“When you teamed up with me, dip.”
“Thank you, I’ll make a note of that.”
Becky swung the car out into traffic and jammed the accelerator to the floor. She wasn’t going to let him get to her. Part of the reason he was like this was because she had forced herself on him. Between her husband Dick and her uncle Bob she had exerted plenty of pull to get herself into Homicide and to land a partner once she got there. It took the pull of her husband’s captaincy and her uncle’s inspectorship to move her out of the secretary syndrome and onto the street. She had done well as a patrolman and gotten herself promoted to Detective Sergeant when she deserved it. Most of the women she knew on the force got their promotions at least two or three years late, and then had to fight to avoid ending up on some rotten squad like Missing Persons, where the only action you ever saw was an occasional flat tire on an unmaintained squad car.
So here came Becky Neff just when George Wilson’s most recent partner had punched him in the face and transferred to Safes and Locks. Wilson had to take what he could get, and in this situation it was a rookie detective and, worse, a woman.
He had looked at her as if she had contagious leprosy. For the first six weeks together he had said no more than a word a week to her—six words in six weeks, all of them four-letter. He had schemed to get her out of the division, even started dark rumors about a Board of Inquiry when she missed an important lead in what should have been an easy case.
But gradually she had become better at the work, until even he had been forced to acknowledge it. Soon they were making collars pretty often. In fact they were getting a reputation.
“Women are mostly awful cops,” were his final words on the subject, “but you’re unique. Instead of being awful, you’re just bad.”
Coming from Wilson that was a compliment, perhaps the highest he had ever paid a fellow officer. After that his grumbling became inarticulate and he let the partnership roll along under its own considerable steam.
They worked like two parts of the same person, constantly completing each other’s thoughts. People like the Chief Medical Examiner started requesting their help on troublesome cases. But when their work started to reach the papers, it was invariably the attractive, unusual lady cop Becky Neff who ended up in the Daily News centerfold. Wilson was only another skilled policeman; Becky was interesting news. Wilson, of course, claimed to hate publicity. But she knew he hated even more the fact that he didn’t get any.
“You’re making a wrong turn, Becky. We’re supposed to be stopping at the Seventy-fifth to get pictures. of the bodies and pawprints for Rilker. Give him something to work with.”
She wheeled the car around and turned up Flatlands Avenue toward the station house. “Also we ought to call ahead,” she said, “let him know we’re coming.”
“You’re sure we trust him? I mean, what if he’s doing a little work on the side, like for somebody bad. Calling ahead’ll give him time to think.”
“Rilker’s not working for the Mafia. I don’t think that’s even worthy of consideration.”
“Then I won’t consider it.” He slumped down in the seat, pushing his knees up against the glove compartment and letting his head lean forward against his chest. It looked like agony, but he closed his eyes. Becky lit a cigarette and drove on in silence, mentally reviewing the case. Despite the fact that it looked like they were on a good lead she could not dismiss the feeling that something was wrong with it. Some element didn’t fit. Again and again she reviewed the facts but she couldn’t come up with the answer. The one thing that worried her was the lack of resistance. It had happened so fast that they hadn’t appeared dangerous until the very last moment.
Did attack dogs lay ambushes? Could they move fast enough to kill two healthy policemen before they even had time to unholster their pistols?
She double-parked the car in front of the 75th Precinct.
Leaving Wilson snoring lightly she hurried up the worn concrete steps of the dingy red-brick building and introduced herself to the desk sergeant. He called Lieutenant Ruiz, who was responsible for the material she needed. He was a six-footer with a trim black mustache and a subdued smile. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Detective Neff,” he said with great f formality.
“We need pictures and copies of the prints you took.”
“No problem, we’ve got everything you could want. It’s a rotten mess.”
A leading statement, but Becky didn’t pick up on it That part of the investigation would come later. Before they identified a motive for the murders they had to have a mode of death.
Sergeant Ruiz produced eleven glossies of the scene, plus a box of plasticasts of the pawprints that had been found surrounding the bodies. “There isn’t a single clear print in that box,” he said, “just a jumble. If you ask me those prints haven’t got a thing to do with it. Just the wild dogs doing a little scavenging. They sure as hell couldn’t be responsible for killing those guys, they just came and got their share after the real work was done.”
“Why do you say that?” She was examining the photographs as she talked. Why had he handed her one of the less grisly shots?
“The dogs—I’ve seen them. They’re little, like cockers or something, and they’re shy as hell. And by the way, I wonder if you could autograph that picture for my daughter.” He paused, then added shyly, “She thinks the world of you.”
Becky was so pleased by his admiration that she didn’t notice Wilson standing behind her.
“I thought we weren’t going to give out any more autographs,” he said curtly.
“When did we decide not to? I don’t remember that.”
“Right now. I just decided. This isn’t some kind of a game.” His hand moved toward the picture but Ruiz’s was quicker.
“Thanks, Miss Neff,” he said, still smiling. “My daughter’ll be thrilled.”
Becky gathered the rest of the photographs and picked up the box of prints to lug to the car. She knew without asking that Wilson wouldn’t touch it, and she wasn’t sure she wanted him to.
“By the way, it’s Sergeant Neff,” she said over her shoulder to Ruiz, who was still standing there staring.
“Let me help you,” he said.
Becky was already out the door and putting the box into the back seat of the car. Wilson followed, got in, and slammed his door. Becky settled herself into the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition.
“I just don’t want this to be a circus,” he said as they headed toward Manhattan. “This case is going to be the most sensational thing we’ve ever worked on. Reporters are gonna be crawling out of your nightgown in the morning.”
“I don’t wear a nightgown.”
“Whatever, we’re gonna have ’em all over us. The point is, it’s a serious case and we want to treat it serious.”
Wilson could be sententious, but this was ridiculous. She forced herself not to say she knew how serious the case was. If she did he would then launch into a tirade about lady cops, probably ending with a question about her competence or some new criticism of her work. She decided to ignore him and make him shut up as well. To do this she drove like a madwoman, careening down the streets, making hairpin turns, weaving in and out of the traffic at fifty miles an hour. Wilson at first sat with his shoulders hunched and his hands twisted together in his lap, then started using the siren.
“Rilker give you some kind of deadline?”
“No.” She had forgotten to call Rilker, dammit. If he wasn’t there she’d have to suffer more flak from Wilson.
She lit another cigarette. Smoking was one pleasure that she had really begun to enjoy since the doctor had made Wilson stop.
His response was prompt. “You’re polluting.”
“Draw an oxygen mask if you don’t like it I’ve told you that before.”