The Killing Man Read Free Page B

blades, feeling the sharpness with a fingertip. “Somebody did precision work with these babies. Real sculpture.”
    “Think they’re stolen?”
    “What for? No fast cash value in it. Looks more like a keepsake to me.” He turned the box upside down. Neatly carved into the bottom were the initials V.D.
    “You’d better handle that with rubber gloves.” I grinned.
    “I’ll get a penicillin shot later.” He gave the place a last look around. “Anthony Cica didn’t leave much of a legacy. I wonder who inherits?”
    I was fitting the broken panel back in the hole Pat’s foot had made. “Well, take the toolbox for whoever the relative is. Nothing else is worthwhile.”
    He shut off the light and closed the door. When we felt our way down the stairs and got to the street we stood there a minute, both wondering what would make a guy like Anthony Cica live in a place like this, his only treasure an antique toolbox.
    Pat finally hunched his shoulders against the rain and we got into the car. Deliberately, he looked across at me. “That killer couldn’t have wanted Cica, Mike.”
    “Why the hell would he want me?”
    He started the car. “Guess we’ll have to find that out.”

2
    It was a dreamless night, but I awoke tired. I felt as if I had been running and to awaken was an effort. Only for a few seconds was there a blankness in time before the whole scenario of the day before came crashing down in front of me.
    My hand grabbed for the phone and I hit the buttons for the hospital. I was overanxious, got the wrong number and had to hit them again. This time the switchboard put me through to the nurse on Velda’s floor. Calmly, she told me Velda had had a quiet night, was still in critical condition, but improving. No, she could have no visitors yet.
    The relief I felt was like a cool wave of water washing over me. Hospitals never wanted to sound optimistic, so the report was a favorable one. I called Burke Reedey at home and got him out of bed. All he could say was “Damn it, I’ve been up all night. Who is this?”
    “It’s Mike, Burke. What’s with Velda?”
    “Oh,” he said. “You. Wait a minute.” I heard him pour something, heard him swallow it, then he said, “She had a close one that time. One hell of a concussion. That blow was delivered with enough force to kill her, but her hair bunched under the instrument and blunted the impact. I was afraid we’d find a fracture there but we didn’t. All her vital signs are coming up and we’re keeping her isolated for another day.”
    “She regain consciousness?”
    “About four this morning. It was just a brief awakening and she went back to sleep.”
    “When can I see her?”
    “Probably this evening, but I want no communication. She is going to be highly sedated or have one hell of a headache. Either way she won’t want to talk.”
    “What was she hit with?”
    “Someday they’ll find another term for the usual ‘blunt instrument.’ However, it wasn’t a hard object like a pipe. This had a soft crushing effect and from what I’ve seen of leather black-jacks, this was what her attacker used. Incidentally, this is what I gave the police in my report.” He paused a moment, then went on: “Meg told me there was a dead man in the other office.”
    “Burke, you couldn’t have helped. He was real dead. Velda was alive and that’s all that counted.”
    “You’re a sentimental bastard, you know that?”
    “Just realistic, pal.”
    “I want to know what this is all about.”
    “You’ll get it.”
    “I hope so. You’re the only excitement I ever get anymore.”
    “Excitement I don’t need,” I told him. “And Burke ...”
    “Yeah?”
    “Thanks.”
    “No trouble. You’ll get a bill.”
    I hung up, made coffee in the kitchen and had a leftover roll from yesterday. When I turned on the news I had to wait fifteen minutes before local events came on and the announcer mentioned a torture murder in the office of a Manhattan businessman.