The Eye: A Novel of Suspense Read Online Free PDF Page A

black dude stopped too, and was looking at him. Marco dragged out his keys, sweating a little now. Just as he shoved the right key into the lock, the guy came toward him.
    “Marco Pollosetti?”
    “Yeah?” He had a tight grip on the horn case; if the guy tried anything, he’d get the case shoved down his frigging throat.
    “Detective Tobin, Twenty-fourth Precinct,” the dude said, and hauled out his shield to prove it.
    Marco didn’t know whether to feel relieved or even more spooked. Here he was with twelve hundred bucks worth of coke and grass in his hand, eyeball to eyeball with a cop. That much shit meant a possession charge; they could even nail him for dealing if they felt like it.
    He licked his lips, tried to make himself look friendly and cooperative. “What can I do for you, officer?”
    “Like to ask you a few questions about the homicide last night.”
    “The shooting, yeah. Hell of a thing. But I don’t know nothin’ about it; I was over in Brooklyn when the guy got blown away, didn’t get home until about three.”
    “You didn’t notice anything on the street when you came in?”
    “Not a thing. But I wasn’t looking.”
    The pig had hard eyes; he kept looking at Marco as if trying to see inside his skull. “Mind if we talk inside?”
    Marco tried to remember if there was anything in the pad he didn’t want the pig to see. No, it was cool; the only shit he had was in the horn case. And the pig wasn’t a narc. “Sure,” he said, “no problem. Only like I said, I don’t know nothing about what happened.”
    He keyed open the door, led the way inside. The pig took in the black-painted walls, the blow-up covers of the two albums the combo had cut, the rock and jazz posters, the funky lamps and decorations, the rabbit-fur coverings on the furniture. His mouth twitched into a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
    “Nice place,” he said, but he didn’t mean it. It was wise-ass cop sarcasm. “You a musician, Mr. Pollosetti?”
    “Yeah. Leon Davis combo, maybe you heard of us.”
    “I’m afraid not. Jazz doesn’t do much for me.”
    “Soul music’s your bag, right?”
    “Classical music,” the pig said in his wise-ass way. “Brahms, Mozart, Khachaturian.”
    “Good people,” Marco said, thinking: Fuck you, man.
    The pig nodded at his horn case, which suddenly seemed ten pounds heavier. “Trumpet?”
    “Right, trumpet.” The jangles were like cymbals clanging away inside Marco. What if the pig wanted him to open the case so he could take a look at the horn? “That’s what I blow. That’s what I was doing over in Brooklyn last night—blowing with the combo.”
    “You have a gig this morning too?”
    “No. Not until tomorrow night. Why?”
    “You came in with the horn. Or do you always carry it around with you?”
    “Oh. No, I needed a new mouthpiece; I took it over to a place on Fifth to have it fitted.”
    The pig kept on looking at him. Then he said, “Suppose we sit down and talk.”
    “About the shootings, you mean?”
    “That’s what I’m here for.”
    Marco felt a relieved giggle slide up into his throat; stifled it. It was going to be okay. The pig hadn’t tumbled, hadn’t made a connection. Close call. He’d been sweating bricks there for a minute.
    “Sure,” he said. “Sure thing.”
    He went over to the bar cabinet and laid the horn case down on its top. When he came back the pig was sitting on one of the chairs, legs crossed, notebook open on his knee. Marco sat down facing him. The jangles were gone now; he felt a little high with the release of tension, as if he’d taken a few tokes off a good joint. It was a kind of kick sitting here talking to a cop with all that shit safe and sound a few feet away. A sweet little joke. Leon would bust a gut when he told him; Leon had a terrific sense of humor.
    “Ask away,” Marco said to the pig, chuckling inside, thinking of Leon’s reaction. “Anything you want to know.”
    1:45 P.M. — MICHELE