I rolled Amy off me as Roy came running up, still in his bathrobe, bleeding from a small cut on his right hand. He felt my side where I was clutching it, said matter-of-factly, “Yep,” and slipped his bathrobe off to put under me.
Then he stood there in his pajamas, looking foolish and cold. “I’ll get you to a doctor. Thanks, Nate.” He shuffled, and looked at the kids, dazed. Amy was still unruffled, but her eyes were shining. Howie and Paul were jumping up and down with excitement.
He looked back at me. “Do you feel all excited too, Nate?”
Talking hurt. It felt that I should slip the words out edgeways. “Gee, Uncle Roy, can we do that again?”
He chuckled, but his jaw jumped as he looked at the back door. I rolled my head cautiously and looked myself. There was a two-by-four across it. Screwed into the doorframe at either end; a U-bolt went around the door knob. If that bomb had ignited the fuel oil, we’d never have gotten out in time.
Suddenly Roy was as cool as I’ve ever seen him. I said, “Roy”-quietly-but he didn’t hear me.
He added, even more quietly, “If it turns out that guy knew the kids were here, I’ll make sure he doesn’t see the inside of a courtroom myself.”
He was shaking, and he wasn’t cold, and even in his pajamas he didn’t look silly at all.
The hospital bed had the usual sheets-snow-white, rigid with starch and smelling like the underside of a band-aid. There was a single Christmas-tree ornament hanging on the bedside lamp, and a cardboard Santa lay on the night stand looking round and two-dimensional. Cut-out letters on the mirror read, Merry Christmas.
Roy looked at his reflection, rubbing his chin-he hadn’t shaved-and said, “You’re supposed to take it easy, and this is the easiest I can get for you.”
I scratched and winced; I could feel the pain all along my side. “My timing’s rotten. Sorry, Roy. You won’t even have the bandage on long. You cracked a rib, not broke it.”
“If you’re not gonna be cheerful, I’m not gonna talk.” I leaned back and sulked while he left, whistling.
I settled back into the pillow, wishing I felt like taking it easy. There was a murderer loose who wanted to kill Cartley, one who wasn’t losing any sleep over killing a few kids in the process. I was in the hospital for twenty-four hours and restricted for much longer. And my partner and best friend was thinking seriously about murder. I tried to take it easy, feeling cold-blooded.
Painful as it was, I shifted restlessly and tried to think. The bombing had been disturbingly amateurish. The bomb itself had been inefficient and the house-barricade childish. Even the first murder smacked of cheap detective shows. Only the break-in showed any professionalism; the first break-in had all the class of Gillis’s and Petlovich’s best effort.
Irrelevantly, I wondered what Gam and Mary did with those nights out on the town. It couldn’t have been anything much; apparently Mary had enjoyed herself, or else wasn’t talking. I pictured a tired thug and a bored woman, eating something Cordon bleu and taking turns reading each other their rights.
I was dozing when the phone rang. I could have ignored it, since Marlowe wasn’t on duty, but I remembered where I was and what was going on before it stopped ringing.
“Yeah?”
“Boy!” It was Howie. “You sure took a long time to get to the phone.”
“Don’t whine. It’s a big room. I was clear across it, dusting the grand piano. What’s up, Howie?”
“Just wanted to tell you I figured out what you’re doing, and why.” He sounded half lighthearted, half scared-strained. I was reminded of Cartley’s call the other morning.
I said, “What?” then had a thought. “No, I take it back. Howie, Amy and Paul aren’t on the extension, are they?”
“No.”
“But they’re in the room behind you.”
“Yes.” On cue I heard them talking in the background, a long way from the phone.
“Howie,” I said cautiously, “you’re pretty sure that bomb this morning wasn’t anything your uncle and I did, aren’t you?”
He let out a quick sigh, then said, “Sure.”
“Do the others know?”
“No way.” He was very firm, almost military.
“Right. Well, we’re not playing, and you know it, so what did you call about?”
He tried to sound. “I’ll bet anything Uncle Roy has gone to see some woman that helps you.”
“Why?”
“’Cause he said he had to see a girl about a restaurant, just after he got a phone call. I thought you’d know about it,” he added in real surprise. “I figured it was your girl helping you.”
I was irritated. “Doesn’t he know any other girls?”
Howie said self-righteously, “He’s married. And if you’ve got more than one girl, I bet you’re in trouble.”
“Not if the first one never finds out-oh, wait. Of course. Sure.” Funny how things fall together when you’re not looking for them. “Howie, thanks for calling. What you just told me was important. But why did you call me? What made it important to you?”
His whisper was moist and breathy; he must have had the mouthpiece right against his lips. “’Cause when Uncle Roy left he took two guns and all kinds of bullets, and I’ve never seen him do that before.”
The sheets weren’t just snowy-suddenly they felt like ice. I said, “I’ll do something about it right now. Howie, nobody ever said you weren’t on the ball, and nobody’s ever going to.”
“Thanks, Nathan,” he said seriously, then hung up.
Right after the click I called Pederson. I was lucky enough to find him in.
“What do you want?” he groused. “Phillips, I thought if you took a rest, I’d have one.
“Fat chance. Are you doing anything?”
“Plenty.”
“Drop it and pick me up at the hospital. Roy needs someone from Homicide.”
“There are other cops besides me, you know.” I could hear the whuff as he lit up one of his cigars and pulled at it. “Some of them are even Homicide.”
“He needs a friend-two of them. He’s in trouble, and some rookie with a gun won’t get him out of it.”
“Why not?”
“Because his own gun’s getting him into it right now.”
That was as close as I could come without committing myself.
It worked. There was a moment’s silence, then Pederson said roughly, “I don’t understand, and I’ll be right over. Be downstairs and ready in ten minutes, even if it hurts.”
Ten minutes later he was there. I was ready, and God, did it hurt! I gave him the address, and he drove faster than I’d have dared through downtown, even with a siren. We skidded onto Lake Street, wove through traffic till we shot under 35W, then screeched into a right turn we almost skidded out of. I filled him in the whole time, not stopping when I grabbed the dash for support.
He interrupted twice. “How do you know all this?”
“The restaurant bills. The man who kept a woman in that slum didn’t show her three good nights on the town.”
He grunted, and we went on. A little later he said, “You know, Phillips, I wish you could have done without me. My badge is sticky; it doesn’t pull off just because a friend’s involved.”
How do you answer that? “I know. I’m hoping we’ll get there before anything too bad happens.” He sped up then. I hadn’t thought it possible.
We pulled in across the street from the building. Roy’s car was nowhere in sight, but maybe he’d stowed it. Pederson headed for the front door, but I pulled at his arm and pointed. We ran to the fire escape and started climbing.
We hung back from the window at first. It was three inches open; we couldn’t hear anything in the apartment. Finally, we looked in. Roy wasn’t there. The only person there was Mary Jordan, a.44 held against her right leg, sitting in a chair and staring at the door.