Free Bread (87th Precinct) by Ed McBain Page B

her composure. “Who else could hear us?”
    “Walls have ears these days,” Hawes said, and walked to the sink, and turned off the tap.
    Elizabeth immediately moved to the other side of the room, away from the sink and facing the open window. When she spoke, her voice was directed toward the fire escape. “I’ve got things to do,” she said. “If you’re finished here, I’d like to get dressed.”
    “Mind if I look around a little?”
    “For that, you do need a warrant, mister.”
    “I can get one, you know.”
    “For what? Charlie do something against the law?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Then go get your warrant, man. I sure wouldn’t want no criminal to be escaping justice.”
    “Know a man named Frank Reardon?” Hawes asked, and again the question startled Elizabeth. Facing the open window, her back to him, her arms folded, he saw the slight involuntary hunching of her shoulders, as though someone had suddenly put an ice cube to the base of her neck.
    “Frank who? ” she said to the fire escape.
    “Reardon.”
    “Don’t know him,” Elizabeth said.
    “Ever wear earrings?” he asked her.
    “Sure.”
    “Perfume?”
    “Sure.”
    “Ever go downtown, Elizabeth? Like in the neighborhood of Avenue J and Allen?”
    “Never.”
    “Across the street from the big garage?”
    “Never.”
    “Happen to be there last Monday and Tuesday night?”
    “ Never been there.”
    “What do you do for a living?” Hawes asked.
    “I’m unemployed.”
    “How old are you?”
    “Twenty-four.”
    “Ever work?”
    “I used to be a waitress.”
    “When was that?”
    “Few years ago.”
    “Haven’t worked since?”
    “Nope.”
    “How do you support yourself?”
    “I got friends,” Elizabeth said.
    “Like Charlie Harrod?”
    “Charlie’s a friend, yes.”
    “Frank Reardon’s dead,” Hawes said, and watched the back of her neck.
    This time she was ready. Without missing a beat, she said, “I don’t know any Frank Reardon, but of course I’m sorry to hear he’s dead.”
    “Tell Charlie when you see him, will you? He might be interested.”
    “I’ll tell him, but I doubt he’ll be interested.”
    Hawes turned toward the cabinet hanging over the sink. “This is Detective Cotton Hawes, 87th Squad,” he said, “investigating arson and homicide, concluding the questioning of Elizabeth Benjamin at exactly”—he looked at his watch—”eleven twenty-three A.M. on Friday, August sixteen.” He turned to Elizabeth. “Make it easier for them,” he said.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Elizabeth said.
    “Tell Charlie I’m looking for him,” Hawes said.
    He unlocked the door, went out into the hallway, and closed the door behind him. Immediately he put his ear to the wood andlistened. He heard nothing at first, and then he heard the water tap running, and then nothing again. He did not hear Elizabeth dialing the telephone, but that’s exactly what she must have done, because the next thing he heard was her voice saying, “Charlie, this is Liz. We just had a visit from the fuzz.” Silence. In that moment of silence, Hawes tried to understand what was happening. If they knew about the bug over the sink, they undoubtedly knew the phone would be tapped as well. Yet Elizabeth felt free enough on the instrument to tell Charlie they had just had a visit from the police. Had they unscrewed the mouthpiece and removed the mike? “When will you be leaving there?” Elizabeth asked, and then said, “Wait for me downstairs. I’ll be over in ten minutes.” Hawes heard her replacing the receiver on its cradle. He moved away from the door and went swiftly down the steps to the street.
    She had changed into her street clothes, a short blue skirt, a red-ribbed jersey top without a bra, high-heeled navy-blue patent-leather pumps, dangling earrings, and a red-leather sling bag. She stepped high and fast, and he had trouble keeping up with her. If she wasn’t a hooker, he would eat his shield and his