Ed McBain_87th Precinct 47 (27 page)

“It’s getting to be a regular epidemic here,” Morgenstern told Carella.

Carella tended to agree.

A stabbing on the sixth.

A murder on the seventh.

A suicide—or what certainly looked like one—on the tenth.

The old hat trick.

The reason the detectives of the Two-One shrewdly suspected suicide was the fact that a note was in the roller of the typewriter
on Chuck Madden’s desk, and the note read:

DEAR GOD, PLEASE FORGIVE ME

FOR WHAT I DID TO MICHELLE

They did not know that Michelle was Michelle Cassidy until they found her name listed in the loose-leaf binder under ACTORS.
From the naked broken parts on the sidewalk, the building’s superintendent had identified “Mr. Madden in 10A,” but until they
leafed through that binder, they hadn’t known that he was Mr. Charles Williams Madden, STAGE MANAGER of this play called
Romance
. That was when they called Marvin Morgenstern, PRODUCER.

Now Morgenstern was reporting all this to Steve Carella, DETECTIVE, even though Madden hadn’t defenestrated himself anywhere
near
the confines of the Eight-Seven. Carella did not envy whoever in the department would have to determine jurisdiction on
this
one. Meanwhile, he told Morgenstern he would go talk to the detectives downtown.

They were still at the scene when Carella and Kling got there at nine-thirty that morning of the eleventh. So were Monoghan
and Monroe from the Homicide Division.

“Well, well, well.” Monoghan said. “look what the cat dragged in.”

“Well, well, well,” Monroe repeated.

The two were dressed in black, as befitted their station and calling. The weather being seasonably mild, each was wearing
a tropical-weight black suit, a white pima cotton shirt, a black tie, black shoes and socks, and a rakishly tilted black fedora
with a narrow snap brim. They thought they looked quite elegant. In fact, they resembled two portly morticians whose mutual
bad habit was hooking thumbs into jacket pockets. They were both grinning as if pleased to see Carella and Kling.

“What brings the Eight-Seven to the scene of this morbidity?” Monoghan asked.

“This chamber of death and desolation,” Monroe said, beaming and opening his arms wide to encompass the entire apartment.
At the far end of what appeared to be the living room, a technician was dusting the sill of the window through which Madden
had presumably leapt to his death. The window was still open. The curtains on either side of it rustled in a mild breeze.
It was a spectacularly beautiful Saturday in April.

“Who’s this?” a big, burly black man asked, and walked in from the other room. He was wearing a loud plaid sports jacket and
brown slacks, and white cotton gloves. He was also in need of a shave, a sure sign that he was the cop who’d caught the squeal.

“You in charge here?” Carella asked.

“I’m in charge here,” the man said.

“No,
we’re
in charge here,” Monoghan said.

Carella ignored him.

“Carella,” he said, introducing himself. “Eighty-seventh Squad.”

“Oh, yeah,” the man said matter-of-factly. “I’m Biggs, the Two-One. My partner’s in the bedroom.” Neither of them offered
his hand. Cops on the job rarely shook hands, perhaps because none of them was hiding a dagger up his sleeve. “I figured you’d
be turning up sooner or later. The possible connection,” he said.

“What connection?” Monroe asked.

“There’s a connection?” Monoghan asked.

“To what?” Monroe said.

Both of them looked suddenly perturbed, as if this possible
connection
, whatever it turned out to be, might mean more work for them. In this city, the appearance of homicide cops was mandatory
at the scene of any murder, but the precinct detective catching the squeal always followed the case to its conclusion. Most
of the time, Homicide served in a purely supervisory—some skeptics might have said superficial—capacity. Quick to find fault,
quicker to take credit, the cops from Homicide were not particularly adored by other members of the force, least of all those
who were on the front lines of any investigation. Biggs’s distaste showed on his round open face. Carella’s expression ran
a close second. Kling simply walked away.

“Michelle Cassidy,” Carella said.

“The actress who’s been all over television,” Biggs said, figuring he’d shove a hot poker up their asses.

“
This
is connected to
that
?” Monroe said.

“
That
is connected to
this?”
Monoghan said.

“Just a
possible
connection,” Biggs said. “You see this note, Carella?”

They all moved to where the typewriter sat on a desk facing the same window through which Madden had presumably jumped. Except
for Kling—who was in the bedroom now, talking to Biggs’s partner, another black man—they all leaned over the typewriter to
look at the note:

DEAR GOD, PLEASE FORGIVE ME

FOR WHAT I DID TO MICHELLE

“Just what he said it said,” Carella said.

“Just what
who
said?” Monroe asked,

“Morgenstern.”

“Who the fuck is Morgenstern?” Monoghan asked.

“I read it to him on the phone,” Biggs said.

“Who?”

“Morgenstern.”

“Why?”

“He’s the producer,” Biggs said, and shrugged. “What do we do here, Carella?” he asked. “Whose case is this?”

“I think the chain goes back to us. But let’s work it together till rank decides,” Carella suggested.

“We’re
the ones decide here,” Monroe said.

“I don’t think so,” Carella said.

“Me, neither,” Biggs said.

“We’re Homicide,”
Monoghan said, looking offended.

Biggs ignored him.

“You shoulda seen what he looked like on the sidewalk,” he told Carella.

“Am I the only one here just had breakfast?” Monoghan asked.

“Where’s he now?” Carella asked.

“Parkside General. What’s left of him. They had to scrape him off the sidewalk.”

“Please,” Monoghan said.

“This typewriter been dusted yet?” Monroe asked.

“No, the techs just got here a few minutes ago.”

“How about the note?”

“That neither.”

“You’ll want to get both of those to the lab,” Monoghan suggested.

“No shit,” Biggs said.

“Henry? You want to come in here a minute?”

They all turned to where Biggs’s partner was standing in the doorway with Kling. He was wearing jeans, loafers, a blue cotton
turtleneck sweater and white cotton gloves. His name was Akir Jabeem. He introduced himself to Carella and the homicide dicks
and then turned to Kling as if wondering who was going to break this to the others. Both men had obviously discussed this
between them already. Kling nodded.

“We’re not sure the guy was actually living here,” Jabeem said.

“Then who was living here?” Monoghan asked. “If not him.”

“What we’re saying,” Jabeem said, “is there doesn’t seem much evidence of
habitation
here,”

“I
still
don’t know what the fuck you’re saying,” Monoghan said.

“Take a look in his clothes closer,” Kling said.

They all walked over to the closet and looked inside. There were two pairs of pants hanging in the closet. One sports jacket.
One pair of shoes on the floor. Loafers. Black.

“So?” Monroe said. “The guy didn’t own too many clothes.”

“Take a look in the dresser,” Jabeem advised.

They all went over to the dresser. Kling and Jabeem had already opened the drawers. They looked in. The two bottom drawers
were empty. In the top drawer, there were three pairs of undershorts, three pairs of socks, three handkerchiefs, and a blue
denim shirt.

There was a night table on either side of the bed. An empty glass was on the table closest to the window. The one on the other
table was half-full. Jabeem picked up the glass in one of his gloved hands, held it first under his nose, sniffing, and then
under Carella’s.

“Scotch?” Carella asked.

“Or something mighty like it.”

Lying on the floor beside the bed was a heap of clothing that included a pair of undershorts, a pair of socks, a pair of workman’s
coveralls, a pair of high-topped workman’s shoes, and a blue woolen watch cap. Presumably, these were the clothes Madden had
been wearing before he’d stripped naked to jump out the window. The window in this room was sealed shut around an air-conditioning
unit. Which may have been why he’d gone into the other room to do his high-diving act.

“Let’s check the other room,” Monroe said.

It was his smartest suggestion today.

The other room undoubtedly had served Madden as a sort of combined living room/work area. Not much larger than the bedroom,
it was furnished only with a desk, a chair in front of it, a sofa upholstered in a black-and-white-check fabric, an easy chair
done in the same fabric, and an open cabinet on top of which there was a shaded lamp. Sitting on the one shelf inside the
cabinet were four tumblers and a bottle of Black & White Scotch that appeared to be about a quarter full.

“There she is,” Jabeem said.

Inside the top drawer of the desk near the window, they found a stapler, a small box of staples, several pencils, a box of
paper clips, and a sheaf of paper for a three-ringed loose-leaf binder of the sort Madden had used for his stage manager’s
records. Two of the drawers on the right side of the kneehole were empty. In the bottom drawer there was a boxed ream of typewriter
paper. Biggs removed the lid. Inside the box, there were twenty typed pages of the manuscript for a play. The title page read:

THE WENCH IS DEAD

a play in two acts by

CHARLES WILLIAM MADDEN

and

GERALD GREENBAUM

The typescript seemed to match that on the note in the typewriter.

“This other name mean anything to you?” Biggs asked.

“He’s in the play they’ve been rehearsing,” Carella said.

“One of the bit players,” Kling said.

“What play?” Monoghan asked.

“
Romance
.”

“The dead girl was starring in it.”

“I don’t know what the hell’s going on here,” Monoghan said.

“Let’s check the kitchen,” Monroe said.

This was his second smartest suggestion today.

The small refrigerator in the kitchen had nothing in it but a container of milk that had gone sour, a wilted head of lettuce,
half a tomato growing mold, a partially full quart bottle of club soda, and an unopened package of sliced white bread. In
the freezer compartment, there were three ice cube trays. Two of them were empty. The last contained ice cubes that were shrinking
away from the sides of their separate compartments.

“Who’s in charge here?” a voice from the entrance door bellowed, and Fat Ollie Weeks barged into the apartment.

“I am,” Biggs said, and walked over to him, and glanced at the ID card clipped to his lapel. “What’s the Eight-Eight doing
all the way down here?” he asked.

“We caught the prior,” Ollie said, smiling pleasantly.

“What prior?”

“Michelle Cassidy.”

“You,
too
?” Biggs said.

“Oh, did somebody
else
catch that squeal?” Ollie asked innocently. “The girl’s
murder
? Because if so, this is the first I’m hearing.”

“Carella here caught the stabbing.”

“Apples and oranges,” Ollie said. “This is a clear case of FMU.”

He was referring to Section 893.7 of the rules and regulations governing internal police matters in this city. The section
was familiarly called the First Man Up rule since it dealt with conflicts involving priority and jurisdiction, detailing the
circumstances and situations in which a police officer who’d been investigating a
prior
crime was mandated to investigate a seemingly related
subsequent
crime.

“Look, Ollie…” Carella started.

“I
already
dealt with you and the blond kid here,” Ollie said, “I got nothing further to say to either one of you. In fact, I don’t
appreciate everybody I go talking to on this case, they tell me, ’Oh, .
gee
, Detective Weeks, Carella’s already been here, Kling’s already been here.’ You got no excuse investigating
my
homicide, so just…”

“Try Nellie’s people going to the Chief of…”

“Try
this,”
Ollie said, and held up the middle finger of his right hand. Nodding in dismissal, he turned immediately to Biggs and said,
“You can go home, too.”

“Oh, is that right?” Biggs said.

“Yes, Henry,” Ollie. said, reading his first name from the ID card clipped to his jacket pocket. “The guy who killed the girl
is already in jail, so your services are no longer needed. Whatever this is here…”

“Did you see what’s in the typewriter?” Biggs asked.

“No, what’s in the typewriter?”

“Take a look.”

Ollie looked:

DEAR GOD, PLEASE FORGIVE ME

FOR WHAT I DID TO MICHELLE

“Don’t mean a shit,” Ollie said.

“Sort of lets Milton off the hook, though, don’t you think?” Carella said pleasantly.

“Who’s Milton?” Monoghan asked.

“A poet,” Monroe said.

“A what?”

“An English poet.”

“I never heard of him.”

“He wrote
Paradise
Falls.”

“He’s the fuckin agent who
killed
her,” Ollie said, not so pleasantly.

“How about that note, Ollie?” Carella asked.

“How about it? It ain’t even signed. How do
I
know who typed that note?”

“Milton sure as hell didn’t. He’s already in jail, remember?”

“Anybody
coulda typed it. A
friend
of Milton’s coulda typed it! A friend of his coulda shoved this guy out the window and then typed a phony suicide note. To
get Milton off the hook. It don’t mean a shit, that note.”

“Nothing means anything…”

“That
note
doesn’t!”

“…just so you get the collar…”

“I know when somebody
did
something!”