48 Nocturne by Ed McBain

Author:Ed McBain
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Police Procedural, Detective and Mystery Stories, Police, Mystery & Detective, 87th Precinct (Imaginary place), Steve (Fictitious character), Fiction, Carella, General, City and town life
ISBN: 9780446605380
Publisher: New York : Warner Books, c1997.
Published: 1998-04-01T04:00:00+00:00

"Frozen tundra out there," Hawes said, and took off his coat. Carella was leafing through the messages on his desk.

"Chicken feathers, huh?" he asked Willis. "Is what the man said," Willis answered. "And fish stains on the mink." "Yeah."

"What kind of fish, did Grossman say?"

"I didn't ask."

"You should have. Just for the halibut."

Willis winced.

"Meyer and Kling tossed the piano player's apartment again," he said. "Zilch."

"That means a hundred and twenty-five K is still kicking around someplace."

"For what it's worth, Kling thinks the burglar theory's the one to go with."

"That's why we're looking for whoever stole a gun," Hawes said.

"If somebody stole it," Carella said. "Otherwise, Pratt's our man." "Alibi a mile long." "Sure, his wife."

"Gee, detective work is so exciting," Willis said and put on his hat and walked out. "Chicken feathers," Carella said. "What did he say about the shit?" "Anybody's guess."

"We can dismiss illegal hunting..."

"Nobody hunts chickens."

"So that leaves theft from a chicken market." "Not too many chicken markets around these days." "Lots of them in Riverhead and Majesta. Some of the ethnics like their chickens fresh-killed. Hangover from the old country."

"Don't Orthodox Jews kill their chickens fresh?" "You think it was a dead chicken in the Caddy?" "Or chickens. Plural."

"Then how come no bloodstains?" "Good point. So it was a live chicken." "Or chickens."

"You know how to make Hungarian chicken soup?" "How?"

"First you steal a chicken."

"Okay, let's say somebody stole a chicken." "Took it for a ride in the backseat of Pratt's Caddy." "Would you make that movie?"

"I wouldn't even go see that movie."

"But, okay, just for the halibut, let's say somebody was hungry enough or desperate enough to steal a chicken from a chicken market..." "Do pet shops sell chickens?" "Chicks." "In January?" "Around Easter."

"Anyway, a chick ain't a chicken."

"No, this had to be a chicken market."

"How about a petting zoo? Where they have goats and cows and chickens and ducks ..." "Do people pet chickens?" "They cook chickens."

"So, okay, first you steal a chicken." "They also sacrifice chickens." "Voodoo." "Mm."

Both men fell silent. It was midnight. Blue Monday. And still snowing.

"Let's ask around," Hawes said.

The technician who had thought vile thoughts about Fat Ollie Weeks nonetheless got back to him just as he was leaving the squad room at a few minutes past midnight. Except for the names on desktop plaques and bulletin-board duty rosters, the squad room here at the Eight-Eight was an almost exact duplicate of the one at the Eight-Seven, or, for that matter, any other police station in the city. Even the newly constructed

buildings began to look shoddy and decrepit time, an apple-green pallor overtaking seemingly at once. Ollie looked at the speckled face the wall clock, remembering that he'd told the tech wanted the stuff by a quarter to, and thinking he'll be lucky Ollie was still here, otherwise it would have been his ass. He ripped open the manila envelope yanked out the report.

No latents at all on the champagne bottles and knife used to slit the estimable Jamal's throat.

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