Ed McBain - Downtown (18 page)

You could fit all of downtown Sarasota in Knickerbocker Village. That was another thing about this city. You could drive all over the downtown area, which was really just an infinitesimal part of New York, and you'd see more buildings and more restaurants and more movie theaters and more people than you would driving through the entire state of Florida. Michael found this amazing. He suddenly wondered if Connie planned to stay in New York for the rest of her life. He hoped not. They were surrounded now by tall brick buildings. They walked on paths shoveled clear of snow. The evening was cold and brisk. Connie was wearing jeans and leg warmers and boots and the short black coat she'd had on last night when she'd followed him out of the fortune-cookie factory. Michael was wearing a brown leather bomber jacket he'd bought from a friend of Connie's named Louis Klein who ran an Army and Navy store on Delancey Street, which he opened for Connie even though this was Christmas and he was leaving for Puerto Rico in the morning. He had also sold to Michael--with money borrowed from Connie-- a pair of Levi jeans, a blue wool sweater reduced from sixty-four dollars to twenty-three ninety-five, and a pair of white woolen socks "to keep your feet warm," he said paternally. It was amazing how Connie brought out the paternal instinct in all these fifty-, sixty-year-old men. When Klein clucked his tongue and asked Connie how her boyfriend had hurt his arm, Connie told him simply and honestly that he'd been shot. Klein said, "This city, I'm not surprised," and threw in an extra pair of woolen socks free. She clung to his right arm now as they wandered through the development, following signs that told them which building was which. Somehow there was no sense of urgency here in this cloistered enclave. It was

close to five o'clock now. There was a hush

267 on the city. The street lamps, already lighted, cast a warm glow on the snow banked along the paths. Window rectangles glowed with the warmth of rooms beyond, Christmas tree lights blinking red and blue and green and white. Strings of lights outlined windows and balconies. One window was decorated with a huge white star. It was still Christmas.

They found Nichols's building, located his name in the lobby directory downstairs, and took the elevator up to the sixth floor. The corridor smelled of Christmas. Birds and beef that had been roasted, pies that had been baked. There was laughter behind one of the closed doors. Music behind another. They walked to the door for Nichols's apartment and Michael pressed the bell button set into the jamb. He listened. Nothing. He looked at Connie. She shrugged. He rang the bell again. No answer. "He's out," he said. "Knock," she said. He knocked. No answer. He knocked again. He shook his head. "Damn it," he said. "What do we do now?" "I'd like to get in there," he said.

"Do you know how to do something like that?" she asked. "Something like what?" "Opening a door with a credit card?" "No. Anyway, they _stole my credit cards."

He was beginning to get angry all over again. Just thinking about what had happened to him since seven o'clock last night made him angry. Not knowing _why these things were happening to him made him angry. Not knowing _who was doing these things to him made him angry. And now Nichols not being here made him even angrier. "Do _you have a credit card?" he asked. "Yes, but you just said ..." "I can learn." She dug in her shoulder bag, found her wallet, and took from it an American Express card. He looked at the card, looked at the place in the jamb where the door fit snugly into it, grabbed the knob in his hand, slid the card between door and jamb, twisted the

knob--and the door opened.

269 He looked at the door. He looked at the credit card. "Boy," Connie said, "you're _some fast learner."

He eased the door open the rest of the way. There were lights on in the living room. A lighted Christmas wreath in the living room window as well. He motioned Connie in, closed the door behind them. There was a deadbolt lock on the door. In the open position. Which meant he hadn't worked any magic with the credit card, the door had been unlocked already. He turned the thumb bolt now. The tumblers fell with a small oiled click that sounded like a rifle shot in the silent apartment.

"This is breaking and entry, you know," Connie said. They stood just inside the entrance door.

There were two lamps on end tables in the living room, casting warm pools of illumination on a sofa and a pair of easy chairs. The wreath in the window glowed red and green. There was not a sound anywhere in the apartment. "Let's see if we can find a desk someplace," Michael whispered. "Why a desk?" "See what's in it."

They moved out past the kitchen, and discovered off the hallway just beyond it a room that was furnished as a study. Big window on the wall across from the door. Bookcases on the wall to the right, an easy chair and a reading lamp in front of them. A desk and a chair on the opposite wall. Michael went to the desk and snapped on the desk lamp. The wall above the desk was decorated with framed pictures, most of them in black and white, all of them showing the same man in various costumes and in various poses. But in whichever costume and whatever pose, he was definitely the man who'd stolen Michael's car, and presumably the man whose apartment this was: Charles R. Nichols. It looked as if Nichols had once played Sherlock Holmes, if the deerstalker hat and pipe meant anything. Julius Caesar, too, judging from the toga and the laurel wreath. And either Napoleon or Hercule Poirot, it was difficult to tell from the photo. There were also photographs of him playing what appeared to be the leading man to various leading women. Holding the ladies' hands, gazing

into their eyes, grinning in a goofy

271 juvenile manner. It was always embarrassing to see photographs of an essentially unattractive man who thought he was handsome and who posed like a lady-killer. Michael thought of himself as merely okay in a world populated by spectacularly handsome men. He sometimes wished he had the kind of nerve it took to pose for pictures like the ones here on Charlie's wall.

"We're looking for anything about Crandall," he said. "Or Parrish or Cahill." "Okay," Connie said.

She pulled out the bottom desk drawer and sat on the floor beside it, legs crossed Indian style. Michael sat in the chair and began looking through the drawer over the kneehole. "Have you got enough light?" he asked. "Yes," she said. It occurred to him that he liked the way they worked together. They were getting good at working together. Last night in Crandall's office had been the very first time they'd ransacked anyplace together. Now, working as a team, they ... "The check," Michael said. "What check?"

"The one Crandall wrote on Monday. For nine thousand dollars." "What about it?"

"He went to the bank at two-thirty. If that's when he cashed it ..." "Uh-huh."

"... then maybe he gave the cash to Charlie ..." "Uh-huh." "... when he came to the office at _three-thirty. That's all on Crandall's calendar, Connie. The bank, and Charlie coming to the office." "Okay, so what are we looking for?" she asked. "Nine thousand dollars in cash?" "Well, I guess so." "And if we find it? What will that mean?"

"I don't know," Michael said, and sighed heavily.

They did not find nine thousand dollars in cash in any of the drawers in Charlie's desk.

They found instead a tarnished penny in a tray containing rubber bands, paper clips, a roll of Scotch tape, and a pair of scissors. That was

all the cash they found.

273

They did, however, find an address book and an appointment calendar. And for Monday, the twenty-third of December, Charlie had listed his three-thirty meeting at Crandall's office. And for Tuesday, the twenty-fourth of December ... Last night ...

The night this whole damn thing had started ... Charlie had written onto his calendar:

Call Mama "Mama again," Michael said. "Let's check his address book." There was a listing for Arthur Crandall in Charlie's address book. For both his office and his home. So _that connection, at least, was clearly established. There was no listing for either a Parrish or a Cahill. "Is his mother listed?" Connie asked. "Why his mother?" he asked. "Mama," Connie said, and shrugged. "Why would Crandall have called _Charlie's mother `Mama`?" "I don't know. Maybe she's a big, fat woman. People call big, fat women `Mama` even if they're somebody else's mother." "I don't even call my _own mother `Mama,`" Michael said. "Sophie Tucker was big and fat and she was the last of the Red Hot Mamas," Connie said. "Who's Sophie Tucker?" Michael asked. "I don't know. I drove somebody to see a play about her." Michael looked under Nichols.

He found a listing for a Sarah Nichols in New Jersey. "Try her," Connie said. He debated this.

"Wish her a merry Christmas, ask her if she's talked to her son lately." Michael still hesitated. "Go ahead," Connie said.

He was thinking that the last time he'd talked to a strange woman on the telephone--Albetha

Crandall, last night--the police had

275 come up the fire escape the very next minute. Maybe talking to strange women on the telephone had a jinx attached. In Vietnam, you did all sorts of things to avoid jinxes. Jinxes could get you killed. You wrote all sorts of magic slogans on your helmet, you hung little amulets and charms from your flak jacket, anything to ward off a jinx, anything to stay alive. He did not want any more cops coming up the fire escape. He did not want to get shot by anyone else in this city, good guy or bad guy. But if the Mama in both Crandall's _and Charlie's appointment calendars _was in fact Charlie's mother, then maybe she could tell him something about what was going on here. If he played his cards right. If he crossed his fingers and mumbled a bit of voodoo jive to keep away the jinx. In Vietnam, Andrew had taught him some voodoo jive. Andrew was from New Orleans, where they sometimes did that kind of shit. He dialed the number. "Hello?" A woman's voice. "Sarah Nichols?" he said. "Yes?" "Merry Christmas," Michael said. "Who's this, please?" Sarah said. "A friend of Charlie's."

"Is anything wrong?" she asked at once. "No, no. I've been trying to locate him, I wonder if you've talked to him lately." "Not since this morning," she said. "He was supposed to come here for an early dinner, I told him I was having some friends in, but he never showed. Well, you know how Charlie is."

"Oh, yeah, Charlie," Michael said, and chuckled. "What time this morning?" "Oh, around eleven, it must have been. The minute Charlie hears I want him to meet some girl, he runs for the hills."

"That's Charlie, all right," Michael said. "And you haven't talked to him since, huh?"

"No. Would you like to leave your name? In case he _does pop up? Though it's really quite late, I doubt if even my brother would walk in at nine-thirty." "Your brother, uh-huh," Michael said. "You don't think he might be with Benny, do you?"

"Who's Benny?"

277 "I don't know. I thought you might know." "No, I'm sorry, I don't."

"Do you think your mother might know Benny? Do you have a mother?" "Everyone has a mother."

"I mean, she isn't dead or anything, is she?" "Not that I know of." "What do you call her?" "I call her ... who did you say this was?" "Do you call her Mama?" "Sometimes." "Is she spry? Does she get around?"

"Yes, she's very spry. Excuse me, but ..."

"Would you know if someone named Arthur Crandall took her to meet someone named Benny last night?" "I have no idea. Can you tell me who this is, please?" "Michael." "Michael who?" she asked.

"Bond," he said. "No relation. Please tell Charlie I called." "I will," she said. "Good night, Mr. Bond." "Good night," Michael said. He put the receiver back on the cradle. He was beginning to like that name.

Maybe he'd take it on as a middle name. It was certainly a hell of a lot better than Jellicle. "His sister," he said. "I gathered," Connie said. "Let's see if there's anything in the bedroom," he said. Charlie Nichols was in the bedroom. On the bed. All bloody.

11

Michael had seen a lot of dead bodies in his short lifetime, but none quite so messily dispatched as this one. Whoever had shot and killed Charlie seemed to have had a difficult time _finding him. There were bullet holes in the headboard, bullet holes in the wall behind the bed, and several bullet holes in Charlie himself. If there were

awards for sloppy murders, whoever had

279 shot Charlie should start preparing an acceptance speech.

Connie looked as if she was about to throw up. "You okay?" Michael asked. She nodded. He looked at the body again, went to the bed, and was leaning over the corpse when Connie yelled, "No!" "What's the matter?" he said. "Don't touch him," she said.

"Why not? Is that a Chinese superstition?" "No, it's not a Chinese superstition." "Then what is it?" "It's disgusting." "I just want to see if he's carrying a wallet," Michael said, and tried the right-hand side pocket in his pants, and found what appeared to be several white rock crystals in a little plastic vial.

"Must collect these, huh?" he said, showing the vial to Connie. Connie looked at him. "Rocks, I mean," Michael said. "Crack, you mean," Connie said. "What?" "That's crack."

"It is?" Michael said, and looked at the vial more closely. "I thought crystallography was perhaps his hobby." "Smoking cocaine is perhaps his hobby." "I'll tell you something," Michael said, "if this turns out to be another goddamn _dope plot ..." "A single vial of cocaine doesn't necessarily ..."

"I've had dope plots up to here, I mean it. You can't go to a movie nowadays, you can't turn on television ..." "There is no reason to believe that this is linked to a _dope plot."

"Then what's this?" he asked, and showed her the vial again. "That's crack." "And is crack dope?" "Crack is dope." "And is this man dead?" "He appears to be dead."

"There you are," Michael said, and rolled him over.

"Irrrgh," Connie said, and covered

281 her eyes with her hands. Michael was patting down the right hip pocket. "Here it is," he said, and reached into the pocket and yanked out a wallet. Connie still had her hands over her eyes. "You can look now," he said, and opened the wallet.

The first thing he saw was a driver's license with a picture of the man on the bed. The name on the license was Charles Robert Nichols. "Well, it's him," Michael said. "Good, give him back his wallet." "Let's see what else is in it."