"And you'll wait, too."
Hawes glanced at Meyer and Kung.
"Lady," Meyer started, "we don't want to seem rude
"Shut up!" the woman said.
There was the unmistakable ring of command in her voice. The detectives stared at her.
Her hand slipped into the pocket on the right-hand side of her coat. When it emerged, it was holding something cold and hard.
"This is a .3 8," the woman said.
CHAPTER 2
The woman with the .38 and the black tote bag
sat motionless in the straight-backed wooden chair. The street noises outside the squad room seemed to magnify the silence that had followed her simple declaration.
The three detectives looked first at each other and then back to the woman and the unwavering .38.
"Give me your guns," she said.
The detectives did not move.
"Give me your guns, or I'll fire."
"Look, lady," Meyer said, "put up the piece. We're all friends here. You're only going to get yourself in trouble."
"I don't care," she said.
"Put your guns on the desk here in front of me. Don't try to take them out of the holsters or I'll shoot.
This gun is pointed right at the redheaded one's belly. Now move!"
Again, the detectives hesitated.
"All right, redhead," she said.
"Say your prayers."
There was not a man in that room who did not realize that once he relinquished his weapon he would be at the mercy of the woman holding the gun. There was not a man in that room, too, who had not faced a gun at one time or another in his career.
The men in that room were cops, but they were also human beings who did not particularly relish the thought of an early grave. The men in that room were human beings, but they were also cops who knew the destructive power of a .38, who also knew that women were as capable of squeezing triggers as were men, who realized that this woman holding the gun could cut down all three of them in one hasty volley. And yet, they hesitated.
"Damnit!" she shouted.
"I'm not kidding!"
Kung was the first to move, and then only because he saw the knuckle-white tension of the woman's trigger finger.
Staring at her all the while, he unstrapped his shoulder rig and dropped holster and Police Special to the desk top. Meyer unclipped his holster from his right hip pocket and deposited it alongside Kung's gun. Hawes carried his .38 just off his right hipbone. He unclipped the holster and put it on the desk.
"Which of these desk drawers lock?" the woman asked.
"The top one," Hawes said.
"Where's the key?"
"In the drawer.
She opened the drawer, found the key, and then shoved the guns into the drawer.
She locked the desk then, removed the key, and put it into her coat pocket. The big black purse was still on her lap.
"Okay, now you got our guns," Meyer said.
"Now what? What is this, lady?"
"I'm going to kill Steve Carella," the woman said.
"Why?"
"Never mind why. Who else is in this place right now?" Meyer hesitated. From where the woman was sitting, she had a clear view of both the lieutenant's office and the corridor outside the squad room
"Answer me!" she snapped.
"Just Lieutenant Byrnes," Meyer lied. In the Clerical Office, just outside the slatted rail divider, Miscolo was busily working on his records. There was the possibility that they could maneuver her so that her back was to the corridor. And then, if Miscolo decided to enter the squad-room on one of his frequent trips, perhaps he would grasp the situation and .
"Get the lieutenant," she said.
Meyer began to move.
"Before you go, remember this. The gun is on you. One phony move, and I shoot.
And I keep shooting until every man in this place is dead. Now go ahead. Knock on the lieutenant's door and tell him to get out here."
Meyer crossed the silent squad room The lieutenant's door was closed. He rapped on the wooden frame alongside the frosted glass.
"Come!" Byrnes called from behind the door.
"Pete, it's me. Meyer."
"The door's unlocked," Byrnes answered.
"Pete, you better come out here."
"What the hell is it?"
"Come on out, Pete."
There was the sound of footsteps behind the door. The door opened. Lieutenant Peter Byrnes, as compact as a rivet, thrust his muscular neck and shoulders into the opening.
"What is it, Meyer? I'm busy."
"There's a woman wants to see you."
"A woman? Where ... ?" His eyes flicked past Meyer to where the woman sat. Instant recognition crossed his face.
"Hello, Virginia," he said, and then he saw the gun.
"Get in here, Lieutenant," Virginia Dodge said. A frown had come over Byrnes' face. His brows pulled down tightly over scrutinizing blue eyes.
Intelligence flashed on his craggy face.
Lumberingly, like a man about to lift a heavy log, he crossed the squad room walking directly to where Virginia Dodge sat. He seemed ready to pick her up and hurl her into the corridor.
"What is this, Virginia?" he said, and there was the tone of a father in his voice, a rather angry father speaking to a fifteen year-old daughter who'd come home too late after a dance.
"What does it look like, Lieutenant?"
"It looks like you've blown your wig, that's what it looks like. What the hell's the gun for? What are you doing in here with ..
"I'm going to kill Steve Carella," Virginia said.
"Oh, for Christ's sake," Byrnes said in exasperation.
"Do you think that's going to help your husband any?"
"Nothing's going to help Frank any more."
"What do you mean?"
"Frank died yesterday. In the hospital at Castleview Prison."
Byrnes was silently meditative. He did not speak for a long while, and then he said only, "You can't blame Carella for that."
"Carella sent him up."
~Your husband was a criminal."
"Carella sent him up."
"Carella only arrested him. You can't-" "And pressed the DA. for a conviction, and testified at the trial, and did everything in his power to make sure Frank went to jail!"
"Virginia, he-" "Frank was sick! Carella knew that! He knew that when he put him away!"
"Virginia, for Christ's sake, our job is to-" "Carella killed him as sure as if he'd shot him.
And now I'm going to kill Carella. The minute he steps into this squad room I'm going to kill him."