The Mugger 87th Precinct Series, Book 2 - By Ed McBain Page 0,21

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