Jigsaw
- Автор: Хантер Эван
- Серия: 87th Precinct #24
- Год: 1970
- Язык: английский
- Год: Doubleday
- ISBN: 978-999740791-7
- Жанр: Полицейские детективы
Электронная книга - «Jigsaw». Краткое содержание книги:
The cops of the 87th Precinct are really confused this time.
When Detective Arthur Brown finds two dead men, it looks like a nice simple double homicide — except for the piece of photograph clutched in one dead hand. The confusion doesn’t start until Irving Krutch, an insurance investigator, turns up at the squad room with another piece of the photograph.
Part of a homemade jigsaw puzzle, according to Krutch. The handiwork of the late Carmine Bonamico. When all the pieces, which had been passed around to friends and relatives of Bonamicos gang, were assembled, they would reveal the hiding place of the§ 750,000 the gang had stolen from a savings and loan association six years ago. Find the missing pieces, find the missing money. The search is on, and it involves Detectives Brown and Carella with people like an art gallery owner, a cheap hoodlum, a middle-aged floozy, a hot-dog vendor and an old Sicilian woman. Detective Meyer gets lucky. He visits a boutique where all the salesgirls wear see-through blouses.
Some of these people have another caller. It turns out that owning a piece of the photograph can be deadly, and it looks like a toss-up as to who will get the puzzle completed first — the police or a very determined murderer.
“Oh, yes,” Brown said.
“It wasn’t easy to think this up.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to do a lot more thinking,” Brown said.
“What do you mean?”
“You figure it out.”
“In prison, do you mean?” Krutch asked.
“Now you’ve got the picture,” Brown said.
This time, the helicopter ride was a joyous one. For whereas there were thirty-four side streets entering the River Road, only one of those side streets was opposite a twin cluster of offshore rocks. Coincidentally, the rocks were just west of the Calm’s Point Bridge, from which vantage point Bonamico must have snapped the picture, standing on the bridge’s walkway some fifty feet above the surface of the water. They landed the chopper close to where Donald Duck’s eye must have been before the city’s Highway Maintenance Department had repaired it, and then they walked toward the rocks and looked down into the filthy waters of the River Dix and saw nothing. Carmine Bonamico’s “X” undoubtedly marked the spot, but water pollution triumphed over the naked eye, and there was nary a treasure to be seen. They did not uncover the loot until they dredged the river close to the bank, and found an old leather suitcase, green with slime, water-logged, badly deteriorated. Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars in good American currency was ensconced in that bag, slightly damp to be sure, but nonetheless negotiable.
It was a good day’s pay.
Arthur Brown got home in time for dinner.
His wife met him at the door and said, “Connie’s got a fever. I had the doctor here a half-hour ago.”
“What’d he say?”
“He thinks it’s just the flu. But she’s so uncomfortable, Artie.”
“Did he give her anything?”
“I’m waiting for it now. The drug store said they’d deliver.”
“She awake?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll go talk to her. How’re you?” he said, and kissed her.
“Forgot what you looked like,” Caroline answered.
“Well, here’s what I look like,” he said, and smiled.
“Same old handsome devil,” Caroline said.
“That’s me,” he said, and went into the bedroom.
Connie was propped against the pillows, her eyes wet, her nose running. “Hello, Daddy,” she said in her most miserable-sounding voice.
“I thought you were sick,” he said.
“I am,” she answered.
“You can’t be sick,” he said, “you look too beautiful.” He went to the bed and kissed her on the forehead.
“Oh, Daddy, please be careful,” Caroline said, “you’ll catch the bug.”
“I’ll catch him and stomp him right under my foot,” Brown said, and grinned.
Connie giggled.
“How would you like me to read you a story?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Please.”
“What would you like to hear?”
“A good mystery,” Connie said. “One of the Nancy Drews.”
“One of the Nancy Drews it is,” Brown said, and went to the bookcase. He was crouched over, searching the shelves for Connie’s favorite, when he heard the urgent shriek of a police siren on the street outside.
“Do you like mysteries, Daddy?” Connie asked.
Brown hesitated a moment before answering. The siren faded into the distant city. He went back to the bed and gently touched his daughter’s hair, and wondered again, oddly, if Geraldine Ferguson had ever roller-skated on a city sidewalk. Then he said, “No, honey, I don’t care for mysteries too much,” and sat on the edge of the bed, and opened the book, and began reading aloud.