Free Nocturne by Ed McBain Page B

impatiently.
    “Musta been birds got in the car,” Jackson said. “Maybe cause it was so cold.”
    “What makes you figure that?” Hawes asked reasonably.
    “Bird shit and feathers all over the place,” Jackson said. “Hadda put Abdul to cleanin it up fore the man came to claim his
     car. Never seen such a mess in my life. Birds’re smart, you know. I read someplace when they was shootin that movie, the crows
     used to pick the locks on they cages, that’s how smart they are. Musta got in the car.”
    “How? Did you notice a window down?”
    “Rear window on the right was open about six inches, yeah.”
    “You think somebody left that window open overnight?”
    “Had to’ve been.”
    “And a bird got in, huh?”
    “At least a
few
birds. There was shit and feathers all over the place.”
    “Where was all this?” Carella asked.
    “The backseat,” Jackson said.
    “And you asked Abdul to clean it up, huh?”
    “Directly when he come in Saturday mornin. I seen the mess, put him to work right away.”
    “Was he alone in the car?”
    “Alone, yeah.”
    “You didn’t see him going into that glove compartment, did you?”
    “Nossir.”
    “Fiddling around anywhere in the
front
seat?”
    “No, he was busy cleanin up the mess in back.”
    “Did you watch him all the time he was in the car?”
    “No, I din’t. There was plenty other work to do.”
    “How long was he in the car?”
    “Hour or so. Vacuuming, wiping. It was some mess, you better believe it. Man came to pick it up at ten, it was spotless. Never’ve
     known some birds was nestin in it overnight.”
    “But the birds were already gone when you noticed that open window, huh?”
    “Oh yeah, long gone. Just left all they feathers and shit.”
    “I wish you’d watch your mouth,” Mrs. Jackson said, frowning.
    “You figure they got out the same way they got in?” Hawes asked.
    “Musta, don’t you think?”
    Hawes was wondering how they’d managed
that
little trick.
    So was Carella.
    “Well, thank you,” he said, “we appreciate your time. If you can remember anything else, here’s my …”
    “Like what?” Jackson asked.
    “Like anyone near that glove compartment.”
    “I already tole you I didn’t see anyone near the glove compartment.”
    “Well, here’s my card, anyway,” Carella said. “If you think of anything at all that might help us …”
    “Just don’t come around five o’clock again,” Jackson said.
    Mrs. Jackson nodded.
    “What we’d like to do,” Carella said on the phone, “is send someone around for the car and have our people go over it.”
    “What?” Pratt said.
    This was a quarter past five in the morning. Carella was calling from a cell phone in the police sedan. Hawes was driving.
     They were on their way to Calm’s Point, where Abdul Sikhar lived.
    “When do I get some
sleep
here?” Pratt asked.
    “I didn’t mean someone coming by right this
minute
. If we can …”
    “I’m talking about you waking me
up
right this minute.”
    “I’m sorry about that, but we want to check out the car, find out …”
    “So I understand. Why?”
    “Find out what happened inside it.”
    “What happened is somebody stole my gun.”
    “That’s what we’re working on, Mr. Pratt. Which is why we’d like our people to go over the interior.”
    “What people?”
    “Our techs.”
    “Looking for what?”
    Carella almost said feathers and shit.
    “Whatever they can find,” he said.
    “You’re lucky it’s Sunday,” Pratt said.
    “Sir?”
    “I’m not working today.”
    The three Richards were beginning to sober up and beginning to get a little surly. They had come all the way up here to Diamondback—which
     was not such a good idea to begin with—and now they couldn’t find any girls on the streets, perhaps because anybody sensible
     was already asleep at five-twenty in the morning. Richard the First wasn’t afraid of black people. He knew that Diamondback
     was a notoriously dangerous black