Nocturne by Ed McBain Read Free Book Online Page A

Here were two honkie cops shaking him out of bed in the middle of the night, and
     he wasn’t buying any sirs, thank you. He stood barring the door in his tank top undershirt and striped boxer shorts, as muscular
     as any prizefighter at a weigh-in. Hawes now saw that the tattoo on his bulging right biceps read
Semper Fidelis
. An ex-Marine, no less. Probably a sergeant. Probably had seen combat in this or that war the United States seemed incessantly
     waging. Probably drank the blood of enemy soldiers. Three o’clock in the morning. Hawes bit the bullet.
    “Questions about a .38 Smith & Wesson registered to you, sir.”
    “What about it?”
    “It was used in a murder earlier tonight, sir. May we come in?”
    “Come in,” Pratt said, and stepped out of the door frame, back into the apartment.
    Pratt lived in a building on North Carlton Street, at the intersection of St. Helen’s Boulevard, across the way from Mount
     Davis Park. The neighborhood was mixed—black, white, Hispanic, some Asians—the rents price-fixed. These old prewar apartments
     boasted high ceilings, tall windows and parquet floors. In many of them, the kitchens and bathrooms were hopelessly outdated.
     But as they followed Pratt toward a lighted living room beyond, they saw at a glance that his kitchen was modern and sleek,
     and an open-door glimpse of a hall bathroom revealed marble and polished brass. The living room was furnished in teakwood
     and nubby fabrics, throw pillows everywhere, chrome-framed prints on the white walls. An upright piano stood against the wall
     at the far end of the room, flanked by windows that overlooked the park.
    “Have a seat,” Pratt said, and left the room. Hawes glanced at Carella. Carella merely shrugged. He was standing by the windows,
     looking down at the park four stories below. At this hour of the night, it appeared ghostly, its lampposts casting eerie illumination
     on empty winding paths.
    Pratt was back in a moment, wearing a blue robe over his underwear. The robe looked like cashmere. It conspired with the look
     of the apartment to create a distinct impression that the “security escort” business paid very well indeed these days. Hawes
     wondered if he should ask for a job recommendation. Instead, he said, “About the gun, Mr. Pratt.”
    “It was stolen last week,” Pratt said.
    They had seen it all and heard it all, of course, and they had probably heard
this
one ten thousand, four hundred and thirteen times. The first thing any criminal learns is that it is not his gun, his dope,
     his car, his burglar’s tools, his knife, his mask, his gloves, his bloodstains, his semen stains, his
anything
. And if it is his, then it was either lost or stolen.
    Catch a man red-handed, about to shoot his girlfriend, a gun in his fist, the barrel in the woman’s mouth, and he will tell
     you first that it isn’t his gun, hey, what kind of individual do you think I am? Besides, we’re only rehearsing a scene from
     a play here. Or if they won’t quite appreciate that one in Des Moines, then how about she was choking on a fish bone, and
     I was trying to hook it out with the gun barrel while we were waiting for the ambulance to take her to the hospital? Or if
     that sounds a bit fishy, how about she
asked
me to put the barrel in her mouth in order to test her mettle and her courage? Anyway, this isn’t even my gun, and if it
     is my gun, it was stolen or lost. Besides, I’m a juvenile.
    “Stolen,” Carella said, turning from the windows. No intonation in his voice, just the single unstressed word, spoken softly,
     and sounding like a booming accusation in that three a.m . living room.
    “Yes,” Pratt said.
“Stolen.”
    Unlike Carella, he did stress the word.
    “When did you say this was?” Hawes asked.
    “Thursday night.”
    “That would’ve been …”
    Hawes had taken out his notebook and was flipping to the calendar page.
    “The eighteenth,” Pratt said. “A hoodoo jinx of a day. First