Read Online The Last Dance by Ed McBain - Free Book Online

overcoats, faces raw from the biting cold outside. Behind them, an ambulance was pulling in, which made for another good shot, the detectives with long strides and flapping overcoats, the flashing red lights on the ambulance, this was the camera operator’s lucky day.
    Arthur Brown, one of the responding detectives, would later tell everyone in the squadroom that even before Carella informed him, he knew the guy laying on the floor there was dead. The detective with Brown was Bert Kling. The minute he spotted Carella, he went over to him and asked, “What happened?”
    â€œTwo hitters nailed Danny Gimp,” Carella said, and got to hisfeet, his coat sleeve stained with blood from Danny’s wounds, the knees of his trousers soiled from all the pizza shit on the floor.
    They all stood around while the stretchers came in.
    The paramedics realized at once that there wasn’t any urgency about getting Danny aboard.

3
    SINCE THERE were two homicides on the table this Tuesday morning—an unusual circumstance, even for the Eight-Seven—Lieutenant Byrnes told the detectives assembled in his office that he’d be skipping over all the usual shit and getting directly to the murders, if nobody had any objections. Andy Parker didn’t think the murder of a two-bit stool pigeon should take priority over a drug bust he’d been trying to set up for the past two weeks, but he knew better than to challenge the lieutenant when he was wearing what Parker referred to privately as his “Irish Look.”
    Hal Willis wasn’t too tickled to be passed over, either. He’d caught a burglary yesterday where the perp had left chocolate-covered donuts on his victim’s pillow. This looked a lot like what the Cookie Boy used to do, but he’d jumped bail in August and was now only God knew where. So this guy was obviously a copycat, which similarity might have made for a little early morning amusement if the lieutenant hadn’t pulled the chain. Like teenagers invited to a party and then requested not to dance, please, the two detectives slouched sourly against the wall, arms folded acrosstheir chests in unmistakable body language. They didn’t even sniff at the bagels and coffee on the lieutenant’s desk, a treat—or more accurately a bribe to encourage punctuality—paid for by the squadroom slush fund every Tuesday.
    This was eight o’clock in the morning. A harsh, bright sunlight streamed through Byrnes’s corner windows. All told, and including the lieutenant, there were eight detectives in the office. Artie Brown and Bert Kling had responded to the pizzeria shoot-out and were looking for anything they could get on the two shooters. Carella and Meyer wanted to explore the Hale case. The two detectives sulking against the wall didn’t care to offer their thoughts on anything. They’d been shut out, and they were miffed, although Byrnes seemed blithely unaware of their annoyance. Cotton Hawes was neutral. His plate was clean at the moment. In fact, he’d been in court testifying all last week. Sitting in a leather easy chair opposite the lieutenant’s desk, feeling curiously uninvolved, like a cop visiting from another city, he listened as the lieutenant summarized the two homicide cases, and then asked, “You think they’re linked?”
    â€œMaybe,” Carella said.
    â€œMeyer?” Byrnes asked.
    â€œOnly if they were trying to shut Danny up.”
    â€œYou sure they weren’t after Steve?”
    â€œNo, it was Danny,” Kling said.
    â€œNeither of them even fired a shot at me.”
    â€œTen, twelve people saw them go straight for Danny,” Brown said.
    â€œThey’d seen a lot of movies.”
    â€œKept describing it as a gangland execution.”
    â€œIn broad daylight?” Hawes asked, and shook his head skeptically. He was sitting in sunlight. It caught his red hair, setting it on fire. The single white