The Killing Man Read Free

critical. “Who is your decorator?”
    “That’s his sense of humor,” Pat said when the ME left. Then he went over and called in two of his people to go over the corpse itself.
    I went to the phone and called Meg. The answering service said she would be back at six. I called the hospital directly, but there was no report on Velda’s condition so far. Nobody would speculate.
    It was another hour before the specialists finished and the body was carted out in its rubberized shroud. Pat was on the phone and when he hung up he turned to me and said tiredly, “The papers just got wind of it. They still on your side?”
    “Hell, most of the old guys are buddies, but some of those young ones are weirdos.”
    “Wait till they read that note.”
    “Yeah, great.”
    “You still haven’t told me who you killed, Mike.” This time there was a quiet seriousness in his tone. It was a question direct and simple.
    I turned and faced him, meeting his eyes square on. “Anybody I ever took down you know about. The last one was Julius Marco, the son of a bitch who was about to kill that kid when I nailed him, and that was four years ago.”
    “How many have you shot since?”
    “A few. None died.”
    “You testified in a couple of Murder One cases, didn’t you?”
    “Sure. So did a few other people.”
    “Recently?”
    “Hell, no. The last one was a few years back.”
    “Then who would want you dead?”
    “Nobody I can think of.”
    “Hell, somebody wants you even better than dead. They want you all chopped up and with a spike through your head. Somebody had a business engagement with you at noon, got here early, took out Velda and didn’t have to wait for you because there was a guy in your office he thought was you and he nailed that poor bastard instead.”
    “I’ve thought of that,” I said.
    “And we’re stuck until we get IDs on everybody and a statement from Velda.”
    “Looks like that,” I told him. “You through here?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Sealing the place up?”
    Pat shrugged. “No need to.”
    I picked up the phone again and called the building super. I told him what had happened and that I needed the place cleaned up. He said he’d do it personally. I thanked him and hung up.
    Pat said, “Let’s go get something to eat. You’ll feel better. Then we’ll go to the hospital.”
    “No sense in that. Velda was unconscious and in critical condition. No visitors. I’ll tell you what you can do though.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Station a cop at her door. That Penta character missed two of us and he just might want another go at somebody when he finds out what happened.”
    Pat picked up the phone in Velda’s office and relayed the message. When he hung up he said to me, “What are your plans?”
    “Hell, I’m going to Anthony Cica’s apartment with you.”
    “Listen, Mike ...”
    “You don’t want me to go alone, do you?”
    “Man, you’re a real pisser,” Pat said.
    Outside it was barely raining. It was more like the sky was spitting at us. It was ending up the way it had started. Bad, real bad.
    Pat had an unmarked car at the curb and we drove across town and headed south on Second Avenue. The pavements were slick, brightly alive with neon reflections and the broad streaks of dimmed headlights. The weather meant nothing to the people who lived here. They never were out in it long enough to annoy them. Pat didn’t bother with his red light, simply moving in and out of the stream of yellow cabs and occasional cars with automatic precision.
    Both of us stayed pretty deep in our thoughts until I mentioned, “You could have had one of the detectives do this.”
    “Don’t get hairy on me, pal. I’m not letting you alone on any primary investigation.”
    “You’re investigating a corpse, not a murder suspect: What the hell could I do?”
    The car in front of us hit the brakes and Pat swore at the driver and cut to the left. “I don’t know what you could do, Mike. There’s no telling