“87th Squad, Detective Hawes,” he said.
“Hawes, this is Ollie Weeks.”
“Hello, how are you?” Hawes said without noticeable enthusiasm.
“Listen, I’m sorry about that little fracas with the jigs,” Ollie said. “I don’t want you to get the idea I’m a cop who shoves people around.”
“Now where would I get that idea?” Hawes said.
“It’s just that the whole operation up there looks like a phony to me, that’s all,” Ollie said. “I’ve been working all afternoon here, and I found out a few things about our friends Worthy and Chase. I ain’t done yet, but in the meantime, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me.” Ollie paused, apparently waiting for an answer. When he received none, he said, “Also, I got the ME’s report on Harrod, and I thought you might be interested. He was beat to death, like we figured.”
“What was the weapon? Did the report say?”
“A numerosity of weapons,” Ollie answered, imitating W. C. Fields. “A veritable numerosity. Leastways, that’s how the ME’s got it figured. He says there were blunt instruments used and...”
“Instruments? Plural?”
“Yeah, plural. More than one instrument. And also, there was a stab wound under Harrod’s left arm, though that wasn’t what killed him. The blows to his head killed him, and the ME’s opinion is that the weapons used were of varying weights and sizes.”
“In other words, Harrod was attacked by more than one person.”
“It looks that way,” Ollie said. “Also, the ME found lesions and scars on Harrod’s arms and legs, and traces of heroin in the stomach, the parenchymatous organs...”
“The what?”
“I don’t know how to pronounce it,” Ollie said. “I’m reading it here from the report. And also the brain. You probably know this already, but the ME tells me alkaloids disappear from the system in about twenty-four hours, so it’s safe to assume Harrod had shot up sometime during the day. Also, there were white paint scrapings under the fingernails of his right hand.”
“Paint, did you say?”
“Yeah. Looks like Harrod was a photographer, a junkie, and a house painter besides. Anyway, that’s what I’ve got so far. I’m still checking on that operation Worthy and Chase are running up there, and I’ll let you know if I come up with anything else. What’s with you?”
“I was just on my way out to pick up Harrod’s girlfriend.”
“What for?”
“I found a gun in her icebox, and Ballistics just made it as the weapon used in this homicide we’re investigating.”
“What homicide? You’re not talking about Harrod, are you?”
“No, no.”
“Because he wasn’t shot, you know. I already told you...”
“This is another homicide. There are wheels within wheels, Ollie.”
“Ah yes, ain’t there always,” Ollie said, imitating W. C. Fields again. “Ain’t there always. You want me to come along?”
“I can handle it alone.”
“What are you charging her with?”
“Murder/One. It won’t stick, but it might scare her into telling us what she knows.”
“Unless she stands firm on Miranda-Escobedo and tells you to go jump.”
“We’ll have to see.”
“When will you be back there?”
“In an hour or so.”
“I’ll come over,” Ollie said, accepting an invitation Hawes could not remember extending. “I want to sit in on the questioning.”
Hawes said nothing.
“And listen,” Ollie said, “I hope you don’t think I was shoving that jig around because I enjoyed doing it.”
“I’m in a hurry,” Hawes said, and hung up.
He had reached the gate in the slatted railing when the phone rang again. Carella was down the hall in the men’s room, and Hal Willis was in with the lieutenant. Hawes grimaced and picked up the receiver at the phone nearest the railing. “87th Squad, Hawes,” he said.
“Cotton, this is Dave downstairs. I got a hysterical lady on the line, wants to talk to you.”
“Who is she?”
“Elizabeth something. She can hardly talk straight, I didn’t catch the last name.”
“Put her on,” Hawes said.
She came on the line in an instant. Her normally low-pitched voice was high and strident. “Hawes?” she said. “You better get here fast.”
“Where are you, Liz?”
“The apartment. I did what you said, I stayed here. And now they’ve come to get me.”
“Who?”
“The ones who killed Charlie. They’re outside on the fire escape. They’re gonna smash in here as soon as they work up the courage.”
“Who are they, Liz? Can you tell me that?”
He heard the sound of shattering glass. He heard a medley of voices then, and the piercing sound of Liz’s scream before someone gently replaced the phone on its cradle. Hawes hung up, raced down the iron-runged steps to the muster room, and told Dave Murchison, the desk sergeant, to call the dispatcher and have a car sent to 1512 Kruger Avenue, Apartment 6A, assault in progress. Then he ran outside to the curb and started his own car, and headed uptown.
8
It was close to 6:00 when Hawes got to Diamondback. Two radio motor patrol cars were parked at the curb in front of the building, their red dome lights rotating and blinking. Two patrolmen, one black and one white, were standing on the stoop looking out over the crowd of men and women who had gathered to enjoy another of the city’s outdoor summer spectacles. A plainclothes cop with his shield pinned to the pocket of his jacket was sitting in one of the cars, the radio mike in his fist, the car door open, one foot outside on the curb. Hawes locked his car, and then pinned his own shield to his jacket as he walked across to the building. He climbed onto the stoop, identified himself to the nearest patrolman, and said, “I called in the 10–34. What happened?”
“Lady upstairs is near dead,” the patrolman said. “Ambulance is on the way.”
“Who’s up there now?”
“Lewis and Ruggiero, from the other car, and a Detective Kissman of the Narcotics Squad. He’s the one who got here first. Busted in the door, but whoever did the job was already gone. Must’ve been more than one of them. They messed her up real bad.”
“Who’s that on the squawk box?”
“Detective Boyd, the Eight-Three.”
“Tell him I’ll be upstairs, okay?” Hawes said, and went into the building.
He was stopped on the fifth floor by one of the patrolmen from the second RMP car. He identified himself, and went up to the sixth floor. The patrolman outside 6A glanced at Hawes’s shield and said nothing as he went into the apartment. Elizabeth was lying unconscious on the floor near the kitchen table. Her clothes were torn and bloodied, her jaw hung open, and both legs were twisted under her at an angle that clearly indicated they’d been broken. A man in a brown cardigan sweater was sitting at the kitchen table, the telephone receiver to his ear. He looked up as Hawes came in, waved, and then said, into the mouthpiece, “Got no idea. I busted in because all hell was breaking loose.” He listened a moment, and then said, “All of it, from the phone call on. Right, I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up, rose, and walked toward Hawes, his hand outstretched. He was a tall, angular man with a relaxed and easy manner. Like the other policemen on the scene, he wore his shield pinned to an outer garment — in his case, the left-hand side of his sweater, just over the heart.