“It’s I hate to go out when it’s so fucking cold,” Donner answered.
The girl was on the hallway steps, below Willis, walking down without any sense of haste, buttoning her coat, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Willis caught up with her and said, “Where are you from, Mercy?”
“Ask Fats,” she answered.
“I’m asking you.”
“You fuzz?”
“That’s right.”
“Georgia,” she said.
“When’d you get up here?”
“Two months ago.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“What the hell are you doing with a man like Fats Donner?” Willis asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. She would not look into his face. She kept her head bent as they went down the steps to the street. As Willis opened the door leading outside, a blast of frigid air rushed into the hallway.
“Why don’t you get out?” he said.
The girl looked up at him.
“Where would I go?” she asked, and then left him on the stoop, walking up the street with a practiced swing, the bag dangling from her shoulder, her high heels clicking along the pavement.
At two o’clock that afternoon, the seventeen-year-old girl who had been in the convertible that crashed the river barrier died without gaining consciousness.
The Buena Vista Hospital record read simply: Death secondary to head injury.
Chapter 9
The squadroom phone began jangling early Monday morning.
The first call was from a reporter on the city’s austere morning daily. He asked to speak to whoever was in charge of the squad and, when told that Lieutenant Byrnes was not in at the moment, asked to speak to whoever was in command.
“This is Detective 2nd/Grade Meyer Meyer,” he was told. “I suppose I’m in command at the moment.”
“Detective Meyer,” the reporter said, “this is Carlyle Butterford, I wanted to check out a possible story.”
At first, Meyer thought the call was a put-on, nobody had a name like Carlyle Butterford. Then he remembered that everybody on this particular morning newspaper had names like Preston Fingerlaver, or Clyde Masterfield, or Aylmer Coopermere. “Yes, Mr. Butterford,” he said, “what can I do for you?”
“We received a telephone call early this morning …”
“From whom, sir?”
“An anonymous caller,” Butterford said.
“Yes?”
“Yes, and he suggested that we contact the 87th Precinct regarding certain extortion calls and notes that were received before the deaths of Parks Commissioner Cowper and Deputy Mayor Scanlon.”
There was a long silence on the line.
“Detective Meyer, is there any truth to this allegation?”
“I suggest that you call the Public Relations Officer of the Police Department,” Meyer said, “his name is Detective Glenn, and he’s downtown at Headquarters. The number there is Center 6-0800.”
“Would he have any knowledge of these alleged extortion calls and notes?” Butterford asked.
“I guess you’d have to ask him,” Meyer said.
“Do you have any knowledge of these alleged … ?”
“As I told you,” Meyer said, “the lieutenant is out at the moment, and he’s the one who generally supplies information to the press.”
“But would you, personally, have any information … ?”
“I have information on a great many things,” Meyer said. “Homicides, muggings, burglaries, robberies, rapes, extortion attempts, all sorts of things. But, as I’m sure you know, detectives are public servants and it has been the department’s policy to discourage us from seeking personal aggrandizement. If you wish to talk to the lieutenant, I suggest you call back at around ten o’clock. He should be in by then.”
“Come on,” Butterford said, “give me a break.”
“I’m sorry, pal, I can’t help you.”
“I’m a working stiff, just like you.”
“So’s the lieutenant,” Meyer said, and hung up.
The second call came at nine-thirty. Sergeant Murchison, at the switchboard, took the call and immediately put it through to Meyer.
“This is Cliff Savage,” the voice said. “Remember me?”
“Only too well,” Meyer said. “What do you want, Savage?”
“Carella around?”
“Nope.”
“Where is he?”
“Out,” Meyer said.
“I wanted to talk to him.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you,” Meyer said. “You almost got his wife killed once with your goddamn yellow journalism. You want my advice, keep out of his sight.”
“I guess I’ll have to talk to you, then,” Savage said.
“I’m not too fond of you myself, if you want the truth.”
“Well, thank you,” Savage said, “but that’s not the truth I’m after.”
“What are you after?”
“I got a phone call this morning from a man who refused to identify himself. He gave me a very interesting piece of information.” Savage paused. “Know anything about it?”
Meyer’s heart was pounding, but he very calmly said, “I’m not a mind reader, Savage.”
“I thought you might know something about it.”
“Savage, I’ve given you the courtesy of five minutes of valuable time already. Now if you’ve got something to say …”
“Okay, okay. The man I spoke to said the 87th Precinct had received several threatening telephone calls preceding the death of Parks Commissioner Cowper, and three extortion notes preceding the death of Deputy Mayor Scanlon. Know anything about it?”
“Telephone company’d probably be able to help you on any phone calls you want to check, and I guess the Documents Section of the Public Library …”
“Come on, Meyer, don’t stall me.”
“We’re not permitted to give information to reporters,” Meyer said. “You know that.”
“How much?” Savage asked.
“Huh?”
“How much do you want, Meyer?”
“How much can you afford?” Meyer asked.
“How does a hundred bucks sound?”
“Not so good.”
“How about two hundred?”
“I get more than that just for protecting our friendly neighborhood pusher.”
“Three hundred is my top offer,” Savage said.
“Would you mind repeating the offer for the benefit of the tape recorder?” Meyer said. “I want to have evidence when I charge you with attempting to bribe a police officer.”
“I was merely offering you a loan,” Savage said.
“Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” Meyer said, and hung up.
This was not good. This was, in fact, bad. He was about to dial the lieutenant’s home number, hoping to catch him before he left for the office, when the telephone on his desk rang again.
“87th Squad,” he said, “Detective Meyer.”
The caller was from one of the two afternoon papers. He repeated essentially what Meyer had already heard from his two previous callers, and then asked if Meyer knew anything about it. Meyer, loath to lie lest the story eventually broke and tangentially mentioned that there had been a police credibility gap, suggested that the man try the lieutenant later on in the day. When he hung up, he looked at the clock and decided to wait for the next call before trying to contact the lieutenant. Fortunately, there were now only four daily newspapers in the city, the leaders of the various newspaper guilds and unions having decided that the best way to ensure higher wages and lifetime employment was to make demands that would kill off the newspapers one by one, leaving behind only scattered goose feathers and broken golden egg shells. Meyer did not have to wait long. The representative of the fourth newspaper called within five minutes. He had a bright chirpy voice and an ingratiating style. He got nothing from Meyer, and he finally hung up in cheerful rage.