Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (android e book reader txt) 📗

who I was and didn’t care. “I understand there was a stabbing at Mertens Men’s Store a while ago. I was hoping to get a statement for the press.”

“I just came on duty,” he said. “Why don’t you ask Iavarone. He makes it a habit to know everyone’s business.”

The name sounded familiar. Then I remembered him as Pat Halvey’s bowling pal. The desk sergeant waved me past, and two minutes later I was in conference with Officer Paulie Iavarone in a small private room. Iavarone was a short, thin man, with a friendly face and a thick mop of dark hair slicked down with oil. His black uniform was pressed and creased, and his badge sparkled silver on his chest.

I repeated my name and affiliation for the officer’s benefit then asked if he had any information on Ted Russell’s condition or Joey Figlio’s whereabouts.

“No, miss. The assailant eluded capture and is presently at large,” said Iavarone in his most official tone. “I don’t have any word on the victim’s condition either. He’s at St. Joseph’s. They’ll be able to provide you with that information.”

“Can you tell me what happened?” I asked.

Officer Iavarone demurred politely, saying he wasn’t sure if he was authorized to speak to the press.

“Chief Finn is having dinner with his family and doesn’t like to be disturbed on Saturdays. He was annoyed enough as it was when we called about the fracas.”

“Aren’t you a friend of Pat Halvey’s?” I asked, changing tactics. “He said you two bowl together and told me how much he admires your grip.”

“My grip? There’s three holes in the ball. Everyone has the same grip,” he said. When engaged on the topic of bowling, his policespeak melted away.

“I mean your technique.” Damn, I knew almost nothing about bowling. Why couldn’t he have been a softball or tennis player? “Anyway, he said you were an ace.”

Iavarone was taken aback for a moment, then a mushy grin spread slowly across his face. “Well, I did bowl a 167 last Saturday night.”

“I understand it all happened at Mertens in the menswear section.” I said.

“No,” he answered, confused. “It was at Windmill Lanes.”

“I meant the stabbing. Joey Figlio.”

“Oh, right. Yeah. Well, casual wear, actually.”

“He just jumped out and stabbed him?” I asked. “Did he say anything? Sic semper tyrannis or anything like that?”

“I don’t know if he said anything in Spanish,” said Iavarone guardedly. “But it looks like he followed Mr. Russell down Main Street into Mertens. Then he ambushed him in the casual wear department. Got him pretty good in the neck but missed the artery.”

“Did Joey say anything at all that you know?”

“Well, I responded to the call at Mertens along with two other patrolmen. Mike Palumbo and Denny Kerry. The tailor saw everything and said the kid was swearing and yelling that he would kill the SOB if it was the last thing he did.”

Mike Palumbo. So that was his first name. I still thought of him as Vic Mature.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“He said, ‘She will always be mine!’ Then he ran out into the alley and disappeared down Mohawk Place.”

“Can’t anyone catch that kid?” I asked. “He’s slipperier than an eel.”

“When we find him, we’ll book him for assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder. Of course he is a minor, so he’ll probably just get sent back to Fulton.”

I agreed. “Yeah, he’s got a good lawyer.”

On the station’s front stairs, I bumped into the handsome Officer Mike Palumbo. He tipped his hat and told me he was just going out after his dinner break. I asked if he’d heard anything new about Joey Figlio.

“No, miss. Nothing yet.”

“To tell you the truth, Officer, I’m worried he’ll come after me. I think that might have been him the other night at my place.”

“I’m on duty until midnight,” he said. “I’ll circle your block every hour like last time, if you’d like.”

“I’d appreciate that,” I said, my eyes surely sparkling at him; he was blushing. “I’ll leave my front lights on if everything is fine. If there’s trouble, the room will be dark.”

“All right,” he said, smiling. “If I don’t see the light, I’ll come up those stairs with guns blazing.”

I chuckled and wondered if he’d be annoyed or pleased if I turned off the lights for no reason . . . Put a stopper in it, Eleonora. I took a quick breath of cool evening air and skipped down the steps to the street.

I returned to the office to write stories on the discovery of the body and the attack on Ted Russell. I still needed official confirmation of the ID of the body from the sheriff's office, but I expected to have that before the evening was out.

Of the three rolls of film I’d shot at the lock, I recalled several shots that would do nicely for the front page: the brown water roaring over the spillway, the sheriff consulting with the State engineer, and the tragic open door of the Packard Henney hearse. My only concern was whether I had used the correct shutter speed and aperture settings in the falling light. I left the film for Bobby Thompson to develop on Monday morning. Then I tucked my article into an envelope and slid it into my purse to take with me when I left the office. George Walsh wasn’t getting his mitts on this story.

I called St. Joseph’s Hospital before writing my Ted Russell-Joey Figlio piece, thinking that the lustful music teacher’s condition might well change my headline from “Manhunt for Vengeful Teen Who Stabbed Teacher” to “Manhunt for Vengeful Teen Who Stabbed Teacher to Death.” I spoke to Sam Belson, an emergency room doctor I knew casually from previous scrapes and bruises. Sam confirmed that Ted Russell’s wounds were quite superficial and had been repaired with a pair of stitches, after which two sheriff's deputies trundled him off to the county jail on suspicion of murder.

I telephoned the DA for comment, but his service said he was unreachable. The