Ed McBain_87th Precinct 47 (4 page)

Where she was when she stepped through the door was inside a big, noisy, high-ceilinged room with a lot of uniformed cops
milling around, and a high wooden desk on her right, with a brass rail in front of it about waist high, and a sign on the
counter stating
ALL VISITORS MUST STATE BUSINESS
. There were two more uniformed cops behind the desk, one of them drinking coffee from a cardboard container. A clock behind
the desk read ten minutes past four. The rain had stopped, but it was still pretty brisk for April, and the room seemed chillier
somehow than it did outside, maybe because there were no windows in it or maybe because it was full of cops. She stepped up
to the desk, cleared her throat, and said to the one drinking coffee, “My name is Michelle Cassidy, I’d like to talk to a
detective, please.

“Kling wondered if Deputy Chief Surgeon Sharyn Everard Cooke had ever been inside a detective squadroom. You worked here at
the Eight-Seven long enough, you began believing everybody in the entire
city
had been here before, everybody knew
precisely
what it looked like, down to the tiniest fingernail scraping. But he couldn’t imagine Sharyn’s job taking her anywhere near
the outer reaches of the solar system here, which he sometimes felt the 87th Precinct was. A planet devoid of anything but
the basest form of animal life, an airless, sunless, apple-green void where nothing ever changed, everything remained always
and ever exactly the same.

He wondered if her office at Rankin Plaza was painted the same bilious green as the squadroom here. If so, was it as soiled
as the paint on the walls of this room that was used and abused twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days
a year,
six
in leap year, which this happened to be? He could remember the squadroom being painted only once in all the time he’d worked
here. He was not looking forward to
that
experience again anytime soon, thank you. He supposed
apple green
and
shoddy
were the operative interplanetary words that best described the squadroom, or in fact the entire station house. Well, maybe
shoddy
was too mild a word, perhaps a better description would have been
seedy
or even
shabby,
although to tell the truth the only valid description was
shitty, a word
he had not yet used in the deputy chief’s presence, and might never find an opportunity to use with her ever in his lifetime
if last night’s date was any indication.

The Italian restaurant she’d chosen was called La Traviata, which might have led one to believe they’d be piping operatic
music into the place, but instead they seemed to favor Frank Sinatra’s Hundred Greatest Hits. Which was okay with Kling. He
was a Sinatra fan, and he really didn’t mind hearing him sing “Kiss” over and over again, even if by the fifth time around
he knew all the lyrics by heart.

Kiss …

It all begins with a kiss …

But kisses wither

And die

Unless

The first caress …

And so on.

But then “One for My Baby” came on for the third time.

The conversation had hit one of those unexpected roadblocks by then, although Kling couldn’t figure out what he’d said or
done to cause her sudden silence. Being a detective, he knew that people sometimes reacted belatedly to something that’d been
said or done minutes or even hours ago—sometimes
years
ago, as was the case with a lady they’d arrested recently for poisoning her husband twelve years
after
he’d called her a whore in front of their entire bowling team. So he was sitting there across from her, trying to figure
out why all at once she looked so thoughtfully sullen, when, gee whiz, what a surprise, here came “One for My Baby” again.
Hoping to yank her out of whatever the hell was bugging her, and thinking he was making a brilliant observation besides, he
remarked that here was a song that merely
threatened
to tell a story, but never got around to actually
telling
the story.

“Guy’s had a disastrous love affair,” he said, “and he keeps promising the bartender he’ll tell him all about it, but all
he ever does is
tell
him he’s going to tell him.”

Blank expression on her face.

As if she were ten thousand miles away.

He wondered suddenly if she herself was trying to recover from a disastrous love affair. If so, was she thinking about whoever
the guy might have been? And if so, when had the ill-fated romance ended? Twelve years ago? Twelve days ago? Last night?

He let it go.

Concentrated instead on the linguini with white clam sauce.

“Is it because I’m black?” she asked suddenly.

“Is what because you’re black?” he asked.

“That you asked me out.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

Is
it? he wondered.

Before now, he’d never dated a black woman in his life.

But what the hell had brought
that
on?

“Is it because
I’m
white?” he asked lightly, and smiled.

“That you accepted?”

“Maybe,” she said.

And did not return his smile, he noticed.

“Well… do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

“No. Not now.”

“When?”

“Maybe never.”

“Okay,” he said, and went back to the linguini.

He figured that was the end of the story. So long, Whitey, nice to’ve known you, but hey, this ain’ gon work, man.

When she told him after dinner that she’d really rather not go to a movie, they both had to get up so early, and it was already
close to ten, he was certain this meant so long and goodbye, bro, see you roun the pool hall one of these days. They shook
hands outside her apartment. She thanked him for a nice time. He told her he’d had a nice time, too. It was still raining,
but only lightly. He walked through the drizzle from her building to the train station five blocks away.

Three black teenagers came into the car while the train was still on the overhead tracks in Calm’s Point. They seemed to be
considering him as they approached. He gave them a look that said
Don’t even
think it, and they went right on by.

The phone on his desk was ringing.

What Michelle saw when she reached the top of the second-floor landing was another sign nailed to the wall, indicating that
the DETECTIVE DIVISION was either just down the corridor past several doors respectively labeled LOCKER ROOM and MEN’S LAVATORY
and CLERICAL OFFICE, or else right there on the landing itself, since the sign merely announced itself in black letters on
a smudged white field, but gave no other directions. She followed her instincts, and—being right-handed—turned naturally to
the right and walked down the hall past the smell of stale sweat seeping from the locker room, and the stench of urine floating
from behind the men’s room door, and the wafting aroma of coffee brewing in the clerical office, a regular potpourri here
in this “little old cop shop,” as the Detective called it in the play they were rehearsing. At the end of the hall, she saw
first a slatted wooden rail divider and beyond that several dark green metal desks and telephones and a bulletin board with
various photographs and notices on it, and a hanging light globe, and further into the room some more green metal desks and
finally a bank of windows covered with metal grilles. A good-looking blond man sat at one of the desks. She stopped at the
railing, cleared her throat again the way she had downstairs, and said—remembering to project—“Detective Kling?”

Kling looked up.

The woman had hair the color of a fire truck dipped in orange juice. Eyes the color of periwinkles. Wearing a tight blue sweater
that matched the eyes. Peacoat open over it. Navy-blue skirt to match the coat. Big gold-buckled belt. Blue high-heeled pumps.

“The desk sergeant said I should see you,” she said.

“Yes, he called me a minute ago,” he said. “Come on in.”

She found the latch on the inside of the railing gate, looked surprised when the gate actually opened to her touch, and came
tentatively into the room. Kling stood as she approached his desk, and indicated the chair opposite him. She sat, crossing
her legs, the blue skirt riding high on her thighs. She lifted her behind, tugged at the skirt, made herself comfortable in
the hard-backed chair. Kling sat, too.

“I’m Michelle Cassidy,” she said. “I spoke to someone up here earlier this morning, he said I should come in.”

“Would you remember who that was?”

“He had an Italian name.”

“Carella?”

“I think so. Anyway, he said to come in. He said some-one would help me.”

Kling nodded.

“Let me get some information,” he said, and rolled a DD form into the typewriter. He spaced down to the slot calling for the
date of the complaint, typed in today’s date, April 6, spaced down some more to the NAME slot, typed in C-A-S-S, stopped and
looked up. “Is that A-D-Y or I-D-Y?” he asked.

“I,” she said.

“Cassidy,” he said, typing. “Michelle like in the Beatles?”

“Yes. A double L.”

“May I have your address, please?”

She gave him her address and the apartment number and her phone number there, and also a work number where she could be reached.

“Are you married?” he asked. “Single? Divorced?”

“Single.”

“Are you employed, Miss Cassidy?”

“I’m an actress.”

“Have I seen you in anything?” he asked.

“Well … I played the lead in
Annie,
“ she said. “And I’ve been doing a lot of dinner theater work in recent years.”

“I
saw the movie,” he said.
“
Annie.
”

“I
wasn’t in the movie,”
she said.

“Good movie, though,” he said. “Are you in anything right now?”

“I’m rehearsing a play.”

“Would it be a play I know?”

“I don’t think so. It’s a new play, it’s called
Romance.
We’re opening it uptown here, but we hope to move down-town later. If it’s a hit.”

“What’s it about?”

“Well, that’s the funny part of it.”

“What is?”

“It’s about an actress getting phone calls from somebody who says he’s going to kill her.”

“What’s funny about that?”

“Well … that’s why I’m here, you see.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Cassidy, I’m not foll … ”

“I’ve been getting the same kind of calls.”

“Threatening calls, do you mean?”

“Yes. A man who says he’s going to kill me. Just like in the play. Well, not the same language.”

“What
does
he say? Exactly?”

“That he’s going to kill me with a knife.”

“With a knife.”

“Yes.”

“He specifies the weapon.”

“Yes. A knife.”

“These are the
real
calls we’re talking about, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Not the ones in the play.”

“No. These are the calls I’ve been getting for the past week now.”

“A man saying he’s going to kill you with a knife.”

“Yes.”

“Which of these numbers does he call?”

“My home number. The other one is the backstage phone. At the theater.”

“He hasn’t called you there?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. I’m very frightened, Detective Kling.”

“I can imagine. When did these calls start?”

“Last Sunday night.”

“That would’ve been… “He looked at his desk calendar. “March twenty-ninth,” he said.

“Whenever.”

“Does he seem to know you?”

“He calls me Miss Cassidy.”

“What does he … ?”

“Sort of sarcastically. Miss
Cassidy.
Like that. With a sort of
sneer
in his voice.”

“Tell me again exactly what he… ”

“He says, `I’m going to kill you, Miss Cassidy. With a knife.’ ”

“Have there been any threatening letters?”

“No.”

“Have you seen any strangers lurking about your building...’’

“No.”

‘’… or
the
theater?’’

“No.”

“Which theater is it, by the way?”

“The Susan Granger. On North Eleventh.”

“No one hanging around the stage door… ”

“No.’’

“… or following you … ?”

“No.”

“… or watching you? For example, has anyone in a restaurant or any other public place … ?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Just the phone calls.”

“Yes.”

“Do you owe money to anyone?”

“No.”

“Have you had any recent arguments or altercations with… ”

“No.”

“I don’t suppose you
fired
anyone in recent …”

“No.”

“Any boyfriends in your past who might… ”

“No. I’ve been living with the same man for seven years now.”

“Get along okay with him?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I have to ask.”

“That’s okay. I know you’re doing your job. We have the same thing in the play.”

“Sorry?” Kling said.

“There’s a scene where she goes to the police, and they ask her all these questions.”

“I see. What’s his name, by the way? The man you’ve been living with.”

“John Milton.”

“Like the poet.”

“Yes. Well, actually, he’s an agent.”

“Would anyone have reason to be jealous of him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Or want to get back at him for something? Through you?”

“Gee, I don’t think so.”

“Do you get along with all the people involved in this play?”

“Oh, sure. Well, you know, there are little… ”

“Sure.”

“… tiffs and such. But for the most part, we get along fine.”

“How many people
are
there?”

“In the cast? Just four of us, really. Speaking roles, any-way. The rest of the people are sort of extras. Four actors do
all the other parts.”

“So that’s eight altogether.”

“Plus all the technical people. I mean, this is a
play.
It takes lots of people to put on a play.”