"Or go write a book about a barber," Brown suggested.
"I ain't a barber," Parker said.
He looked at the phone again.
"You ever see it this quiet?" he asked.
"I never even heard it this quiet," Brown said.
"Me, neither," Parker said. "It's like a paid vacation."
"Like always," Brown said.
"I once had a lady choked to death on a dildo," Parker said. "Maybe I could write about that. I had a lot of cases I could write about."
"Maybe you could write about the case you're working now," Brown said.
"I ain't working nothing right now."
"No kidding?"
"I finished all my work. Everything wrapped up till the phone rings."
"Maybe the phone's out of order," Hawes said.
"You think so?" Parker said, but he made no move to lift the receiver and listen for a dial tone.
"Or maybe none of the bad guys are doing anything out there," Brown said.
"Maybe all the bad guys went south for the winter," Hawes said, and thought again about Bermuda, and wondered if he should come clean with Annie.
"Fat chance," Parker said. "This weather? I never seen an October like this in my entire life. I once had a case, this guy strangled his wife with the telephone cord. I'll bet I could write about that."
"I'll bet you could."
"Hit her with the phone first, knocked her cold. Then strangled her with the cord."
"You could call it Long Distance," Brown said.
"No, he was standing close to her when he done it."
"Then how about Local Call?"
"What's wrong with Sorry, Wrong Number?" Parker asked.
"Nothing," Hawes said. "That's a terrific title."
"Or I could write about this guy got drowned in the bathtub. His wife drowned him in the bathtub. That was a good case."
"You could call it Glub," Brown said.
"Glub ain't a best-selling title," Parker said. "Also, she cut off his cock. The water was all red with his blood."
"Why'd she do that?" Brown asked, truly interested now.
"He was fuckin' around with some other broad," Parker said. "You shoulda seen the guy, he was a tiny little runt. His wife came in while he was taking a bath, she shoved him under the water, good-bye, Charlie. Then she cuts off his cock with his own straight razor, throws it out the window."
"The razor?"
"No, the cock. Hit an old lady walking by in the street. Hit her right on top of the head, knocked this plastic flower off her hat. She bends down to pick up the flower, she sees the cock laying on the sidewalk. Right away she wonders who she can sue. She picks it up, runs to her lawyer with it. Goes running down the street with this cock in her fist, in this city nobody even blinked."
"Carella and I once worked a case," Hawes said, "where this guy cut off another guy's hands."
"Why'd he do that?"
"Same reason. Love."
"That's love?"
"Love or money," Hawes said, and shrugged. "The only two reasons there are."
"Plus your lunatics," Brown said.
"Well, that's a whole 'nother ball game," Parker said. "Your lunatics. I once had a lunatic, he killed four priests before we caught up with him. We ast him why he was killing priests. He told us his father was a priest. How could that be, his father a priest?"
"Maybe his mother was a nun," Brown said.
"No, his mother was a registered nurse. Fifty years old, but gorgeous. Peaches Muldoon, her name was. Her square handle, I mean it, she was from Tennessee. Told me her son was nuts for sure, and she was glad I nailed him. Peaches Muldoon. A redhead. A real racehorse."
"Who'd she say the father was?"
"Her brother," Parker said.
"Nice case," Hawes said.
"Yeah. Maybe I oughta write about that one."
"You're not a priest."
"Sometimes I feel like a priest," Parker said. "You know the last time I got laid? Don't ask."
"Maybe you oughta go look up Peaches," Brown suggested.
"She's prolly dead by now," Parker said, giving the idea serious consideration. "This was maybe ten years ago, this case."
"She'd be sixty by now," Hawes said.
"If she ain't dead, yeah. But sixty ain't old, you know. I laid a lot of sixty-year-old broads. They have lots of experience, they know what they're doing."
He looked at the phone again.
"Maybe I will go shave," he said.
The two women knew each other well.
Annie Rawles was a Detective/First working out of the Rape Squad.
Eileen Burke was a Detective/Second who worked out of Special Forces.
They were in Annie's office discussing murder.
The clock on the wall read 4:30 p.m.
"Why'd they drag you in?" Eileen asked.
"My experience with decoys," Annie said. "I guess Homicide's getting desperate."
"Who caught the squeals?"
"Guy named Alvarez at the Seven-Two."
"In Calm's Point?"
"Yes."
"All three?"
"All three."
"Same area of the precinct?"
"The Canal Zone, down by the docks. You'd think you were in Houston."
"I've never been to Houston."
"Don't go."
Eileen smiled.
She was five-feet nine-inches tall, with long legs, good breasts, flaring hips, flaming red hair, and green eyes. There was no longer a scar on her left cheek. Plastic surgery had taken care of that. But Annie wondered if there were still internal scars.
"You don't have to take this one," she said. "I know it's short notice."
"Well, tell me some more," Eileen said.
"Or it can wait till next Friday. Shit, Homicide only called me an hour ago. Told me Alvarez wasn't making any headway, maybe the spic needed a helping hand. Homicide's words, not mine."
"Good old Homicide," Eileen said, and shook her head knowingly.
She wondered if Annie had doubts about her handling this one. She hadn't handled a really difficult one since the accident. Calling it an "accident" made it easier to think about. An accident was something that could happen to anyone. Something that needn't necessarily happen again. An accident wasn't a rapist slashing open your left cheek and then taking you by force.
Annie was watching her.
Eyes the color of loam behind glasses that gave her a scholarly look, black hair cut in a wedge, firm cupcake breasts on a slender body. About the same age as Eileen, a bit shorter. As hard and as brilliant as a diamond. Annie used to work out of Robbery, where she'd blown away two guys holding up a midtown bank. Blew them out of the air. If she hadn't been frightened by two seasoned hoods facing a max of twenty, would she have any sympathy for a decoy cop running scared?
Well, I've been on the job, Eileen thought, I'm not running scared.
But she was.
"When was the first one?" she asked.
"The tenth. A Friday night, full moon. Alvarez thought maybe a loonie. Then the second one turned up a week later, the seventeenth. And another one last Friday night."
"Always Friday night, huh?"
"So far."
"So tonight's Friday, so Homicide wants a decoy."
"So does Alvarez. I spoke to him right after I got the call. He sounds smart as hell, but so far he hasn't got a place to hang his hat."
"What's his thinking on it?"
"You don't know the Zone, huh?"
"No."
"Then you missed what I was saying about Houston."
"I guess so."
"There's an area bordering the Ship Canal down there, it's infested with hookers and dope. Sleaziest dives I've ever seen in my life. The docks on the Calm's Point Canal run a close second."
"Are they hookers then? The victims?"