Bread (87th Precinct) by McBain Ed

Author:McBain, Ed [McBain, Ed]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781612181585
Publisher: AmazonEncore
Published: 2011-12-20T06:00:00+00:00

It was close to 6:00 when Hawes got to Diamondback. Two radio motor patrol cars were parked at the curb in front of the building, their red dome lights rotating and blinking. Two patrolmen, one black and one white, were standing on the stoop looking out over the crowd of men and women who had gathered to enjoy another of the city’s outdoor summer spectacles. A plainclothes cop with his shield pinned to the pocket of his jacket was sitting in one of the cars, the radio mike in his fist, the car door open, one foot outside on the curb. Hawes locked his car, and then pinned his own shield to his jacket as he walked across to the building. He climbed onto the stoop, identified himself to the nearest patrolman, and said, “I called in the 10-34. What happened?”

“Lady upstairs is near dead,” the patrolman said. “Ambulance is on the way.”

“Who’s up there now?”

“Lewis and Ruggiero, from the other car, and a Detective Kissman of the Narcotics Squad. He’s the one who got here first. Busted in the door, but whoever did the job was already gone. Must’ve been more than one of them. They messed her up real bad.”

“Who’s that on the squawk box?”

“Detective Boyd, the Eight-Three.”

“Tell him I’ll be upstairs, okay?” Hawes said, and went into the building.

He was stopped on the fifth floor by one of the patrolmen from the second RMP car. He identified himself, and went up to the sixth floor. The patrolman outside 6A glanced at Hawes’s shield and said nothing as he went into the apartment. Elizabeth was lying unconscious on the floor near the kitchen table. Her clothes were torn and bloodied, her jaw hung open, and both legs were twisted under her at an angle that clearly indicated they’d been broken. A man in a brown cardigan sweater was sitting at the kitchen table, the telephone receiver to his ear. He looked up as Hawes came in, waved, and then said, into the mouthpiece, “Got no idea. I busted in because all hell was breaking loose.” He listened a moment, and then said, “All of it, from the phone call on. Right, I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up, rose, and walked toward Hawes, his hand outstretched. He was a tall, angular man with a relaxed and easy manner. Like the other policemen on the scene, he wore his shield pinned to an outer garment—in his case, the left-hand side of his sweater, just over the heart.

“I’m Martin Kissman,” he said. “Narcotics.”

“Cotton Hawes, 87th,” Hawes said, and reached for Kissman’s extended hand.

“Oh,” Kissman said, surprised. “So you’re Hawes, huh?”

“What do you mean?” Hawes said, puzzled.

“I was going to call you later today, soon as I got relieved. We’ve got the apartment bugged, I’ve been sitting the wire.”

“Oh,” Hawes said. “You got my message, huh?”

“Loud and clear. And I got the conversation you had with her later, after Harrod was killed. They knew the joint was wired, huh? I should have realized it.

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