.

  Teddy smiled and broke open her cookie. Her face clouded momentarily.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  She shook her head.

  "Let me see it."

  She tried to keep the fortune slip from him, but he got it out of her hand and read it.

  "Leo will roar—sleep no more."

  Carella stared at the printed slip. "That's a hell of a thing to put in a cookie," he said. "What does it mean?" He thought for a moment. "Oh, Leo. Leo the Lion. July 22nd to August something, isn't it?"

  Teddy nodded.

  "Well, the meaning here is perfectly clear then. Once we're married, you're going to have a hell of a time sleeping."

  He grinned, and the worry left her eyes. She smiled, nodded, and then reached across the table for his hand.

  The broken cookie rested alongside their hands, and beside that the curled fortune slip.

  Leo will roar—sleep no more.

  Chapter TWENTY-ONE

  the man's name was not Leo. The man's name was Peter. His last name was Byrnes.

  He was roaring.

  "What the hell kind of crap is this, Carella?"

  "What?"

  "Today's issue of this . . . this goddamn rag!" he shouted, pointing to the afternoon tabloid on his desk. "August 4th!"

  Leo, Carella thought. "What . . . what do you mean, Lieutenant?"

  "What do I mean?" Byrnes shouted. "WHAT DO I MEAN? Who the hell gave you the authority to reel off this crap to that idiot Savage?"

  "What?"

  "There are cops walking beats in Bethtown because they spouted off nonsense like ..."

  "Savage? Let me see that..." Carella started

  Byrnes flipped open the newspaper angrily. "Cop Defies Department!" he shouted. "That's the headline. COP DEFIES DEPARTMENT! What's the matter, Carella, aren't you happy here?"

  "Let me see ..."

  "And under that 'MAY KNOW MURDERER,' DETECTIVE SAYS."

  "May know___"

 
"Did you tell this to Savage?"

  "That I may know who the murderer is? Of course not Jesus, Pete..."

  "Don't call me Pete! Here, read the goddamn story."

  Carella took the newspaper. For some strange reason, his hands were trembling.

  Sure enough, the story was on page four, and it was headlined:

  COP DEFIES DEPARTMENT

  'MAY KNOW MURDER,'

  DETECTIVE SAYS

  "But this is..." "Read it," Byrnes said. Carella read it.

  The bar was cool and dim.

  We sat opposite each other, Detective Stephen Carella and I. He toyed with his drink, and we talked of many things, but mostly we talked of murder.

  "I've got an idea I know who killed those three cops," Carella said. "It's not the kind of idea you can take to your superiors, though. They wouldn't understand."

  And so came the first ray of hope in the mystery which has baffled the masterminds of Homicide North and tied the hands of stubborn, opinionated Detective-Lieutenant Peter Byrnes of the 87th Precinct.

  "I can't tell you very much more about it right now," Carella said, "because I'm still digging. But this cop-hater theory is all wrong. Ifs something in the personal lives of these three men, of that I'm sure. It needs work, but we'll crack it."

  So spoke Detective Carella yesterday afternoon in a bar in the heart of the Murder Belt. He is a shy, withdrawn man, a man who—in his own words—is "not seeking glory."

  "Police work is like any other kind of work," he told me, "except that we deal in crime. When you've got a hunch, you dig into it. If it pans out, then you bring it to your superiors, and maybe they'll listen, and maybe they won't."

  Thus far, he has confided his "hunch" only to his fiancee, a lovely young lady named Theodora Franklin, a girl from Riverhead. Miss Franklin feels that Carella can "do no wrong," and is certain he will crack the case despite the inadequate fumblings of the department to date.

  "There are skeletons in the closets," Carella said. "And those skeletons point to our man. We've got to dig deeper. It's just a matter of time now."

  We sat in the cool dimness of the bar, and I felt the quiet strength emanating from this man who has the courage to go ahead with his investigation in spite of the Cop-Hater

  Theory which pervades the dusty minds of the men working around him.

  This man will find the murderer, I thought.

  This man will relieve the city of its constant fear, its dread of an unknown killer roaming the streets with a wanton .45 automatic in his blood-stained fist. This man ...

  "Jesus!" Carella said.

  "Yeah," Byrnes answered. "Now what about it?"

  "I never said these things. I mean, not this way. And he said it wasn't for print!" Carella suddenly exploded. "Where's the phone? I'm going to sue this son of a bitch for libel! He can't get away with ..."

  "Calm down," Byrnes said.

  "Why'd he drag Teddy into this? Does he want to make her a sitting duck for that stupid bastard with the .45? Is he out of his mind?"

  "Calm down," Byrnes repeated.

  "Calm down? I never said I knew who the murderer was! I never..."

  "What did you say?"

  "I only said I had an idea that I wanted to work on."

  "And what's the idea?"

  "That maybe this guy wasn't after cops at all. Maybe he was just after men. And maybe not even that. Maybe he was just after one man."

  "Which one?"

  "How the hell do I know? Why'd he mention Teddy? Jesus, what's the matter with this guy?"

  "Nothing that a head doctor couldn't cure," Byrnes said.

  "Listen, I want to go up to see Teddy. God knows . . ."

  "What time is it?" Byrnes asked.

  Carella looked at the wall clock. "Six-fifteen."

  "Wait until six-thirty. Havilland will be back from supper by then."

  "If I ever meet this guy Savage again," Carella promised, "I'm going to rip him in half."

  "Or at least give him a speeding ticket," Byrnes commented.

  The man in the black suit stood outside the apartment door, listening. A copy of the afternoon newspaper stuck up from the right-hand pocket of his jacket. His left shoulder throbbed with pain, and the weight of the .45 automatic tugged at the other pocket of his jacket, so that—favoring the wound, bearing the weight of the gun—he leaned slightly to his left while he listened.

  There was no sound from within the apartment.

  He had read the name very carefully in the newspaper, Theodora Franklin, and then he had checked the Riverhead directory and come up with the address. He wanted to talk to this girl. He wanted to find out how much Carella knew. He had to find out.

  She's very quiet in there, he thought. What's she doing?

  Cautiously, he tried the door knob. He wiggled it slowly from side to side. The door was locked.

  He heard footsteps. He tried to back away from the door too late. He reached for the gun in his pocket. The door was opening, wide, wider.

  The girl stood there, surprised. She was a pretty girl, small, dark-haired, wide brown eyes. She wore a white chenille robe. The robe was damp in spots. He assumed she had just come from the shower. Her eyes went to his face, and then to the gun in his hand. Her mouth opened, but no sound came from it. She tried to slam the door, but he rammed his foot into the wedge and then shoved it back.

  She moved away from him, deeper into the room. He closed the door and locked it

  "Miss Franklin?" he asked.

  She nodded, terrified. She had seen the drawing on the front pages of all the newspapers, had seen it broadcast on all the television programs. There was no mistake, this was the man Steve was looking for.

  "Let's have a little talk, shall we?" he asked.

  His voice was a nice voice, smooth, almost suave. He was a good-looking man, why had he killed those cops? Why would a man like this ...?

  "Did you hear me?" he asked.

  She nodded. She could read his lips, could understand everything he said, but...

  "What does your boyfriend know?" he asked.

  He held the .45 loosely, as if he were accustomed to its lethal power now, as if he considered it a toy more than a dangerous weapon.

  "What's the matter, you scared?"

  She touched her hands to her lips, pulled them away in a gesture of futility.

  "What?"

  She repeated the gesture.

  "Come on," he said, "talk, for Christ's sake! You're not that scared!"

  Again, she repeated the gesture, shook her head this time. He watched her curiously.

  "I'll be damned," he said at last. "A dummy!" He began laughing. The laugh filled the apartment, reverberating from the walls. "A dummy! If that don't take the cake! A dummy!" His laughter died. He studied her carefully. "You're not trying to pull something, are you?"

  She shook her head vigorously. Her hands went to the opening of her robe, clutching the chenille to her more tightly.

  "Now this has definite advantages, doesn't it?" he said, grinning. "You can't scream, you can't use the phone, you can't do a damned thing, can you?"

  Teddy swallowed, watching him.

  "What does Carella know?" he asked.

  She shook her head.

  "The paper said he's got a lead. Does he know about me? Does he have any idea who I am?"

  Again, she shook her head.

  "I don't believe you."

  She nodded, trying to convince him that Steve knew nothing. What paper was he referring to? What did he mean? She spread her hands wide, indicating innocence, hoping he would understand.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and tossed the newspaper to her.

  "Page four," he said. "Read it. I've got to sit down. This goddamn shoulder ..."

  He sat, the gun leveled at her. She opened the paper and read the story, shaking her head as she read.

  "Well?" he asked.

  She kept shaking her head. No, this is not true. No, Steve Would never say things l
ike these. Steve would . ..

  "What'd he tell you?" the man asked.

  Her eyes opened wide with pleading. Nothing, he told me nothing.

  "The newspaper says ..."

  She hurled the paper to the floor.

  "Lies, huh?"

  Yes, she nodded.

  His eyes narrowed. "Newspapers don't lie," he said.

  They do, they do!

  "When's he coming here?"

  She stood motionless, controlling her face, not wanting her face to betray anything to the man with the gun.

  "Is he coming?"

  She shook her head.

  "You're lying. It's all over your face. He's coming here, isn't he?"

  She bolted for the door. He caught her arm and flung her back across the room. The robe pulled back over her legs when she fell to the floor. She pulled it together quickly and stared up at him.

  "Don't try that again," he said.

  Her breath came heavily now. She sensed a coiled spring within this man, a spring which would unleash itself at the door the moment Steve opened it. But he'd said he would not be there until midnight. He had told her that, and there were a lot of hours between now and midnight. In that time...

  "You just get out of the shower?" he asked.

  She nodded.

  "Those are good legs," he said, and she felt his eyes on her. "Dames," he said philosophically. "What've you got on under that robe?"

  Her eyes widened.

  He began laughing. "Just what I thought. Smart. Good way to beat the heat. When's Carella coming?"

  She did not answer.

  "Seven, eight, nine? Is he on duty today?" He watched her. "Nothing from you, huh? What's he got, the four to midnight? Sure, otherwise he'd probably be with you right this minute. Well, we might as well make ourselves comfortable, we got a long wait. Anything to drink in this place?"

  Teddy nodded.

  "What've you got? Gin? Rye? Bourbon?" He watched her. "Gin? You got tonic? No, huh? Club soda? Okay, mix me a Collins. Hey, where you going?"

  Teddy gestured to the kitchen.

  "I'll come with you," he said. He followed her into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and took out an opened bottle of club soda.

  "Haven't you got a fresh one?" he asked. Her back was to him, and so she could not read his lips. He seized her shoulder and swung her around. His hand did not leave her shoulder.