Long Time No See by Ed McBain Read Free Book Online Page A

respect for sure, Sam. He wasn’t blind then.”
    “Do you want me to read the rest of this? I’m sure they’ll be sending a copy to you. They know it’s your case, don’t they?”
    “They should know, yes. I had a man at the morgue this morning when Photo was taking prints. Wait a minute, here it is on my desk.”
    “So you don’t need me to fill you in.”
    “No, just tell me about the nail scrapings.”
    “Your man was a gardener.”
    “How come?”
    “Soil under his fingernails.”
    “Dirt?”
    “Soil. Big difference, Steve. Dirt is what you and I have under our fingernails, right?”
    “Right,” Carella said, and smiled.
    “And all refined people like us,” Grossman said.
    “Yes, to be sure.”
    “But soil is what James Harris had under his fingernails. Combination of one-third topsoil, one-third sand, and one-third humus. Good rich potting soil.”
    “Where do you garden in this city?” Carella said.
    “On the windowsill,” Grossman said.
    “Mm,” Carella said.
    “Help you any?”
    “I don’t know. Sam, his wife’s been killed, too, did you know that?”
    “No, I didn’t.”
    “Your boys were there this afternoon. I’d appreciate it if you got back to me with anything they found.”
    “I’ll have Davies call you in the morning.”
    “I’d appreciate it.”
    “Will you be in the office?”
    “Tomorrow’s supposed to be my day off,” Carella said. “Have him try me at home.”
    “Okay. That it?”
    “That’s it, Sam. Thank you.”
    Carella hung up, started to open the manila envelope from the IS, looked up at the clock, and instead opened his personal telephone directory again. It was now ten minutes to 5:00, but he dialed the number anyway.
    “Fort Jefferson,” a man’s voice said.
    “Extension 6149, please.”
    “Hold,” the man said.
    Carella waited. In a moment another man’s voice came onto the line.
    “CID.”
    “Detective Carella, 87th Precinct. I need some information, please.”
    “Captain McCormick is on another line, can you wait, or shall I have him call you back?”
    “I’ll wait,” Carella said.
    While he waited he opened the manila envelope from the IS. It was addressed to Det. Steven Carella, 87th Squad. Close, but no cigar. As Grossman had reported on the telephone, Harris did not have a criminal record; his fingerprints were on file solely because he’d once served in the United States Army. If he’d ever been fingerprinted for a civil service job, the IS would have come up with a similar make. The sheet told Carella very little. It gave a description of Harris, a date of birth, and prints for the fingers and thumbs of both hands. He was putting the sheet back into the envelope when McCormick came onto the line.
    “Captain McCormick.”
    “Captain, this is Detective Carella of the 87th Squad here in Isola. I wonder if you can help me.”
    “Well…” McCormick said, and Carella knew he was looking at the clock.
    “I realize it’s late,” he said.
    “Well…” McCormick said.
    “But we’re investigating a pair of homicides here, and I’d appreciate any help you can give me.”
    “What is it you need?” McCormick asked.
    “One of the victims served with the Army. I’d like his service record.”
    “You’d have to put the request in writing,” McCormick said.
    “This is a homicide, Captain, we like to move a little faster than—”
    “Is the murder directly related to the victim’s service in the Army?”
    “I don’t know. I’m looking for someplace to hang my hat.”
    “Mm,” McCormick said. “In any case, we don’t have the records for anyone who isn’t currently assigned to Fort Jefferson.”
    “I realize that. You’d have to call St. Louis.”
    “And it’ll take them anywhere from twenty-four to seventy-two hours to make the search.”
    “Would it help if I called them directly?”
    “I doubt it,” McCormick said.
    “Well, would you call them for me?”
    “It’s almost five.”
    “Not in St. Louis,”