“I’ll save you the trouble,” Jeannie snapped. “It’s a thirty-eight, C-cup.”
“I figured as much,” Kling answered.
“That’s right, I keep forgetting you’re a cop. Cops are very observant, aren’t they? Are you the force’s prize detective?”
“I’m a patrolman,” Kling said levelly.
“Smart fellow like you, only a patrolman?”
“What the hell’s eating you?” Kling asked suddenly, his voice rising.
“Nothing. What’s eating you?”
“I never met a kid like you. You’ve got a decent home, you’ve got looks any other girl would chop off her right arm for, and you sound—”
“I’m the belle of Riverhead, didn’t you know? I’ve got boys crying for—”
“And you sound as if you’re sixty years old living in a tenement flat! What the hell’s eating you, girl?”
“Nothing. I simply don’t like the idea of a cop coming around to ask me questions.”
“Your people felt you needed help,” Kling said wearily. “I don’t know why. Seems to me you could step into a cage of tigers and come out unscratched. You’re about as soft as an uncut diamond.”
“Thanks.”
Kling rose. “Take care of your beauty, kid,” he said. “You may not have it when you’re thirty-five.” He started for the door.
“Bert,” she called.
He turned.
She was staring at the floor. “I’m sorry,” she said. I’m not usually a bitch.”
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing, really. I have to work it out for myself, that’s all.” She smiled tremulously. “Everything’ll be all right.”
“Okay,” he said. “Don’t let it kill you. Everybody’s got troubles. Especially at seventeen.”
“I know,” she said, still smiling.
“Listen, can I buy you an ice cream or something? Take your mind off your troubles.”
“No, thanks,” she said. She looked at her watch. “I have an appointment.”
“Oh. Well, okay. Have fun, Jeannie.” He looked at her closely. “You’re a beautiful girl. You should be enjoying yourself.”
“I know,” she answered.
“If you should need anything, if you should feel I can help, you can call me at the 87th Precinct.” He smiled. “That’s where I work.”
“All right. Thanks.”
“Want to walk down with me?”
“No, I have to wait for the sitter.”
Kling snapped his fingers. “Sure.” He paused. “If you’d like me to wait with you…”
“I’d rather you didn’t. Thanks, anyway.”
“Okay,” Kling said. He looked at her once more. Her face was troubled, very troubled. He knew there was more to say, but he didn’t know how to say it. “Take care of yourself,” he managed.
“I will. Thanks.”
“Sure,” Kling said. He opened the door and stepped into the foyer. Behind him, Jeannie Paige locked the door.
5
Willis did not like working overtime. There are very few people who enjoy working overtime, unless they are paid for it. Willis was a detective 3rd/grade, and his salary was $5,230 a year. He was not paid by the hour, nor was he paid by the number of crimes he solved yearly. His salary was $5,230, and that was what he got no matter how many hours he put in.
He was somewhat miffed, therefore, when Fats Donner failed to call him that Wednesday night. He had hung around the squadroom answering the phone every time it rang and generally making a nuisance of himself with the bulls who had come in on relief. He had listened for a while to Meyer, who was telling Temple about some case the 33rd had where some guy was going around stealing cats. The story had not interested him, and he had continually glanced at the big clock on the wall, waiting. He left the house at nine, convinced that Donner would not call that night.
When he reported for work at 7:45 the next morning, the desk sergeant handed him a note, which told him Donner had called at 11:15 the night before. Donner had asked that Willis call him back as soon as possible. A number was listed on the sheet of paper. Willis walked past the desk and to the right, where a rectangular sign and a pointing hand showed the way to the DETECTIVE DIVISION. He climbed the metal steps, turned where the grilled window threw a pale-grayish morning light on a five-by-five-square interruption of the steps, and then proceeded up another sixteen steps to the second floor.
He turned his back to the doors at the end of the corridor, the doors marked LOCKERS. He walked past the benches, the men’s lavatory, and the clerical office and then through the slatted rail divider and into the detective squadroom. He signed in, said good morning to Havilland and Simpson, who were having coffee at one of the desks, and then went to his own desk and slid the phone toward him. It was a gray, dull morning, and the hanging light globes cast a dust-covered luminescence over the room. He dialed the number and waited, looking over toward Byrnes’s office. The lieutenant’s door was wide open, which meant the lieutenant had not yet arrived. Byrnes generally closed his door as soon as he was in his office.
“Got a hot lead, Hal?” Havilland called.
“Yeah,” Willis said.
A voice on the other end of his phone said, “Hello?” The voice was sleepy, but he recognized it as Donner’s.
“Fats, this is Willis. You called me last night?”
“What?” Donner said.
“Detective Willis, 87th Squad,” Willis said.
“Oh. Hi. Man, what time is it?”
“About eight.”
“Don’t you cats never sleep?”
“What’ve you got for me?”
“You make a guy going by Skippy Randolph?”
“Not off the bat. Who is he?”
“He’s recently from Chi, but I’m pretty sure he’s got a record here, too. He’s been mugging.”
“You sure?”
“Straight goods. You want to meet him?”
“Maybe.”
“There’s gonna be a little cube rolling tonight. Randolph’ll be there. You can rub elbows.”
“Where?”
“I’ll take you,” Donner said. He paused. “Steam baths cost, you know.”
“Let me check him out first,” Willis said. “He may not be worth meeting. You sure he’ll be at this craps game?”
“Posilutely, dad.”
“I’ll call you back later. Can I reach you at this number?”
“Until eleven. I’ll be at the baths after that.”
Willis looked at the name he’d written on his pad. “Skippy Randolph. His own moniker?”
“The Randolph is. I’m not so sure about the Skippy.”
“But you’re sure he’s mugging?”
“Absotively,” Donner said.
“Okay, I’ll call you back.” Willis replaced the receiver, thought for a moment, and then dialed the Bureau of Criminal Identification.
Miscolo, one of the patrolmen from Clerical came into the office and said, “Hey, Hal, you want some coffee?”
“Yes,” Willis said, and then he told the I.B. what he wanted.
The Bureau of Criminal Identification was located at Headquarters, downtown on High Street. It was open twenty-four hours a day, and its sole reason for existence was the collection and compilation and cataloguing of any and all information descriptive of criminals. The I.B. maintained a Fingerprint File, a Criminal Index File, a Wanted File, a Degenerate File, a Parolee File, a Released Prisoner File, a Known Gamblers, Known Rapists, Known Muggers, Known Any-and-All Kinds of Criminal Files. Its Modus Operandi File contained more than 80,000 photographs of known criminals. And since all persons charged with and convicted of a crime are photographed and fingerprinted as specified by law, the file was continually growing and continually being brought up to date. Since the I.B. received and classified some 206,000 sets of prints yearly, and since it answered requests for some 250,000 criminal records from departments all over the country, Willis’s request was a fairly simple one to answer, and they delivered their package to him within the hour. The first photostatted item Willis dug out of the envelope was Randolph’s fingerprint card.