Ed McBain_87th Precinct 47 Read Online Free PDF

his life.
    But what the hell had brought
that
on?
    “Is it because
I’m
white?” he asked lightly, and smiled.
    “That you accepted?”
    “Maybe,” she said.
    And did not return his smile, he noticed.
    “Well… do you want to talk about it?” he asked.
    “No. Not now.”
    “When?”
    “Maybe never.”
    “Okay,” he said, and went back to the linguini.
    He figured that was the end of the story. So long, Whitey, nice to’ve known you, but hey, this ain’ gon work, man.
    When she told him after dinner that she’d really rather not go to a movie, they both had to get up so early, and it was already
     close to ten, he was certain this meant so long and goodbye, bro, see you roun the pool hall one of these days. They shook
     hands outside her apartment. She thanked him for a nice time. He told her he’d had a nice time, too. It was still raining,
     but only lightly. He walked through the drizzle from her building to the train station five blocks away.
    Three black teenagers came into the car while the train was still on the overhead tracks in Calm’s Point. They seemed to be
     considering him as they approached. He gave them a look that said
Don’t even
think it, and they went right on by.
    The phone on his desk was ringing.
    What Michelle saw when she reached the top of the second-floor landing was another sign nailed to the wall, indicating that
     the DETECTIVE DIVISION was either just down the corridor past several doors respectively labeled LOCKER ROOM and MEN’S LAVATORY
     and CLERICAL OFFICE, or else right there on the landing itself, since the sign merely announced itself in black letters on
     a smudged white field, but gave no other directions. She followed her instincts, and—being right-handed—turned naturally to
     the right and walked down the hall past the smell of stale sweat seeping from the locker room, and the stench of urine floating
     from behind the men’s room door, and the wafting aroma of coffee brewing in the clerical office, a regular potpourri here
     in this “little old cop shop,” as the Detective called it in the play they were rehearsing. At the end of the hall, she saw
     first a slatted wooden rail divider and beyond that several dark green metal desks and telephones and a bulletin board with
     various photographs and notices on it, and a hanging light globe, and further into the room some more green metal desks and
     finally a bank of windows covered with metal grilles. A good-looking blond man sat at one of the desks. She stopped at the
     railing, cleared her throat again the way she had downstairs, and said—remembering to project—“Detective Kling?”
    Kling looked up.
    The woman had hair the color of a fire truck dipped in orange juice. Eyes the color of periwinkles. Wearing a tight blue sweater
     that matched the eyes. Peacoat open over it. Navy-blue skirt to match the coat. Big gold-buckled belt. Blue high-heeled pumps.
    “The desk sergeant said I should see you,” she said.
    “Yes, he called me a minute ago,” he said. “Come on in.”
    She found the latch on the inside of the railing gate, looked surprised when the gate actually opened to her touch, and came
     tentatively into the room. Kling stood as she approached his desk, and indicated the chair opposite him. She sat, crossing
     her legs, the blue skirt riding high on her thighs. She lifted her behind, tugged at the skirt, made herself comfortable in
     the hard-backed chair. Kling sat, too.
    “I’m Michelle Cassidy,” she said. “I spoke to someone up here earlier this morning, he said I should come in.”
    “Would you remember who that was?”
    “He had an Italian name.”
    “Carella?”
    “I think so. Anyway, he said to come in. He said some-one would help me.”
    Kling nodded.
    “Let me get some information,” he said, and rolled a DD form into the typewriter. He spaced down to the slot calling for the
     date of the complaint, typed in today’s date, April 6, spaced down some more to the