'I wrote a book, yes,' Ollie said. 'What's so strange about that?'
'Nothing at all,' Muldoon said. 'Every detective I know has written a book.' 'Not me,' Mulready said.
'Not me, neither,' Muldoon said. 'But we're exceptions to the rule, right, Ollie?' 'I don't need this,' Ollie said. 'Can I buy this book on Amazon?' Mulready asked. 'It ain't been published yet,' Muldoon said. 'That's what's so fascinating about it. The manuscript was stolen from the back seat of Detective Weeks's car by some transvestite hooker.'
'You're kidding me, right?' Mulready said.
'Who you ain't caught yet, am I right, Ollie?' 'Shove it up your ass,' Ollie explained. The Mobile Crime boys were just arriving.
MELISSA HAD BEGUN looking for her next three messengers immediately after she ran from what she supposed the cops would now be calling the 'crime scene.' Hadn't thought to clean up after herself, pick up those little brass thingies from the sidewalk, whatever you called them, she'd thought of that only later; they could identify a weapon from stuff like that, couldn't they? She just wanted to get the hell out of there fast. Before last night, she'd never shot a person in her life, no less killed one, and she was just plain scared.
But that was last night and now was now.
Sitting in the Starbucks on Rafer and Eleventh, her hand shaking only slightly as she lifted a cup of espresso macchiato to her lips, she read both morning newspapers and could not find a single article about the death of a pimp named Ambrose Carter. Not a single paragraph. Not a single word. As her mother was fond of saying: Good riddance to bad rubbish.
She was feeling exceptionally fine this morning.
'Tis pity she's a whore and all that, but it wasn't every day you got to kill the pimp who'd turned you out.
Smiling secretly, she sipped serenely.
Along about now, the first of the three envelopes should be arriving at the Eight-Seven. She had arranged to meet later with her next two chosen messengers, exchange cash for envelopes. One, two, three, and finished for the day.
The way she'd found all three delivery boys was by
remembering once again what her mother had taught her at her knee: Desperate people do desperate things.
Only this time, she'd looked for the most desperate people she could find.
Simple.
She took another satisfying sip of espresso.
Maybe she'd even buy herself one more cup.
Maybe a double this time.
And a chocolate chip cookie.
What the hell.
You know his nature,
That he's revengeful, and I know his sword Hath a sharp edge: it's long and, 't may be said, It reaches far, and where, 'twill not extend, Thither he darts it. Bosom up my counsel, You'll find it wholesome.
'A sword now?' Meyer asked. 'From spears to arrows to a sword,' Carella said. He was already at the computer. 'Shouldn't it be "Has a sharp edge"?' Genero asked. 'Hath is what they said back in those days,' Parker explained.
'Sounds like a lisp,' Genero said. 'Maybe he's gay,' Parker suggested. 'This guy whose sword hath a sharp edge.'
'Don't forget it's long, too,' Eileen said, looking all wide-eyed and innocent.
And reaches far,' Willis added. Kling darted a look at both of them. 'Party's getting rough again,' Hawes said. '"Bosom," yeah,' Genero said, grinning.
'It's from King Henry VIII,' Carella said. Act One, Scene One.'
'Which tells us nothing at all,' Kling said.
'It tells us we know him,' Brown said, 'and we know he's out for revenge.'
'That's for sure.'
'You think he's really gonna use a sword?' Hawes asked. 'For whatever he's planning?'
'Well, he said no more arrows, didn't he? Where's that other note?'
Carella went searching through the notes they'd received the week before. He found the one he was looking for, put it on the desk for the others to look at again:
Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows, Swears he will shoot no more but play with sparrows
'Doesn't say anything about swords,' Parker said. 'Just says from now on he's gonna play with sparrows.'
'Does he mean girls?' Genero asked. 'Chicks?'
'They call 'em birds in England,' Willis said, nodding.
'Sparrows,' Meyer said, and shrugged. 'Could be. Who the hell knows?'
'The Shadow knows,' Genero said.
'Dee Shadow know,' Brown said, affecting a thick, down-home, watermelon-eating accent.
'Sparrows has arrows in it, you know,' Willis said.
'Hath,' Parker corrected.
'I mean, the word sparrows. It has the word arrows in it.'
'So you told us,' Hawes said.
'Just mentioning it. I mean, if we're still on the spears-to-arrows-to-swords kick.'
'Don't forget he hath a long sword,' Eileen said, look-
ing innocent again.
'And that thither he will dart it,' Willis said.
'It doesn't say that,' Kling said, sounding annoyed.
Carella looked at him.
'Well, more or less,' Willis said, and shrugged.
Eileen shrugged, too.
'Or maybe we're missing the point,' Hawes said, and grinned.
'Is that another sword joke?' Genero asked.
KONSTANTINOS SALLAS SEEMED to be a creature of
habit.
The Deaf Man had been trailing him for the past week now, and his routine never varied. The man was staying at the new Intercontinental Hotel on Grover Avenue, at the high-rent reaches of the 87th Precinct, facing Grover Park. Enter the park at Sakonuff Street, follow the footpath uptown, past the zoo, wander crosstown past the lake, under the arches, and you'd come out a few blocks from the 87th Precinct stationhouse, where just about now — he glanced at his watch — someone should be delivering the second of his notes that day.
Every day since he'd arrived from Athens, Sallas left his hotel at 8:30 A.M. and in the company of his bodyguard walked directly to Clarendon Hall, which took him precisely seventeen minutes. At 8:48, he entered the concert hall by the stage door, where a uniformed guard challenged him on only the first day.
It was no different today.
It was now 8:48:17 by the Deaf Man's digital watch, and Sallas was just entering the hall, the bodyguard trailing dutifully behind him.
Later, the Deaf Man thought.
THE DEAF MAN was not the only cheap thief working the Eight-Seven and environs that Monday morning.
At a quarter past nine, Parker and Genero went to investigate the apparent strangulation of a seven-month-old baby in her crib. The father, a letter carrier, had left for work at five this morning. The mother was in hysterics when she let the detectives into the apartment. There were purple bruises on the infant's throat. Her tongue bulged out of her mouth. A window alongside the baby's bed was open to the fresh breezes of early June. The mother told them she was sleeping soundly when her husband left for work. She didn't know the baby was dead till she woke up around a quarter to nine. She'd called the police at once.
In the hallway outside, Genero said, 'The father did it.'
'Wrong, Richard,' Parker said. 'The mother.'
Twenty minutes later, Willis and Eileen went out together to investigate a burglary in a lingerie shop the night before. The owner of the shop, a woman who spoke English with a French accent, told them she'd opened the shop at ten o'clock this morning to find everything 't'rown all over zee place like you see it now, eh?' Waving her hands on the air. Indeed, there were panties and slips, bras and garter belts, kimonos and teddies, tangas and boyshorts, merry widows and bustiers strewn all over the shop. The cash register drawer was open, but the lady told them she'd taken its contents home with her when she left last night at seven. Which might have accounted for why the intruder had gone berserk inside there.