While the two men talked in one part of the city, the girl lay face down in the bushes in another part of the city.
The bushes were at the base of a sharp incline, a miniature cliff of earth and stone. The cliff sloped down toward the bushes, and beyond the bushes was the river, and arching overhead was the long span of the bridge leading to the next state.
The girl lay in a crooked heap.
Her stockings had been torn when she rolled down the incline to the bushes, and her skirt was twisted so that the backs of her legs were exposed clear to her buttocks. The legs were good legs, youthful legs, but one was twisted at a curious angle, and there was nothing attractive about the girl’s body as it lay in the bushes.
The girl’s face was bleeding. The blood spread from the broken features to the stiff branches of the bushes and then to the ground, where the parched autumn earth drank it up thirstily. One arm was folded across the girl’s full breasts, pressed against the sharp, cutting twigs of the bushes. The other arm dangled loosely at her side. Her hand was open.
On the ground, close to the spreading blood, several feet from the girl’s open palm, a pair of sunglasses rested. One of the lenses in the glasses was shattered.
The girl had blonde hair, but the bright yellow was stained with blood where something hard and unyielding had repeatedly smashed at her skull.
The girl was not breathing. She lay face down in the bushes at the bottom of the small cliff, her blood rushing onto the ground, and she would never breathe again.
The girl’s name was Jeannie Paige.
Lieutenant Byrnes studied the information on the printed sheet.
Translated into English, it simply meant that somebody had goofed. The body had been taken to the mortuary, and some young intern there had probably very carefully studied the broken face and the shattered skull and come up with the remarkable conclusion that death had been caused by “brain concussion apparently.” He could understand why a full report was not on his desk, but even understanding, the knowledge griped him. He could not expect people, he supposed, to go gallivanting around in the middle of the night—the body had probably been delivered to the mortuary in the wee hours—trying to discover whether or not a stomach holds poison. No, of course not. Nobody starts work until 9:00 in the morning, and nobody works after 5:00 in the afternoon. A wonderful country. Short hours for everyone.
Except the fellow who killed this girl, of course.
He hadn’t minded a little overtime, not him.
Seventeen years old, Byrnes thought. My son is seventeen!
He walked to the door of his office. He was a short, solidly packed man with a head that seemed to have been blasted loose from a huge chunk of granite. He had small blue eyes, which constantly darted, perpetually alert. He didn’t like people getting killed. He didn’t like young girls getting their heads smashed in. He opened the door.
“Hal!” he called.
Willis looked up from his desk.
“Come in here, will you?” He left the door and began pacing the office. Willis came into the room and stood quietly, his hands behind his back.
“Anything on those sunglasses yet?” Byrnes asked, still pacing.
“No, sir. There was a good thumbprint on the unbroken lens, but it’s not likely we’ll get a make on a single print.”
“What about your pal? The one you brought in last night?”
“Randolph. He’s mad as hell because I conned him into making a full confession to a cop. I think he suspects it won’t stand up in court, though. He’s screaming for a lawyer right now.”
“I’m talking about the thumbprint.”
“It doesn’t match up with his, sir,” Willis said.
“Think it’s the girl’s?”
“No, sir, it isn’t. We’ve already checked that.”
“Then Randolph isn’t our man.”
“No, sir.”
“I didn’t think he was, anyway. This girl was probably knocked over while Randolph was with you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s a goddamn shame,” Byrnes said, “a goddamn shame.” He began pacing again. “What’s Homicide North doing?”
“They’re on it, sir. Rounding up all sex offenders.”
“We can give them a hand with that. Check our files and put the boys to work, will you?” He paused. “You think our mugger did this?”
“The sunglasses might indicate that, sir.”
“So Clifford’s finally crossed the line, the bastard.”
“It’s a possibility, sir.”
“My name is Pete,” Byrnes said. “Why the formality?”
“Well, sir, I had an idea.”
“About this thing?”
“Yes, sir. If our mugger did it, sir.”
“Pete!” Byrnes roared.
“Pete, this murderer is terrorizing the city. Did you see the papers this morning? A seventeen-year-old kid, her face beaten to a bloody pulp! In our precinct, Pete. Okay, it’s a rotten precinct. It stinks to high heaven, and there are people who think it’ll always stink. But it burns me up, Pete. It makes me sore.”
“This precinct isn’t so bad,” Byrnes said reflectively.
“Ah, Pete,” Willis said, sighing.
“All right, it smells. We’re doing our best. What the hell do they expect here? Snob Hill?”
“No. But we’ve got to give them protection, Pete.”
“We are, aren’t we? Three hundred and sixty-five days a year, every goddamn year. It’s only the big things that make the papers. This goddamn mugger—”
“That’s why we have to get him. Homicide North’ll dicker around with this thing forever. Another body. All Homicide cops see is bodies. You think another one’s going to get them in an uproar?”
“They do a good job,” Byrnes said.
“I know, I know,” Willis said impatiently. “But I think my idea’ll help them.”
“Okay,” Byrnes said, “let’s hear it.”
The living room on that Friday afternoon was silent with the pallor of death. Molly Bell had done all her crying, and there were no more tears inside her, and so she sat silently, and her husband sat opposite her, and Bert Kling stood uneasily by the door, wondering why he had come.
He could clearly remember the girl Jeannie when she’d called him back as he was leaving Wednesday night. Incredible beauty, and etched beneath the beauty the clutching claws of trouble and worry. And now she was dead. And, oddly, he felt somehow responsible.
“Did she say anything to you?” Bell asked.
“Not much,” Kling replied. “She seemed troubled about something…seemed…very cynical and bitter for a kid her age. I don’t know.” He shook his head.
“I knew there was something wrong,” Molly said. Her voice was very low, barely audible. She clutched a handkerchief in her lap, but the handkerchief was dry now, and there were no more tears to wet it.
“The police think it’s the mugger, honey,” Bell said gently.
“Yes,” Molly said. “I know what they think.”
“Honey, I know you feel—”
“But what was she doing in Isola? Who took her to that deserted spot near the Hamilton Bridge? Did she go there alone, Peter?”
“I suppose so,” Bell said.
“Why would she go there alone? Why would a seventeen-year-old girl go to a lonely spot like that?”
“I don’t know, honey,” Bell said. “Honey, please, don’t get yourself all upset again. The police will find him. The police will—”
“Find who?” Molly said. “The mugger? But will they find whoever took her to that spot? Peter, it’s all the way down in Isola. Why should she go there from Riverhead?”
Bell shook his head again. “I don’t know, honey. I just don’t know.”
“We’ll find him, Molly,” Kling said. “Both Homicide North and the detectives in my precinct will be working on this one. Don’t worry.”
“And when you find him,” Molly asked, “will that bring my sister back to life?”
Kling watched her, an old woman at twenty-four, sitting in her chair with her shoulders slumped, mourning a life and carrying a new life within her. They were silent for a long time. Finally, Kling said he had to be leaving, and Molly graciously asked if he wouldn’t like a cup of coffee. He said no, and he thanked her, and then he shook hands with Bell and went outside, where the brittle afternoon sunlight washed the streets of Riverhead.
The kids were piling out of the junior high school up the street, and Kling watched them as he walked, young kids with clean-scrubbed faces, rowdy boys and pretty girls, chasing each other, shouting at each other, discovering each other.
Jeannie Paige had been a kid like this not many years ago.
He walked slowly.
There was a bite in the air, a bite that made him wish winter would come soon. It was a peculiar wish, because he truly loved autumn. It was strange, he supposed, because autumn was a time of dying, summer going quietly to rest, dying leaves, and dying days, and…
Dying girls.
He shook the thought aside. On the corner opposite the junior high, a hot dog cart stood, and the proprietor wore a white apron, and he owned a moustache and a bright smile, and he dipped his fork into the steaming frankfurter pot and then into the sauerkraut pot, and then he put the fork down and took the round stick from the mustard jar and spread the mustard and handed the completed masterpiece to a girl of no more than fourteen who stood near the cart. She paid for the frankfurter, and there was pure joy on her face as she bit into it, and Kling watched her and then walked on.
A dog darted into the gutter, leaping and frisking, chasing a rubber ball that had bounced from the sidewalk. A car skidded to a stop, tires screeching, and the driver shook his head and then smiled unconsciously when he saw the happy pup.
The leaves fell toward the pavement, oranges and reds and yellows and russets and browns and pale golds, and they covered the sidewalks with crunching mounds. He listened to the rasp of the leaves underfoot as he walked, and he sucked in the brisk fall air, and he thought, It isn’t fair; she had so much living to do.
A cold wind came up when he hit the avenue. He started for the elevated station, and the wind rushed through the jacket he wore, touching the marrow of his bones.
The voices of the junior-high-school kids were far behind him now, up De Witt Street, drowned in the controlled shriek of the new wind.
He wondered if it would rain.
The wind howled around him, and it spoke of secret tangled places, and it spoke of death, and he was suddenly colder than he’d been before, and he wished for the comforting warmth of a coat collar, because a chill suddenly worked its way up his spine to settle at the back of his neck like a cold, dead fish.
He walked to the station and climbed the steps, and curiously, he was thinking of Jeannie Paige.
The girl’s legs were crossed.
She sat opposite Willis and Byrnes in the lieutenant’s office on the second floor of the 87th Precinct. They were good legs. The skirt reached to just a shade below her knees, and Willis could not help noticing they were good legs. Sleek and clean, full-calved, tapering to slender ankles, enhanced by the high-heeled black-patent pumps.
The girl was a redhead, and that was good. Red hair is obvious hair. The girl had a pretty face, with a small Irish nose and green eyes. She listened to the men in serious silence, and you could feel intelligence on her face and in her eyes. Occasionally, she sucked in a deep breath, and when she did, the severe cut of her suit did nothing to hide the sloping curve of her breast.
The girl earned $5,555 a year. The girl had a .38 in her purse.
The girl was a detective/2nd grade, and her name was Eileen Burke, as Irish as her nose.
“You don’t have to take this one if you don’t want it, Miss Burke,” Byrnes said.
“It sounds interesting,” Eileen answered.
“Hal—Willis’ll be following close behind all the way, you understand. But that’s no guarantee he can get to you in time should anything happen.”
“I understand that, sir,” Eileen said.
“And Clifford isn’t such a gentleman,” Willis said. “He’s beaten, and he’s killed. Or at least we think so. It might not be such a picnic.”
“We don’t think he’s armed, but he used something on his last job, and it wasn’t his fist. So you see, Miss Burke—”
“What we’re trying to tell you,” Willis said, “is that you needn’t feel any compulsion to accept this assignment. We would understand completely were you to refuse it.”
“Are you trying to talk me into this or out of it?” Eileen asked.
“We’re simply asking you to make your own decision. We’re sending you out as a sitting duck, and we feel—”
“I won’t be such a sitting duck with a gun in my bag.”
“Still, we felt we should present the facts to you before—”
“My father was a patrolman,” Eileen said. “Pops Burke, they called him. He had a beat in Hades Hole. In 1938, an escaped convict named Flip Danielsen took an apartment on Prime and North Thirtieth. When the police closed in, my father was with them. Danielsen had a Thompson submachine gun in the apartment with him, and the first round he fired caught my father in the stomach. My father died that night, and he died painfully, because stomach wounds are not easy ones.” Eileen paused. “I think I’ll take the job.”
Byrnes smiled. “I knew you would,” he said.
“Will we be the only pair?” Eileen asked Willis.
“To start, yes. We’re not sure how this’ll work. I can’t follow too close, or Clifford’ll panic. And I can’t lag too far behind, or I’ll be worthless.”
“Do you think he’ll bite?”
“We don’t know. He’s been hitting in the precinct and getting away with it, so chances are he won’t change his m.o.—unless this killing has scared him. And from what the victims have given us, he seems to hit without any plan. He just waits for a victim and then pounces.”
“I see.”
“So we figured an attractive girl walking the streets late at night, apparently alone, might smoke him out.”
“I see.” Eileen let the compliment pass. There were about four million attractive girls in the city, and she knew she was no prettier than most. “Has there been any sex motive?” she asked.
Willis glanced at Byrnes. “Not that we can figure. He hasn’t molested any of his victims.”
“I was only trying to figure what I should wear,” Eileen said.
“Well, no hat,” Willis said. “That’s for sure. We want him to spot that red hair a mile away.”
“All right,” Eileen said.
“Something bright, so I won’t lose you—but nothing too flashy,” Willis said. “We don’t want the Vice Squad picking you up.”
Eileen smiled. “Sweater and skirt?” she asked.
“Whatever you’ll be most comfortable in.”
“I’ve got a white sweater,” she said. “That should be clearly visible to both you and Clifford.”
“Yes,” Willis said.
“Heels or flats?”
“Entirely up to you. You may have to…Well, he may give you a rough time. If heels hamper you, wear flats.”
“He can hear heels better,” Eileen said.
“It’s up to you.”
“I’ll wear heels.”
“All right.”
“Will anyone else be in on this? I mean, will you have a walkie-talkie or anything?”
“No,” Willis said, “it’d be too obvious. There’ll be just the two of us.”
“And Clifford, we hope.”
“Yes,” Willis said.
Eileen Burke sighed. “When do we start?”
“Tonight?” Willis asked.
“I was going to have my hair done,” Eileen said, smiling, “but I suppose that can wait.” The smile broadened. “It isn’t every girl who can be sure at least one man is following her.”
“Can you meet me here?”
“What time?” Eileen asked.
“When the shift changes. Eleven forty-five?”
“I’ll be here,” she said. She uncrossed her legs and rose. “Lieutenant,” she said, and Byrnes took her hand.
“Be careful, won’t you?” Byrnes said.
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” She turned to Willis. “I’ll see you later.”
“I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Good-bye now,” she said, and she left the office.
When she had gone, Willis asked, “What do you think?”
“I think she’ll be okay,” Byrnes said. “She’s got a record of fourteen subway-masher arrests.”
“Mashers aren’t muggers,” Willis said.
Byrnes nodded reflectively. “I still think she’ll be okay.”
Willis smiled. “I think so, too,” he said.
In the squadroom outside, Detective Meyer was talking about cats.
“The tally is now up to twenty-four,” he told Temple. The damnedest thing the 33rd has ever come across.”
Temple scratched his chin. “And they got no lead yet, huh?”
“Not a single clue,” Meyer said. He watched Temple patiently. Meyer was a very patient man.
“He just goes around grabbing cats,” Temple said, shaking his head. “What would a guy want to steal cats for?”
“That’s the big question,” Meyer said. “What’s the motive? He’s got the 33rd going crazy. I’ll tell you something, I’m glad this one isn’t in our laps.”
“Argh,” Temple said, “I’ve had some goofy ones in my time, too.”
“Sure, but cats? Have you ever had cats?”
“I had cats up telephone poles when I was walking a beat,” Temple said.
“Everybody had cats up telephone poles,” Meyer said. “But this is a man who’s going around stealing cats from apartments. Now, tell me, George, have you ever heard anything like that?”
“Never,” Temple said.
“I’ll let you know how it works out,” Meyer promised. “I’m really interested in this one. Tell you the truth, I don’t think they’ll ever crack it.”
“The 33rd is pretty good, ain’t it?” Temple asked.
“There’s a guy waiting outside,” Havilland shouted from his desk. “Ain’t anybody gonna see what he wants?”
“The walk’ll do you good, Rog,” Meyer said.
“I just took a walk to the water cooler,” Havilland said, grinning. “I’m bushed.”
“He’s very anemic,” Meyer said, rising. “Poor fellow, my heart bleeds for him.” He walked to the slatted rail divider. A patrolman was standing there, looking into the squadroom.
“Busy, huh?” he asked.
“So-so,” Meyer said indifferently. “What’ve you got?”
“An autopsy report for…” He glanced at the envelope. “Lieutenant Peter Byrnes.”
“I’ll take it,” Meyer said.
“Sign this, will you?” the patrolman said.
“He can’t write,” Havilland answered, propping his feet up on the desk.
Meyer signed for the autopsy report. The patrolman left.
An autopsy report is a coldly scientific thing.
It reduces flesh and blood to medical terms, measuring in centimeters, analyzing with calm aloofness. There is very little warmth and emotion in an autopsy report. There is no room for sentiment, no room for philosophizing. There is only one or more eight-and-half-by-eleven sheets of official-looking paper, and there are type-written words on the sheets, and those words explain in straightforward medical English the conditions under which such and such a person met death.
The person whose death was open to medical scrutiny in the autopsy report that Meyer brought to the lieutenant was a young girl named Jeannie Rita Paige.
The words were very cold.
Death is not famous for its compassion.
The words read:
CORONER’S AUTOPSY REPORT
PAIGE, JEANNIE RITA
Female, white, Caucasian. Apparent age, 21. Chronological age, 17. Apparent height, 64 inches. Apparent weight, 120 lbs.
GROSS INSPECTION:
Head and face:
a) FACE—Multiple contusions visible. Frontal area of skull reveals marked depression of the tablet of bone, which measures approximately 10 cm; commencing 3 cm above the right orbit, the depression then descends obliquely downward across the bridge of the nose and terminates in the mid-portion of the left maxilla.
There are marked hemorrhagic areas visible in the conjunctiva areas of both eyes. Gross examination also reveals the presence of clotted blood within the nasal and optic orifices.
b) HEAD—There is an area of cerebral concussion with depression of tablet of bone, which involves the left temporal region of the skull. The depression measures approximately 11 cm and runs obliquely downward from the bregma to a point 2 cm above and lateral to the superior aspect of left ear. There are multiple blood clots matted in the head hair.
Body:
The dorsal and ventral aspects of the thorax and chest reveal multiple superficial abrasions and slight lacerations.
The right buttock reveals an area of severe abrasion.
The right lower extremity reveals a compound fracture of the distal portion of tibia and fibula, with bone protruding through medial distal third of the extremity.
Examination of PELVIS grossly and internally reveals the following:
1) No evidence of blood in vaginal vault.
2) No evidence of attempted forced entrance or coitus.
3) No evidence of seminal fluid or sperm demonstrable on gross and microscopic examination of vaginal secretions.
4) Uterus is spherical in outline grossly and measures approximately 13.5 x 10 x 7.5 cm.
5) Placental tissue as well as chorionic and decidual tissue are present.
6) A fetus measuring 7 cm long and weighing 29 gms is present.
IMPRESSIONS:
1) Death instantaneous due to blows inflicted upon skull and face. Cerebral concussion.
2) Multiple abrasions and lacerations inflicted over body and compound fracture of lower right extremity, tibia and fibula, probably incurred by descent over cliff.
3) There is no evidence of sexual assault.
4) Examination of uterine contents reveals a three-month pregnant uterus.
He could not shake the dead girl from his mind.
Back on the beat Monday morning, Kling should have felt soaring joy. He had been inactive for too long, and now he was back on the job, and the concrete and asphalt should have sung beneath his feet. There was life everywhere around him, teeming, crawling life. The precinct was alive with humanity, and in the midst of all this life, Kling walked his beat and thought of death.
The precinct started with the River Highway.
There, a fringe of greenery turned red and burnt umber hugged the river, broken by an occasional tribute to World War I heroes and an occasional concrete bench. You could see the big steamers on the river, cruising slowly toward the docks farther downtown, their white smoke puffing up into the crisp fall air. An aircraft carrier lay anchored in the center of the river, long and flat, in relief against the stark brown cliffs on the other side. The excursion boats plied their idle autumn trade. Summer was dying, and with it, the shouts and joyous revelry of the sunseekers.
And up the river, like a suspended, glistening web of silver, the Hamilton Bridge regally arched over the swirling brown waters below, touching two states with majestic fingers.
At the base of the bridge, at the foot of a small stone-and-earth cliff, a seventeen-year-old girl had died. The ground had sucked up her blood, but it was still stained a curious maroon-brown.
The big apartment buildings lining the River Highway turned blank faces to the bloodstained earth. The sun was reflected from the thousands of windows in the tall buildings, buildings which still employed doormen and elevator operators, and the windows blinked across the river with fiery-eyed blindness. The governesses wheeled their baby carriages up past the synagogue on the corner, marching their charges south toward the Stem, which pierced the heart of the precinct like a multicolored, multifeathered, slender, sharp arrow. There were groceries and five-and-tens, and movie houses, and delicatessens, and butchers, and jewelers, and candy stores on the Stem. There was also a cafeteria on one of the corners, and on any day of the week, Monday to Sunday, you could spot at least twenty-five junkies in that cafeteria, waiting for the man with the White God. The Stem was slashed up its middle by a wide iron-pipe-enclosed island, broken only by the side streets that crossed it. There were benches on each street end of the island, and men sat on those benches and smoked their pipes, and women sat with shopping bags clutched to their abundant breasts, and sometimes the governesses sat with their carriages, reading paperbacked novels.
The governesses never wandered south of the Stem.
South of the Stem was Culver Avenue.
The houses on Culver had never been really fancy. Like poor and distant relatives of the buildings lining the river, they had basked in the light of reflected glory many years ago. But the soot and the grime of the city had covered their bumpkin faces, had turned them into city people, and they stood now with hunched shoulders and dowdy clothes, wearing mournful faces. There were a lot of churches on Culver Avenue. There were also a lot of bars. Both were frequented regularly by the Irish people, who still clung to their neighborhood tenaciously—in spite of the Puerto Rican influx, in spite of the Housing Authority, which was condemning and knocking down dwellings with remarkable rapidity, leaving behind rubble-strewn open fields in which grew the city’s only crop: rubbish.
The Puerto Ricans hunched in the side streets between Culver Avenue and Grover’s Park. Here were the bodegas, carnicerias zapaterias, joyerias, cuchifritos joints. Here was La Via de Putas, “The Street of the Whores,” as old as time, as thriving and prosperous as General Motors.
Here, bludgeoned by poverty, exploited by pushers and thieves and policemen alike, forced into cramped and dirty dwellings, rescued occasionally by the busiest fire department in the entire city, treated like guinea pigs by the social workers, like aliens by the rest of the city, like potential criminals by the police, here were the Puerto Ricans.
Light-skinned and dark-skinned. Beautiful young girls with black hair and brown eyes and flashing white smiles. Slender men with the grace of dancers. A people alive with warmth and music and color and beauty, 6 percent of the city’s population, crushed together in ghettos scattered across the face of the town. The ghetto in the 87th Precinct, sprinkled lightly with some Italians and some Jews, more heavily with the Irish, but predominantly Puerto Rican, ran south from the River Highway to the park, and then east and west for a total of thirty-five blocks. One-seventh of the total Puerto Rican population lived in the confines of the 87th Precinct. There were 90,000 people in the streets Bert Kling walked.
The streets were alive with humanity.
And all he could think of was death.
He did not want to see Molly Bell, and when she came to him, he was distressed.
She seemed frightened of the neighborhood, perhaps because there was life within her, and perhaps because she felt the instinctive, savagely protective urge of the mother-to-be. He had just crossed Tommy, a Puerto Rican kid whose mother worked in one of the candy stores. The boy had thanked him, and Kling had turned to go back on the other side of the street again, and that was when he saw Molly Bell.
There was a sharp bite to the air on that September 18, and Molly wore a topcoat, which had seen better days, even though those better days had begun in a bargain basement downtown. Because of her coming child, she could not button the severely tailored coat much further than her breasts, and she presented a curiously disheveled appearance: the limp blonde hair, the tired eyes, the frayed coat buttoned from her throat over her full breasts and then parting in a wide V from her waist to expose her bulging belly.
“Bert!” she called, and she raised her hand in a completely feminine gesture, recapturing for a fleeting instant the beauty that must have been hers several years back, looking in that instant the way her sister, Jeannie, had looked when she was alive.
He lifted his billet in a gesture of greeting, motioned for her to wait on the other side of the street, and then crossed to meet her.
“Hello, Molly,” he said.
“I went to the station house first,” she said hurriedly. “They told me you were on the beat.”
“Yes,” he answered.
“I want to see you, Bert.”
“All right,” he said.
They cut down one of the side streets and then waited with the park on their right, the trees a blazing pyre against the gray sky.
“‘Allo, Bert,” a boy shouted, and Kling waved his billet.
“Have you heard?” Molly asked. “About the autopsy report?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I can’t believe it,” she told him.
“Well, Molly, they don’t make mistakes.”
“I know, I know.” She was breathing heavily.
He stared at her for a long moment. “Listen, are you sure you should be walking around like this?”
“Yes, it’s very good for me. The doctor said I should walk a lot.”
“Well, if you get tired—”
“I’ll tell you. Bert, will you help?”
He looked at her face. There was no panic in her eyes, and the grief, too, had vanished. There was only a steadfastness of purpose shining there, a calm resolve.
“What could I possibly do?” he asked.
“You’re a cop,” she said.
“Molly, the best cops in the city are working on this. Homicide North doesn’t let people get away with murder. I understand one of the detectives from our precinct has been working with a policewoman for the past two days. They’ve—”
“None of these people knew my sister, Bert.”
“I know, but—”
“You knew her, Bert.”
“I only talked to her for a little while. I hardly—”
“Bert, these men who deal with death…My sister is only another corpse to them.”
“That’s not true, Molly. They see a lot of it, but that doesn’t stop them from doing their best on each case. Molly, I’m just a patrolman. I can’t fool around with this, even if I wanted to.”
“Why not?”
“I’d be stepping on toes. I’ve got my beat. This is my beat; this is my job. My job isn’t investigating a murder case. I can get into a lot of trouble for that, Molly.”
“My sister got into a load of trouble, too,” Molly said.
“Ah, Molly,” Kling sighed, “don’t ask me, please.”
“I’m asking you.”
“I can’t do anything. I’m sorry.”
“Why did you come to see her?” Molly asked.
“Because Peter asked me to. As a favor. For old time’s sake.”
“I’m asking you for a favor too, Bert. Not for old time’s sake. Only because my sister was killed, and my sister was just a young kid, and she deserved to live a little longer, Bert, just a little longer.”
They walked in silence for a time.
“Bert?” Molly said.
“Yes.”
“Will you please help?”
“I—”
“Your Homicide detectives think it was the mugger. Maybe it was, I don’t know. But my sister was pregnant, and the mugger didn’t do that. And my sister was killed at the foot of the Hamilton Bridge, and I want to know why she was there. The killer’s cliff is a long way from where we live, Bert. Why was she there? Why? Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“My sister had friends; I know she had. Maybe her friends know. Doesn’t a young girl have to confide in someone? A young girl with a baby inside her, a secret inside her? Doesn’t she tell someone?”
“Are you interested in finding the killer,” Kling asked, “or the father of the child?”
Molly considered this gravely. “They may be one and the same,” she said at last.
“I…I don’t think that’s likely, Molly.”
“But it’s a possibility, isn’t it? And your Homicide detectives are doing nothing about that possibility. I’ve met them, Bert. They’ve asked me questions, and their eyes are cold, and their mouths are stiff. My sister is only a body with a tag on its toe. My sister isn’t flesh and blood to them. She isn’t now, and she never was.”
“Molly—”
“I’m not blaming them. Their jobs…I know that death becomes a commodity to them, the way meat is a commodity to a butcher. But this girl is my sister!”
“Do you…do you know who her friends were?”
“I only know that she went to one club a lot. A cellar club, one of these teenage…” Molly stopped. Her eyes met Kling’s hopefully. “Will you help?”
“I’ll try,” Kling said, sighing. “Strictly on my own. After hours. I can’t do anything officially, you understand that.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“What’s the name of this club?”
“Club Tempo.”
“Where is it?”
“Just off Peterson, a block from the avenue. I don’t know the address. All the clubs are clustered there in the side street, in the private houses.” She paused. “I belonged to one when I was a kid, too.”
“I used to go to their Friday-night socials,” Kling said. “But I don’t remember one called Tempo. It must be new.”
“I don’t know,” Molly said. She paused. “Will you go?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I don’t knock off until four. I’ll ride up to Riverhead then and see if I can find the place.”
“Will you call me afterward?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Thank you, Bert.”
“I’m only a uniformed cop,” Kling said. “I don’t know if you’ve got anything to thank me for.”
“I’ve got a lot to thank you for,” she said. She squeezed his hand. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”
“All right,” he said. He looked down at her. The walk seemed to have tired her. “Shall I call a cab for you?”
“No,” she said, “I’ll take the subway. Good-bye, Bert. And thank you.”
She turned and started up the street. He watched her. From the back, except for the characteristically tilted walk of the pregnant woman, you could not tell she was carrying. Her figure looked quite slim from the back, and her legs were good.
He watched her until she was out of sight, and then he crossed the street and turned up one of the side streets, waving to some people he knew.