"Think they're stolen?"
"What for? No fast cash value in it. Looks more like a keepsake to me." He turned the box upside down. Neatly carved into the bottom were the initials V.D.
"You'd better handle that with rubber gloves." I grinned.
"I'll get a penicillin shot later." He gave the place a last look around. "Anthony Cica didn't leave much of a legacy. I wonder who inherits?"
I was fitting the broken panel back in the hole Pat's foot had made. "Well, take the toolbox for whoever the relative is. Nothing else is worthwhile."
He shut off the light and closed the door. When we felt our way down the stairs and got to the street we stood there a minute, both wondering what would make a guy like Anthony Cica live in a place like this, his only treasure an antique toolbox.
Pat finally hunched his shoulders against the rain and we got into the car. Deliberately, he looked across at me. "That killer couldn't have wanted Cica, Mike."
"Why the hell would he want me?"
He started the car. "Guess we'll have to find that out."
2
It was a dreamless night, but I awoke tired. I felt as if I had been running and to awaken was an effort. Only for a few seconds was there a blankness in time before the whole scenario of the day before came crashing down in front of me.
My hand grabbed for the phone and I hit the buttons for the hospital. I was overanxious, got the wrong number and had to hit them again. This time the switchboard put me through to the nurse on Velda's floor. Calmly, she told me Velda had had a quiet night, was still in critical condition, but improving. No, she could have no visitors yet.
The relief I felt was like a cool wave of water washing over me. Hospitals never wanted to sound optimistic, so the report was a favorable one. I called Burke Reedey at home and got him out of bed. All he could say was "Damn it, I've been up all night. Who is this?"
"It's Mike, Burke. What's with Velda?"
"Oh," he said. "You. Wait a minute." I heard him pour something, heard him swallow it, then he said, "She had a close one that time. One hell of a concussion. That blow was delivered with enough force to kill her, but her hair bunched under the instrument and blunted the impact. I was afraid we'd find a fracture there but we didn't. All her vital signs are coming up and we're keeping her isolated for another day."
"She regain consciousness?"
"About four this morning. It was just a brief awakening and she went back to sleep."
"When can I see her?"
"Probably this evening, but I want no communication. She is going to be highly sedated or have one hell of a headache. Either way she won't want to talk."
"What was she hit with?"
"Someday they'll find another term for the usual 'blunt instrument.' However, it wasn't a hard object like a pipe. This had a soft crushing effect and from what I've seen of leather blackjacks, this was what her attacker used. Incidentally, this is what I gave the police in my report."
He paused a moment, then went on: "Meg told me there was a dead man in the other office."
"Burke, you couldn't have helped. He was real dead. Velda was alive and that's all that counted."
"You're a sentimental bastard, you know that?"
"Just realistic, pal."
"I want to know what this is all about."
"You'll get it."
"I hope so. You're the only excitement I ever get anymore."
"Excitement I don't need," I told him. "And Burke . . ."
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
"No trouble. You'll get a bill."
I hung up, made coffee in the kitchen and had a leftover roll from yesterday. When I turned on the news I had to wait fifteen minutes before local events came on and the announcer mentioned a torture murder in the office of a Manhattan businessman. The case was under investigation and no names were made public. As yet, the victim was unidentified.
I just finished pouring my second cup of coffee when the phone rang. Pat said, "I think you ought to come on down to my office."
"What's happening?"
"For one thing, we had an ID on our victim."
"What's the other?"
"We have some strange company here."
"Bad?"
"It's not good."
"Well. I'll change my underwear," I said. After the good news from the hospital, nothing was going to spoil my day.
Sunday morning in New York is like no other time. From dawn until ten the city is like an unborn fetus. There are small sounds and stirrings that are hardly noticeable, then little movements take place and forms emerge, but nothing is happening. It is a time when you could get anywhere quickly and quietly because of the strange emptiness.
The lonely cabbie who picked me up would be going off shift shortly and, fortunately, didn't want to talk. He took me to Pat's building, took my money, switched on the OFF DUTY light and went back uptown.
Sunday had even infiltrated the police department. On the ground floor it was coffee-and-doughnuts time with a minimum crew at work. Everybody was friendly including Sergeant Klaus who winked and told me Captain Chambers and company were expecting me upstairs.
Pat was in the corridor when I got off the elevator and without a word, steered me into his office. When he closed the door he said, "You told me you didn't know the guy who got killed."
"That's right, I didn't."
Something had hold of Pat and he was mad. "You sure?"
"Look, Pat, what's the deal here? I told you I didn't know him."
"He was a delivery guy from a stationery store who brought up some letterhead samples for you to okay."
"Velda took care of that stuff."
"The guy called the store and told the boss to go ahead with the order."
"So that's what he was doing at my desk. You get the time?"
"Around ten twenty or so."
"That fixes it then."
"But there's a little more to it."
"Oh?"
"His name was Anthony DiCica. Mean anything to you?"
I shook my head. "So someplace he dropped the 'Di' part of his name."
"Seems that way."
"That accounts for the V.D. initials on that toolbox. It must have been his old man's. So where does that leave us?"
"We have a package on him in New York. He went down twice for minor crimes fifteen years ago. Petty stuff, but at least he has a record. That much we got when we ran his driver's license through."
"How about prints?"
"Those first knuckle joints came back from the lab this morning. We rolled them and got them on the computers."
"Then what's on your mind, Pat?"
"Usually we can handle our own homicides here without any interference. Suddenly some first-class interest shows up . . . the DA's office."
I shrugged. "So, he's got a right."
"This is not a general occurrence, pal. When I got back here word had already come down. That note stays confidential until the DA decides to release it. What I think shook them up is that signature, Penta. Hell, it couldn't've been anything else."
"What did they give you on it?"
"They gave me a lot of shit, that's all. I raised hell upstairs, but when the inspector says to go along, we go along."
I gave Pat a friendly rap on the shoulder. "If those squirrels want to play games, let them. A nice screwball case like this can make some interesting headlines."
"Their attitude stinks, Mike." He paused, then glanced at me anxiously. "You mention that note at all?"
"This is the first time I've been on something that the newshounds weren't all over me. Between this being the weekend and my office on the eighth floor where you could contain those guys, it was a pretty damn quiet murder. How many others did you have last night?"
"Four in Manhattan."
"So we got lost in the crowd."
"Not for long, boy, not for long. I can smell this one about to bust open like an abscessed tooth."