The Killing Man Read Online Free

The case was under investigation and no names were made public. As yet, the victim was unidentified.
    I just finished pouring my second cup of coffee when the phone rang. Pat said, “I think you ought to come on down to my office.”
    “What’s happening?”
    “For one thing, we had an ID on our victim.”
    “What’s the other?”
    “We have some strange company here.”
    “Bad?”
    “It’s not good.”
    “Well. I’ll change my underwear,” I said. After the good news from the hospital, nothing was going to spoil my day.
     
    Sunday morning in New York is like no other time. From dawn until ten the city is like an unborn fetus. There are small sounds and stir-rings that are hardly noticeable, then little movements take place and forms emerge, but nothing is happening. It is a time when you could get anywhere quickly and quietly because of the strange emptiness.
    The lonely cabbie who picked me up would be going off shift shortly and, fortunately, didn’t want to talk. He took me to Pat’s building, took my money, switched on the OFF DUTY light and went back uptown.
    Sunday had even infiltrated the police department. On the ground floor it was coffee-and-doughnuts time with a minimum crew at work. Everybody was friendly including Sergeant Klaus who winked and told me Captain Chambers and company were expecting me upstairs.
    Pat was in the corridor when I got off the elevator and without a word, steered me into his office. When he closed the door he said, “You told me you didn’t know the guy who got killed.”
    “That’s right, I didn’t.”
    Something had hold of Pat and he was mad. “You sure?”
    “Look, Pat, what’s the deal here? I told you I didn’t know him.”
    “He was a delivery guy from a stationery store who brought up some letterhead samples for you to okay.”
    “Velda took care of that stuff.”
    “The guy called the store and told the boss to go ahead with the order.”
    “So that’s what he was doing at my desk. You get the time?”
    “Around ten twenty or so.”
    “That fixes it then.”
    “But there’s a little more to it.”
    “Oh?”
    “His name was Anthony DiCica. Mean anything to you?”
    I shook my head. “So someplace he dropped the ‘Di’ part of his name.”
    “Seems that way.”
    “That accounts for the V.D. initials on that toolbox. It must have been his old man’s. So where does that leave us?”
    “We have a package on him in New York. He went down twice for minor crimes fifteen years ago. Petty stuff, but at least he has a record. That much we got when we ran his driver’s license through.”
    “How about prints?”
    “Those first knuckle joints came back from the lab this morning. We rolled them and got them on the computers.”
    “Then what’s on your mind, Pat?”
    “Usually we can handle our own homicides here without any interference. Suddenly some first-class interest shows up ... the DA’s office.”
    I shrugged. “So, he’s got a right.”
    “This is not a general occurrence, pal. When I got back here word had already come down. That note stays confidential until the DA decides to release it. What I think shook them up is that signature, Penta. Hell, it couldn‘t’ve been anything else.”
    “What did they give you on it?”
    “They gave me a lot of shit, that’s all. I raised hell upstairs, but when the inspector says to go along, we go along.”
    I gave Pat a friendly rap on the shoulder. “If those squirrels want to play games, let them. A nice screwball case like this can make some interesting headlines.”
    “Their attitude stinks, Mike.” He paused, then glanced at me anxiously. “You mention that note at all?”
    “This is the first time I’ve been on something that the newshounds weren’t all over me. Between this being the weekend and my office on the eighth floor where you could contain those guys, it was a pretty damn quiet murder. How many others did you have last night?”
    “Four in Manhattan.”
    “So we got