"That's his sense of humor," Pat said when the ME left. Then he went over and called in two of his people to go over the corpse itself.
I went to the phone and called Meg. The answering service said she would be back at six. I called the hospital directly, but there was no report on Velda's condition so far. Nobody would speculate.
It was another hour before the specialists finished and the body was carted out in its rubberized shroud. Pat was on the phone and when he hung up he turned to me and said tiredly, "The papers just got wind of it. They still on your side?"
"Hell, most of the old guys are buddies, but some of those young ones are weirdos."
"Wait till they read that note."
"Yeah, great."
"You still haven't told me who you killed, Mike." This time there was a quiet seriousness in his tone. It was a question direct and simple.
I turned and faced him, meeting his eyes square on. "Anybody I ever took down you know about. The last one was Julius Marco, the son of a bitch who was about to kill that kid when I nailed him, and that was four years ago."
"How many have you shot since?"
"A few. None died."
"You testified in a couple of Murder One cases, didn't you?"
"Sure. So did a few other people,"
"Recently?"
"Hell, no. The last one was a few years back."
"Then who would want you dead?"
"Nobody I can think of."
"Hell, somebody wants you even better than dead. They want you all chopped up and with a spike through your head. Somebody had a business engagement with you at noon, got here early, took out Velda and didn't have to wait for you because there was a guy in your office he thought was you and he nailed that poor bastard instead."
"I've thought of that," I said.
"And we're stuck until we get IDs on everybody and a statement from Velda."
"Looks like that," I told him. "You through here?"
"Yeah."
"Sealing the place up?"
Pat shrugged. "No need to."
I picked up the phone again and called the building super. I told him what had happened and that I needed the place cleaned up. He said he'd do it personally. I thanked him and hung up.
Pat said, "Let's go get something to eat. You'll feel better. Then we'll go to the hospital."
"No sense in that. Velda was unconscious and in critical condition. No visitors. I'll tell you what you can do though."
"What's that?"
"Station a cop at her door. That Penta character missed two of us and he just might want another go at somebody when he finds out what happened."
Pat picked up the phone in Velda's office and relayed the message. When he hung up he said to me, "What are your plans?"
"Hell, I'm going to Anthony Cica's apartment with you."
"Listen, Mike . . ."
"You don't want me to go alone, do you?"
"Man, you're a real pisser," Pat said.
Outside it was barely raining. It was more like the sky was spitting at us. It was ending up the way it had started. Bad, real bad.
Pat had an unmarked car at the curb and we drove across town and headed south on Second Avenue. The pavements were slick, brightly alive with neon reflections and the broad streaks of dimmed headlights. The weather meant nothing to the people who lived here. They never were out in it long enough to annoy them. Pat didn't bother with his red light, simply moving in and out of the stream of yellow cabs and occasional cars with automatic precision.
Both of us stayed pretty deep in our thoughts until I mentioned, "You could have had one of the detectives do this."
"Don't get hairy on me, pal. I'm not letting you alone on any primary investigation."
"You're investigating a corpse, not a murder suspect. What the hell could I do?"
The car in front of us hit the brakes and Pat swore at the driver and cut to the left. "I don't know what you could do, Mike. There's no telling what's ever going to happen with you. There's something that hangs over you like a magnet that pulls all the crazies right to your door."
"No crazy did this."
"Any killer is crazy," he stated.
"Maybe, but some are more deliberate than others."
Pat slowed and turned left, checked the numbers on the buildings when he could find one, then counted down to the tenement he was looking for. Hardly anybody in this area owned a car and whoever did wouldn't park it on the street. We parked behind a stripped wreck of an old Buick and got out of the car.
A lot of years ago they talked of condemning areas like this but never got around to it. One by one the buildings lost any rental benefits and were abandoned by their owners. Here and there were a few that somebody had renovated enough to warrant having paying tenants as long as they didn't mind sharing the space with roaches and rats.
We went up the sandstone stoop and pushed through the scarred wooden doors. The vestibule light in the ceiling was protected by a wire cage, a forty-watter that turned everything a sickly yellow. As usual, the brass mailbox doors were all sprung open, each one with a cheap paper circular stuck in it. Scrawled on the top of the brass frame were names in black marker ink. The middle two were half rubbed out. Anthony Cica was the one who had the top floor.
The inner vestibule light only went halfway up the stairs, but Pat had a pocket power light with him and lit our way up among the litter that spilled down the stairs. We stepped over a couple of empty beer cans and some half-pint whiskey bottles to get to the first landing. Apparently visitors never got above the top steps. The rest of the way was clear. The door we were looking for had the number four drawn on it in white paint. It was locked. In fact, it had three locks on it.
"Think a credit card can get them open, Pat?"
"Hell no. I have a warrant."
"Then use it."
He kicked the door panel out, reached in and opened the locks, then pushed it open with his foot. Standing to one side, he felt for the light switch beside the jamb, found it and flipped it on. Nothing moved except the roaches.
The occupant hadn't been a total slob. There were no dirty dishes and the sink was clean. The furniture was old, probably secondhand, the bed wasn't made, simply straightened out a little, and the small bathroom had a semblance of order to it. The refrigerator belonged in a museum, but it still worked, the unit on its top humming away. In it were two frozen dinners, half a carton of milk, some butter and a six-pack of beer.
I said, "What do you think?"
"Permanent quarters. Lousy, but fixed."
Three suits and a sports jacket hung in the closet, all several years old. Two pairs of shoes, one brown, the other black, were on the floor beside a piece of Samsonite luggage that was open and empty. In the corner, almost out of sight, was a small metal rectangle. I picked it up with a handkerchief.
"Pat . . ."
He came over and I showed him the clip for an automatic. It was loaded with 7.65 millimeter cartridges.
"Nice," he muttered. "Let's find the rest of it."
We looked, but that was all there was. No gun was around to fit the clip. Pat said, "That's damned strange."
"Not necessarily. It was kicked in the corner of the closet. It could have been there before he moved in. I almost missed it."
In fifteen minutes we had covered every inch of the place. A cardboard box on one of the shelves held a few dozen receipted bills, some paycheck slips and a stack of old two-dollar betting slips from a Jersey track. It was a stupid souvenir, but at least he could count his losses.
The only thing that didn't seem to belong there was a handmade toolbox with a collection of chisels, bits and two hammers with well-worn handles. Pat said, "These tools are antiques, all made by Sergeant Hardware back in the twenties." He fondled one of the long, thin blades, feeling the sharpness with a fingertip. "Somebody did precision work with these babies. Real sculpture."