Lady Killer

'Something like that.'

'A mutiny?'

'Something like that. A strike or something.'

'A strike,' Hawes said, half to himself. 'Strikers, picket lines—' He snapped his fingers. 'A picket! Did he say his ship was a picket ship?'

'Yeah,' Marcia said, her eyes widening. 'Yeah. That's exactly what he said. He seemed pretty proud of that, too.'

'A picket destroyer,' Hawes said. 'That shouldn't give us much trouble. Mickey Carmichael.' He nodded. 'Anything else you want to ask her?'

'I'm finished.'

'So am I. Thanks, Miss.'

'You think he's really gonna try to kill me?' Marcia asked.

'We'll find out,' Hawes said.

'What should I do if he comes here?'

'We'll get to him before then.'

'But suppose he gets past you?'

'He won't.'

'I know. But suppose he does?'

'Try hiding under the bed,' Carella said.

'Wise guy,' Marcia said.

'We'll call you,' Carella said. 'If he's our man and you're his target, we'll let you know.'

'Look, do me a favour. Let me know even if I ain't, I don't want to sit here trembling every time there's a knock on the door.'

'You're not scared, are you?'

'Damn right I am,' Marcia said.

'It should help your act,' Carella answered and they left.

The administration building for the Naval District that boundaried the city had its offices downtown on Worship Avenue. When Carella and Hawes got back to the squad, Hawes looked up the number in the phone book and dialled it.

'Naval Administration,' a voice answered.

'This is the police,' Hawes said. 'Let me speak to your commanding officer.'

'One moment, please.' There was a pause and then some clicking on the line.

'Ensign Davis,' a voice said.

'Are you the commanding officer?' Hawes asked.

'No, sir. May I help you?'

'This is the police. We're trying to locate a sailor from a-'

'That would fall into the province of the Shore Patrol, sir. One moment, please.'

'Look, all I want to—'

The clicking on the line interrupted Hawes.

'Yes, sir?' the operator asked.

'Put this call through to Lieutenant Jergens in Shore Patrol, would you?'

'Yes, sir.'

More clicking. Hawes waited.

'Lieutenant Jergens, Shore Patrol,' a voice said.

'This is Detective Cotton Hawes,' Hawes answered, figuring he'd throw a little rank around among all this brass. 'We're looking for an enlisted man named Mickey Carmichael. He's aboard a—'

'What'd he do?' Jergens asked.

'Nothing yet. We want to stop him before—'

'If he didn't do anything, we wouldn't have any record of him. Is he connected with this building?'

'No, he's—'

'Just a moment, I'll get you Personnel.'

'I don't want—'

The clicking cut him off again.

'Operator?' Jergens said.

'Yes, sir.'

'Put this through to Commander Elliot in Personnel.'

'Yes, sir.'

Hawes waited.

Click-click.

Click-click.

'Commander Elliot's office,' a voice said.

'Is this Commander Elliot?'

'No, sir. This is Chief Yeoman Pickering.'

'Let me talk to the commander, Pickering.'

'I'm sorry, sir, he's not in right now, sir. Who's calling, please, sir?'

'Let me talk to his superior, will you?' Hawes asked.

'His superior, sir, is commanding officer here, sir. Who's calling, please, sir?'

'This is Admiral Hawes!' Hawes shouted. 'Connect me with your commanding officer at once!'

'Yes, sir, Admiral. Yes sir!'

The clicking was frantic now.

'Yes, sir?' the operator asked.

'Put this through to Captain Finchberger,' Pickering said. 'On the double.'

'Yes, sir!'

The clicking clicked again.

'Captain Finchberger's office,' a voice said.

'Get me the Captain! This is Admiral Hawes!' Hawes said, enjoying himself immensely now.

'Yes, sir!' the voice snapped.

Hawes waited.

The voice that came on to the line wasn't having any damned nonsense.

'Admiral who?' it shouted.

'Sir?' Hawes asked, recalling his Navy days and remembering that he was talking to a Naval captain, which is very much different from an Army captain, a Naval captain being a very high rank, indeed, full of scrambled eggs and all sorts of highly polished brass. Considering this, Hawes turned on the oil. 'I'm sorry, sir, your secretary must have misunderstood. This is Detective Hawes of the Eighty-seventh Precinct here in the city. We were wondering if we could have the Navy's assistance on a rather difficult problem.'

'What is it, Hawes?' Finchberger said, but he was weakening.

'Sir, we're trying to locate a sailor who was in the city a month ago, and who is perhaps still here. He was off a picket destroyer, sir. His name is—'

'There was a picket destroyer here in June, that's right,' Finchberger said. 'The U.S.S. Perriwinkle. She's gone now. Left on the fourth.'

'All hands aboard, sir?'

'The commanding officer did not report anyone A.O.L. or A.W.O.L. The ship left with its full complement.'

'Have there been any other picket destroyers in port since then, sir?'

'No, there haven't.'

'Any destroyers at all?'

'We've got one scheduled for the end of the week. Coming up from Norfolk. That's all.'

'Would it be the Perriwinkle, sir?'

'No, it would not. It would be the Masterson.'

'Thank you, sir. Then there is no possibility that this sailor is still in the city or scheduled to arrive in the city?'

'Not unless he jumped ship in the middle of the Atlantic,' Finchberger said. 'The Perriwinkle was headed for England.'

'Thank you, sir,' Hawes said. 'You've been very kind.'

'Don't pull that admiral routine again, Hawes,' Finchberger said, and he hung up.

'Find him?' Carella asked.

Hawes replaced the phone in its cradle.

'He's on his way to Europe,' he said.

'That lets him out,' Carella said.

'It doesn't let our hooker friend out,' Hawes answered.

'No. She might still be the target. I'll call her and tell her not to worry about the sailor. In the meantime I'll ask Pete for a couple of uniformed men to watch Ida's joint. If she is the target, our boy won't try for her with cops around.'

'We hope.'

Hawes looked up at the white-faced clock on the squad-room wall. It was exactly 11 o'clock in the morning.

In nine hours, their killer—whoever he was—would strike.

From somewhere across the street in Grover Park, the sun glinted on something shiny, blinking its rays through the grilled window of the squad-room, flashing momentarily on Hawes's face.

'Draw that shade, will you, Steve?' he asked.

CHAPTER FIVE

Sam Grossman was a police lieutenant, a laboratory technician, and the man in charge of the Police Laboratory at Headquarters on High Street, downtown.

Sam was a tall, loosely jointed man who moved with angular nonchalance and ease. He was a gentle man with a craggy face, a man who wore glasses because too much reading as a child had ruined his eyesight. His eyes were blue and mild, guileless eyes that denied the fact that their owner used them to pry into the facts of crime and violence—and very often death. Sam loved lab work, and when he was not busy with his test tubes in an effort to prove the lab's effectiveness in crime detection, he could be found talking to the nearest detective, trying to impress upon him the need for cooperation with the lab.