Calypso (87th Precinct)

  Praise for Ed McBain & the 87th Precinct

  “Raw and realistic…The bad guys are very bad, and the good guys are better.”

  —Detroit Free Press

  “Ed McBain’s 87th Precinct series…simply the best police procedurals being written in the United States.”

  —Washington Post

  “The best crime writer in the business.”

  —Houston Post

  “Ed McBain is a national treasure.”

  —Mystery News

  “It’s hard to think of anyone better at what he does. In fact, it’s impossible.”

  —Robert B. Parker

  “I never read Ed McBain without the awful thought that I still have a lot to learn. And when you think you’re catching up, he gets better.”

  —Tony Hillerman

  “McBain is the unquestioned king…light years ahead of anyone else in the field.”

  —San Diego Union-Tribune

  “McBain tells great stories.”

  —Elmore Leonard

  “Pure prose poetry…It is such writers as McBain who bring the great American urban mythology to life.”

  —The London Times

  “The McBain stamp: sharp dialogue and crisp plotting.”

  —Miami Herald

  “You’ll be engrossed by McBain’s fast, lean prose.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “McBain redefines the American police novel…he can stop you dead in your tracks with a line of dialogue.”

  —Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “The wit, the pacing, his relish for the drama of human diversity [are] what you remember about McBain novels.”

  —Philadelphia Inquirer

  “McBain is a top pro, at the top of his game.”

  —Los Angeles Daily News

  CALYPSO

  AN 87TH PRECINCT NOVEL

  Ed McBain

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 1979 Hui Corporation

  Republished in 2011

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN: 978-1-61218-159-2

  This is for Jay and Connie Cronley

  The city in these pages is imaginary. The people, the places are all fictitious. Only the police routine is based on established investigatory technique.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  In this city, autumn is often wasted. There are not that many parks, there is never a riotous flame of leafy color sufficient to stun the senses. The skies are often sodden and gray with the afterbirth of tropical storms born in the Caribbean and swept far northward by raging winds. It is not until October that they turn constantly, achingly, intensely blue. It is then that the air comes briskly alive in a season of dying.

  This September, as usual, there was rain.

  The two men walking through the late night storm were autumn enough. The taller of the two had a warm café au lait complexion, and he was wearing under his raincoat a yellow silk blouse and red silk trousers. Yellow glowed in the V-neck of the raincoat; red flashed below the hem and in the gap that opened with each long-legged stride he took. He was carrying a guitar case in his left hand. The case swung in counterpoint to his hurried steps. The shorter man had difficulty keeping up with him. His complexion was darker, a rich chocolate brown that glistened wetly in the teeming rain. He was wearing a green ski parka and trousers that almost matched the color of his skin. When he smiled, as he was doing now, a gold tooth gleamed at the front of his mouth.

  “You were sensational,” he said.

  “Yeah,” the taller man said without enthusiasm.

  “You killed them, baby, I don’t know what I got to say to convince you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Look at what the crowd was. A three hundred advance, another fifty at the door. That’s a sizable crowd, George.”

  “That’s skimpy. For a Friday night, that’s real skimpy.”

  “No, no, that ain’t skimpy. With capacity at four hundred? You almost filled the hall. Nossir, I don’t consider that skimpy.”

  “None of them knew what I was doing, man.”

  “They caught it all, George. You were layin’ it down, baby, and they were pickin’ it up. Why you think they were yellin’ and screamin’ so? When you did the one—”

  The shots came from a shadowed tenement doorway.

  There was a flash of yellow paler than the tall man’s shirt, and then a shocking explosion. The bullet entered the left side of his neck and blew out an exit wound on the opposite side, blood spattering in globules on the falling rain. He groped the rain for support, staggered, dropped the guitar case, and turned in time to see the second muzzle flash. The bullet shattered his left cheekbone, and veered wildly through the top of his skull, opening his head in a shower of gristle, bone, and blood.

  The shorter man’s reaction time was slow. He was turning toward the doorway when the muzzle flared yellow again. Lightning flashed above, there was the sound of the explosion, and then a thunderclap that made it seem magnified and echoing. He winced in anticipation, and then realized the bullet had missed him. He began running. He heard another explosion behind him, and swerved like a quarterback dodging opposition, a futile reaction given the speed of the bullet. But the aim was wild again, he was still on his feet and running, and beginning to think he would get away clean. The fifth bullet caught him high on the left shoulder. It hit him hard, he felt only the pressure at first, as though someone had swung a sledgehammer at his back, and then he felt the searing pain as the bullet tore through flesh and bone, and suddenly he fell flat to the pavement. Up the street, he heard someone yelling. In the gutter on his right, he heard rushing water. And then he heard something that caused him to feel suddenly faint. Footsteps. Footsteps moving swiftly from the doorway to where he lay bleeding on the sidewalk.

  He said, “Oh, Jesus, please,” and lifted his head. He saw only the tips of black leather boots below the legs of narrow black trousers. He squinted through the teeming rain, raised his head a bit higher, and saw a black-sleeved arm leveled at his head, a hand clutching a black pistol. Lightning flashed again, he thought at first it was the flaring muzzle, heard the thunder, and mistook it for the explosion of the pistol. Instead, there was a click. It reverberated through the hoarse whisper of the rain. Up the street, there was more yelling, a chorus of voices approaching. There was another click, and yet another. He saw the tips of the black leather boots only an instant longer, and then they were gone. He heard the footsteps rushing away through the falling rain, and then more footsteps approaching from the opposite direction, voices above him and around him now. “Man, you see that?” “Call the police, man,” “Somebody git an ambulance,” “You okay, man?” and then he passed out.

  The Police Administrative Aide at Communications Division was wearing a telephone headset with a single earphone, the mouthpiece close to her chin. She was sitting before a console that looked like a televis
ion screen with a typewriter keyboard under it. To her right was another console with thirty-two buttons; it was this console that would be activated by a 911 call from any of the city’s five separate sections. At twenty minutes to midnight, the ISOLA button flashed, and she immediately said into the mouthpiece, “This is Operator Seventy-four. Where’s the emergency?”

  From a phone booth on the corner near where the two men lay bleeding on the sidewalk, a man said in an excited voice, “There’s two guys been shot here. They layin’ on the ground here.”

  “Where’s that, sir?”

  “Culver Avenue, near South Eleventh.”

  “Hold on, please.”

  Her hand flashed to the typewriter keyboard. Her index finger punched first the I key and then the q key. On the screen above the typewriter, in glowing green letters on a darker green background, a two-hour sector summary flashed:

  IQ/3 1A

  IQ/3 CULVER SOUTH ELEVENTH

  ASSAULT WEAPON/OUTSIDE

  **NO INCIDENTS FOUND**

  The computer had just told her that the telephone caller was not reporting an emergency already reported within the past two hours. Into the mouthpiece, she said, “Sir, is there any shooting going on at the moment?”

  “No, he run away. Man with the gun run away. They layin’ here on the sidewalk, the two of them.”

  “What is your name and the number you’re calling from, sir?”

  There was a click on the line. This was the city. It was one thing doing a good turn, it was another getting involved with the fuzz. The aide, unsurprised, hit four digits on her telephone console and began typing as her call went through to Centrex.

  “Ambulance Receiving,” a woman’s voice said.

  “Two men with gunshot wounds, sidewalk on Culver and South Eleventh.”

  “Rolling,” the woman said.

  There was another click on the line. The aide continued typing. As she typed, her words appeared in bright electronic letters on the console screen:

  IE/1A GUNSHOT ASSAULT PAST/TWO VICTIMS

  SIDEWALK CULVER

  SOUTH ELEVENTH/AMBULANCE CASE

  She reached for the enter button on her keyboard and hit it at once. Instantaneously, in another part of Communications, a green light flashed on an almost identical console in the Emergency Dispatchers’ room. The dispatcher sitting in front of the console immediately hit his q button. The message the aide had just typed and entered appeared on his screen. He hit the TRANSMIT button on the console to his right. As he spoke into a microphone hanging over the unit, he was already beginning to type.

  “Adam Two,” he said, “are you available?”

  “Affirmative, Central.”

  “Ten-twenty-four, two men with gunshot wounds on the sidewalk on Culver and South Eleventh.”

  “Ten-four.”

  On the screen, the words “ES ADAM 2” appeared. Adam Two was the emergency service van covering that section of the city. The dispatcher knew that an ambulance was already on the way; the aide taking the call had indicated this was an ambulance case, and he knew she would have contacted Ambulance Receiving at once. It was his guess that the Adam Two van would get there before the ambulance did. If this had been a jumper on one of the city’s bridges, or a man pinned under a truck, or a bomb scare, or any one of a dozen other emergencies requiring heavier equipment than that carried on the van, he would have radioed Truck Two as well, and asked them to respond if they were available. As it was, he knew Adam Two could handle it alone. He hit two digits on his telephone console now, opening communication with one of the Mobile Unit Dispatchers elsewhere on the floor.

  “Mobile.”

  “Emergency,” he said. “Ten-twenty-four, two men with gunshot wounds on the sidewalk at Culver and South Eleventh.”

  “Got it, Frank.”

  The radio frequency used by the Mobile Unit Dispatcher and every radio motor patrol car in Isola was not the same one used by the Emergency Dispatcher. In the Adam Two van, the driver and his partner would be monitoring both frequencies, but the men in the separate RMP cars would be tuned only to the Mobile Unit band. The dispatcher knew the whereabouts of every RMP car in Isola; there were four other dispatchers on the floor, separately controlling the cars in Riverhead, Calm’s Point, Bethtown, and Majesta. The Isola dispatcher knew that Culver and South Eleventh was in the 87th Precinct. He further knew that Boy car up there had responded to a 10-13—an Assist Police Officer—not three minutes earlier, leaving its normal sector to join Adam car at Culver and South Third. Charlie car had just responded to a 10-10—a Suspicious Person call—and had radioed back with a 10-90—Unfounded. Into the mike, the dispatcher said, “Eight-Seven Charlie, ten-twenty-four, two men with gunshot wounds on the sidewalk at Culver and South Eleventh.”

  The man riding shotgun in the Charlie car was undoubtedly new on the job. He said at once, and with obvious excitement, “Ten-thirrty-four, did you say?”

  “Twenty-four, twenty-four,” the dispatcher said impatiently, distinguishing for the rookie a past crime from a crime in progress.

  “Ten-four,” the rookie said, acknowledging. He sounded disappointed.

  Five minutes later, in response to a police call box report from Charlie car to the station house, Detectives Steve Carella and Meyer Meyer of the 87th Precinct arrived at the scene. Five minutes after that, Detectives Monoghan and Monroe of the Homicide Division were standing on the pavement looking down at the dead man in the yellow shirt and the red pants.

  “Must be some kind of musician,” Monoghan said.

  “A guitar player,” Monroe said.

  “Yeah, that’s a guitar case,” Monoghan said.

  “Did a nice job on his head there,” Monroe said.

  “Those’re his brains you’re looking at,” Monoghan said.

  “Don’t I know brains when I see them?”

  “What’s the other guy’s condition?”

  He addressed this question to Carella, who was staring silently at the corpse. There was a pained expression on Carella’s face. His eyes—faintly Oriental, slanting downward—seemed to exaggerate the look of grief, presenting a false image of someone who might suddenly burst into tears. A tall, athletically slender white man, he stood in the rain with his hands in his pockets, staring down at the corpse. Near the doorway behind him, the man from the Photo Unit snapped his Polaroids, his strobe flash blinking like a distant star. In the hallway, one of the lab technicians was searching for spent cartridge cases.

  “Carella? You hear me?” Monoghan said.

  “Meat wagon took him away before we got here,” Carella said. “Patrolman in Charlie car said he was bleeding front and back.”

  “But still alive, huh?”

  “Still alive,” Carella said, and looked again at the dead man.

  “Hey, Petie, you finished with the stiff here?” Monoghan called to the photographer.

  “Yeah, I got all I need,” the photographer answered.

  “Did you toss him yet?” Monoghan asked Carella, gesturing toward the dead man.

  “I was about to when you got here.”

  “Don’t get his brains all over you,” Monroe said.

  Carella knelt beside the corpse. In the right-hand pocket at the rear of his trousers—the sucker pocket, the one any pick-pocket could slash undetected—Carella found a brown leather wallet with a driver’s license that identified the dead man as George C. Chadderton. His address was given as 1137 Raucher Street, uptown in Diamondback. The license gave his height as six feet four inches, his sex as M for Male, and a date of birth that would have made him thirty years old on the tenth of November—if he’d lived that long. The license also indicated that it was valid only if the bearer wore corrective lenses while driving. George C. Chadderton, lying on the pavement dead, was not wearing eyeglasses, unless they were contacts.

  Behind the license was a Lucite-sealed card stating that he was a member in good standing of the local chapter of the American Federation of Musicians—corrobor
ation of the identification, not that any was needed. There was no registration for a motor vehicle in the wallet, but this meant nothing; most motorists kept their registration in the glove compartments of their cars. In the section for cash, Carella found three $100 bills, a five, and two singles. The $100 bills bothered him. They did not seem like the denominations a man would be carrying in this neighborhood—unless he were a pusher or a pimp. Or had Chadderton been heading home after a gig? Still, $300 seemed like more than any guitar player could reasonably earn in a single night. Was this his pay for a week’s work? He rolled the man over on his hip, and reached into the left rear pocket. Only a soiled handkerchief was in it.

  “Don’t get snot on your hands,” Monroe said cheerfully.

  The rain drilled the sidewalk. Carella, hatless and wearing a tan trench coat, was flanked by the two Homicide men, who stood like bulky bookends on either side of him, both of them dressed in black raincoats, both wearing black fedoras. Their hands were in their pockets. They watched Carella with something less than interest but more than curiosity. In this city, a homicide was investigated by the precinct detective catching the squeal. Homicide detectives responded as a matter of course, and the later paperwork would be routinely delivered to them. But they were spectators, in effect. Or perhaps referees. Carella, hunched and squatting in the rain, emptied the dead man’s right-hand side pocket. Chadderton was carrying six keys on a ring, none of them car keys, 67¢ in change, and a subway token. The subway kiosk for the Culver Avenue line was only two blocks away. Had he been slain on his way to the subway? Or had he and the other man been walking toward a car parked somewhere in the neighborhood?

  “What’s his name?” Monoghan asked.

  “George Chadderton.”

  “Nice,” Monroe said, almost to himself.

  “Is the ME on his way?” Monoghan asked.