The Killing Man Read Free Page A

what’s ever going to happen with you. There’s something that hangs over you like a magnet that pulls all the crazies right to your door.”
    “No crazy did this.”
    “Any killer is crazy,” he stated.
    “Maybe, but some are more deliberate than others.”
    Pat slowed and turned left, checked the numbers on the buildings when he could find one, then counted down to the tenement he was looking for. Hardly anybody in this area owned a car and whoever did wouldn’t park it on the street. We parked behind a stripped wreck of an old Buick and got out of the car.
    A lot of years ago they talked of condemning areas like this but never got around to it. One by one the buildings lost any rental benefits and were abandoned by their owners. Here and there were a few that somebody had renovated enough to warrant having paying tenants as long as they didn’t mind sharing the space with roaches and rats.
    We went up the sandstone stoop and pushed through the scarred wooden doors. The vestibule light in the ceiling was protected by a wire cage, a forty-watter that turned everything a sickly yellow. As usual, the brass mailbox doors were all sprung open, each one with a cheap paper circular stuck in it. Scrawled on the top of the brass frame were names in black marker ink. The middle two were half rubbed out. Anthony Cica was the one who had the top floor.
    The inner vestibule light only went halfway up the stairs, but Pat had a pocket power light with him and lit our way up among the litter that spilled down the stairs. We stepped over a couple of empty beer cans and some half-pint whiskey bottles to get to the first landing. Apparently visitors never got above the top steps. The rest of the way was clear. The door we were looking for had the number four drawn on it in white paint. It was locked. In fact, it had three locks on it.
    “Think a credit card can get them open, Pat?”
    “Hell no. I have a warrant.”
    “Then use it.”
    He kicked the door panel out, reached in and opened the locks, then pushed it open with his foot. Standing to one side, he felt for the light switch beside the jamb, found it and flipped it on. Nothing moved except the roaches.
    The occupant hadn’t been a total slob. There were no dirty dishes and the sink was clean. The furniture was old, probably secondhand, the bed wasn’t made, simply straightened out a little, and the small bathroom had a semblance of order to it. The refrigerator belonged in a museum, but it still worked, the unit on its top humming away. In it were two frozen dinners, half a carton of milk, some butter and a six-pack of beer.
    I said, “What do you think?”
    “Permanent quarters. Lousy, but fixed.”
    Three suits and a sports jacket hung in the closet, all several years old. Two pairs of shoes, one brown, the other black, were on the floor beside a piece of Samsonite luggage that was open and empty. In the corner, almost out of sight, was a small metal rectangle. I picked it up with a handkerchief.
    “Pat ...”
    He came over and I showed him the clip for an automatic. It was loaded with 7.65-millimeter cartridges.
    “Nice,” he muttered. “Let’s find the rest of it.”
    We looked, but that was all there was. No gun was around to fit the clip. Pat said, “That’s damned strange.”
    “Not necessarily. It was kicked in the corner of the closet. It could have been there before he moved in. I almost missed it.”
    In fifteen minutes we had covered every inch of the place. A cardboard box on one of the shelves held a few dozen receipted bills, some paycheck slips and a stack of old two-dollar betting slips from a Jersey track. It was a stupid souvenir, but at least he could count his losses.
    The only thing that didn’t seem to belong there was a handmade toolbox with a collection of chisels, bits and two hammers with well-worn handles. Pat said, “These tools are antiques, all made by Sergeant Hardware back in the twenties.” He fondled one of the long, thin