‘The thing is,’ Kramer was telling him, ‘we don’t catch many homicides up the Nine-Eight. This is more up your alley, you know what I mean.’
Low crime rate in the Nine-Eight, was what Kramer was saying. As compared to the soaring statistics uptown in the asshole of creation, was what Kramer was saying. What’s another homicide more or less to you guys, Kramer was saying. Carella was inclined to tell him, Thanks, pal, but our platter is full right now. If only it weren’t for the First Man Up rule.
Kramer wouldn’t have called if the Ballistics match hadn’t come through so fast. You get a blind man shot dead outside a nightclub Wednesday night, and then Friday night, at the other end of the city, you get a woman killed cooking an omelet in her own apartment, there’s no connection, right? Unless Ballistics calls early Monday morning to tell you the same nine-millimeter Glock was used in both shootings. That can capture a person’s attention, all right. It had certainly caught Kramer’s, who was now munching on a ham and egg sandwich while trying not to be too aggressive about the department’s time-honored First Man Up rule. Hence his song and dance about the Nine-Eight’s inexperience with matters homicidal.
‘So what do you say?’ he asked Carella. ‘I’ll turn over our paper to you, the Eight-Seven can pick it up from there. This should be a snap for you guys, you already got a gun match.’
A snap, Carella thought, and wondered how many nines were loose in the city.
‘I’d have to check with the Loot,’ he said, ‘see if he thinks we can take on another homicide just now.’
‘Oh, sure,’ Kramer said, and then casually added, ‘but he’s familiar with FMU, of course.’ And further added, ‘Which is the case here. You caught your blind guy two days before we caught the omelet lady. So what do you say?’ Kramer asked again.
He knew he had Carella dead to rights on FMU. He was just being polite.
Carella hoped he’d at least pay for the lunch.
* * * *
‘Way I understand this,’ Parker said, ‘is we’re now the garbage can of the Detective Division, is that it?’
There were only five men in the lieutenant’s office and Parker had the floor. He was dressed this Monday afternoon the way he usually dressed for work: like a bum. Unshaven. Blue jeans and a T-shirt. Short-sleeved Hawaiian-print shirt over that, but only to hide the automatic holstered at his right hip.
‘I wouldn’t put it exactly that way,’ Carella said.
‘No? Then what does it mean when any murder done with a Glock gets dumped on us?’
‘Not every Glock. Just the ones that match the blind-man kill.’
‘Which we caught,’ Lieutenant Byrnes explained again. Bullet-headed, gray-haired, square-jawed, he looked like an older Dick Tracy sitting behind his comer-office desk. ‘Which means First Man Up prevails,’ he explained further.
‘Like I said,’ Parker continued, undeterred. ‘We’re the DD’s garbage can.’
‘How many have there been so far?’ Genero asked. Curly-haired, brown-eyed, the youngest man on the squad, he always sounded tentative. Or maybe just stupid.
‘Just two, counting the omelet lady.’
‘That ain’t so many,’ Genero said. ‘Can you run them by us?’ he said, trying to sound executive.
‘The blind guy is the one we caught,’ Meyer said. ‘Ten thirty last Wednesday night.’
Bald and burly, shirtsleeves rolled up and shirt collar open because the squadroom’s air conditioner wasn’t working again on one of the hottest days this June, he hunched over Carella’s desk, consulting the DD report.
‘That would’ve been?’
‘June sixteenth.’
‘Fifty-eight years old. Two in the head,’ Meyer said.
‘From a Glock?’
‘A Glock. Apparently, nothing was stolen from him. His wallet still contained a check for three hundred dollars, and a hundred and change in cash, presumably tip money.’
‘And the next one?’
Carella walked over from the watercooler. He moved like an athlete, though he wasn’t one, his skills limited to stickball when he was a kid growing up in Riverhead. He picked up the Nine-Eight’s report, and studied it again, together with the other detectives this time. Standing side by side, reading the report, the men could have been accountants looking over a client’s weekly payroll report - if only it weren’t for the shoulder holsters.
And the nine-millimeter Glocks in them.
Just like the one that killed the omelet lady and the blind guy.
‘Friday night,’ Carella said. ‘Calm’s Point. The Nine-Eight phoned this morning, right after they got a Ballistics match.’
‘Sure, the word’s out,’ Parker said. ‘Dump it on the Eight-Seven.’
‘Perp climbed in the window and shot her while she was cooking an omelet,’ Meyer said.
‘What kind of omelet was it?’ Genero asked.
Parker looked at him.
‘I’m curious.’
‘Who was the vic?’ Parker asked.
‘Woman named Alicia Hendricks. Fifty-five years old.’
‘Point is,’ Byrnes said, ‘Steve and Meyer can’t handle it alone. We’re looking at overtime here. Two homicides in as many…’
‘Like I said, we’re the garbage can here,’ Parker said.
‘How do you want us to divvy this, Loot?’ Carella asked.
‘I thought Andy and Richard could get on the latest one…’
‘Who caught it again?’ Genero asked.
‘The Nine-Eight. Detective up there named Kramer.’
‘Like in Seinfeld?’
‘There’s other Kramers in this world, Richard.’
‘Like I didn’t know, Andy.’
‘You and Meyer stick with the violin player. And head up the team.’
‘We better hope there ain’t another one,’ Parker said.
‘Another violin player?’ Genero asked.
‘Another anybody,’ Parker said.
This was truly a pain in the ass.
* * * *
Calm’s Point could have been a foreign nation. Took them forty minutes downtown from the Eight-Seven and then over the bridge to the Nine-Eight, where the most recent Glock murder had occurred. Was what they were already calling them: the Glock Murders. In the dead woman’s apartment now, the inheriting detectives felt like they’d just crossed the Euphrates.
The body had been removed long ago, but its chalked outline was still on the kitchen floor. Frying pan on the stove, cold mushrooms and eggs in it, lady’d been cooking an omelet. Big carving knife on the floor, where she’d dropped it when the killer aced her. Fire-escape window open wide, they assumed this had been the point of entry.
What troubled them was that this time he - or she -had been invasive. The blind violinist had been shot on the street. This time, the killer had entered the vic’s living space, which meant this wasn’t just a random killing, this was a chosen target. Which could or could not mean that the previous vic had been deliberately selected as well. In which case, the killer had so far picked targets in disparate parts of the city. The blind guy all the way uptown in the Eight-Seven’s turf, and now the omelet lady, here in her own apartment in Calm’s Point.
No apparent theft this time, either. Lady’s jewelry still in her top dresser drawer, money in her handbag. Credit cards ID’d her as one Alicia Hendricks. Neighbors told them she worked for some cosmetics company in ‘The City’ - which meant back across the river and into the trees again. One of the neighbors thought the name of the firm was Beauty Blush. But a laminated card in her wallet identified her as a sales rep for a firm called Beauty Plus, at 165 Twombley, in midtown Isola, and a phone call confirmed that she was indeed an employee of the company.