Free Ed McBain - Downtown by Ed McBain Page B

Connie said. "Because I think I heard a police siren." Michael listened. "I don't hear anything," he said.
    "Not now," she said. "While we were kissing. I thought it was a siren, but maybe it was just a cat." They both listened. Nothing. "It was probably just a cat," she said.
    "Let's see if he's got an address book," Michael said, and went to the desk and began rummaging through the drawers again. "I want to call her back."
    "Although it sounded very much like a siren," Connie said. "Here we go. Do you think his home number might be in it?" "I don't know anyone who lists his own number in his address book. Did you just see a light in the backyard?"
    "No."
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    "I thought I saw a light," Connie said, and went to the window. "Yep," she said, "there's a light moving around down there. You know what? I think that _was a siren I heard. Because those are two cops with a flashlight down there." Michael went to the window. "Shit," he said. "Yes," she said. "Heading for the fire escape."
    "Let's get the hell out of here," he said.
    "Don't forget Crandall's picture ..." "I've got it." "... and his address book," she said, "the tall one's starting up the ladder."
    He pulled her away from the window and together they hurried to the front door. He turned the thumb knob on the lock, opened the door, and then followed her down the steep flight of steps to the street-level door. Through the thick plate-glass panel on the door, they could see a police car parked at the curb in front of the limousine, its dome lights flashing. Freddie was sitting on the limo's fender, looking innocent. The lock on the street-level door was a deadbolt. No way to unlock it on either side without a key. Michael backed off, raised his leg-- "Don't cut yourself!" Connie warned.
    --and kicked out flat-footed at the glass panel. A shower of splinters and shards exploded onto the sidewalk. Freddie, startled, jumped off the fender of the car. From the office upstairs, one of the cops yelled, "Downstairs, Sam!"
    Michael was busy kicking out loose shards. Cold air rushed through the open panel. He helped Connie climb through, her long legs flashing, green panties winking at him for only an instant as she jumped clear. He climbed through after her and began running toward the limo. Connie slapped a five-dollar bill into Freddie's hand, ran around the limo's nose, and began unlocking the door on the driver's side. Behind him, Michael heard one of the cops yell, "You! Hey, _you! Hold it right there!" The electric lock on his side of the car clicked open. He yanked open the door, climbed in, and slammed the door shut just as Connie stepped on the starter. There were gunshots
    now. He pulled his head instinctively
    117 into his shoulders, but the cops were only shooting at the deadbolt on the door to Crandall Productions, Ltd. The engine caught just as they kicked open the door and came running out of the building.
    "Police!" one of them yelled. "Stop!" Connie rammed her foot down on the accelerator. The car's tires began spinning on ice, its rear end skidding toward the curb, and then the tires began smoking, and suddenly they grabbed bare asphalt, and the car lurched away squealing from the curb and into the night.
    Behind them, Freddie said to the cops, "Clean your windshield, officers?" The house on West Tenth Street was a three-story brownstone just off Fifth Avenue. The address on the checks in Crandall's personal checkbook. Presumably the house he shared with Albetha and the kiddies.
    "Every light in the house is burning," Connie said. "The lady's waiting up for you." "For Crandall." "Too bad he's dead," Connie said, and looked at her watch. "My twelve-thirty pickup is in the Village," she said. "Here's a China Doll card, call me when you're done here. If I'm free, I'll come get you. Otherwise, here's my home address. And here's twenty dollars."
    "I don't want to take any money from you," he said.
    "Then how are you going to get anyplace? If I can't come pick you up?