“He’s heading for the roof!” he shouted to Hawes, not turning to look, knowing that Hawes would take the steps up, and knowing that he himself would climb onto the fire escape in pursuit within the next few moments. He reloaded his gun from the cartridge belt at his waist, and then stepped out onto the fire escape. He fired a quick shot at the figure two stories above him, and then began clambering up the iron-runged steps. The man above did not fire again. Instead, as he climbed, he began dropping a barrage of junk collected from the fire escapes he passed: flower pots, an iron, a child’s toy truck, an old and battered suitcase, all of which crashed around Carella as he made his way steadily up each successive ladder. The barrage stopped when the man gained the roof. Three shots echoed on the still spring Mr. Hawes had reached the roof.
By the time Carella joined him, the man had leaped the area-way between the two buildings and was out of sight.
“He got away while I was reloading,” Hawes said.
Carella nodded, and then holstered his .38.
When they got back to the squad room, Meyer was waiting with a report on Frank Dumas.
“No record,” he said, “not in this city, at least. I’m waiting for word from the Feds.”
“That’s too bad,” Carella said. “It looked like a professional job.”
“Maybe he is a pro.”
“You just said he had no record.”
“How do we know Dumas is his right name?”
“The car was registered…”
“I talked to MVB a little more,” Meyer said. “The car was registered only last month. He could have used an alias.”
“That wouldn’t have tied with his driver’s license.”
“Since when do thieves worry about driver’s licenses?”
“Thieves are the most careful drivers in the world,” Carella said.
“I also checked the phone book. There are six listings for Frank Dumas. I’ll bet you next month’s salary against a bagel that Dumas is an alias he picked right out of the directory.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s worth checking,” Meyer told them.
He also told Carella and Hawes that Detective Andy Parker’s surveillance of a suspected shooting gallery would be paid off this evening at 7:00 p.m. The lieutenant needed five men for the raid, and the names of Carella and Hawes were on the list. “We’re mustering here at six-thirty,” Meyer said.
“I’d planned to go home at six,” Carella answered.
“The best laid plans,” Meyer said, “aft get screwed up.”
“Yeah.” Carella scratched his head. “What do you want to do, Cotton? Go back to Fairview and talk to the landlady or somebody?”
“She ought to know who rented that apartment,” Hawes said.
“You had lunch yet?” Meyer asked.
“No.”
“Get something to eat first. The landlady’ll wait.”
They had lunch in a diner near the precinct. Carella was wondering whether the lab would come up with anything positive on that switchblade knife. He was also wondering why the killer had chosen to use a knife in the park when he obviously owned at least one gun.
“Do you think he saw us pulling up downstairs?” Carella asked.
“He must have. The way that stoop cleared, he’d have had to be an idiot not to know we were cops.”
“This doughnut is stale,” Carella said. “How’s yours?”
“It’s all right. Here, take half of it.”
“No, go ahead.”
“I won’t be able to finish it, anyway.”
“Thanks,” Carella said. He sliced Hawes’ doughnut in half and began munching on it. “That’s better,” he said. He looked at his watch. “We’d better get moving. He’s got a head start on us already. If we can at least find out whether Dumas is his real name…”
“Just let me finish my tea,” Hawes said.
The landlady at 1137 Fairview Street wasn’t happy to see cops, and she told them so immediately.
“There’s always cops here,” she said, “I’m fed up to here with cops.”
“That’s too bad, lady,” Hawes said, “but we’ve got to ask you some questions, anyway.”
“You always come around shooting, and then you ask the questions later,” the landlady said angrily.
“Lady, the man in apartment 44 began shooting first,” Hawes said.
“That’s your story.”
“Who was he, do you know?”
“Who’s going to pay for all that damage to the hallway, can you tell me that?”
“Not us,” Hawes said flatly. “What’s the man’s name?”
“John Doe.”
“Come on, lady.”
“‘That’s his name. That’s the name he took the apartment under.”
“How long has he been living here?”
“Two months.”
“Did he pay his rent in cash or by check?”
“Cash.”
“Didn’t you suspect John Doe might not be his real name? Especially since the name Frank Dumas is on his mailbox?”
“I’m not a cop,” the landlady said. “It’s not my job to suspect somebody who comes here to rent an apartment. He paid me a month in advance, and he didn’t holler about the increase over the last tenant, or the four dollars for the television aerial, so why should I suspect him? I don’t care if his name’s John Doe or John D. Rockefeller, so long as he pays the rent and doesn’t cause trouble.”
“But he’s caused a little trouble, hasn’t he?”
“You’re the ones caused the trouble,” the landlady said, “Coming here with your guns and shooting up the hallway. Do you know there was a little girl sitting on the steps while you were shooting? Do you know that?”
“The little girl was on the second floor, ma’am,” Carella said. “And besides, we didn’t expect shooting.”
“Then you don’t know cops the way I do. The minute a cop arrives, there’s shooting.”
“We’d like to go through Mr. Doe’s apartment,” Carella said.
“Then you’d better go get yourself a search warrant.”
“Come on, lady, break your heart.”
Hawes said. “You don’t want us to go all the way downtown, do you?”
“I don’t care where you go. If you want to search that apartment, you need a warrant. That’s the law.”