Free Fat Ollie's Book by Ed McBain Page B

on the house lights.”
    â€œWhen the house lights came on, did you see anybody in the wings?”
    â€œNobody. I guess whoever’d done the shooting was gone by then.”
    â€œStage right, you say.”
    â€œWas where I saw the muzzle flashes.” Handel hesitated. Then he said, “It can be confusing. Would you like me to draw a diagram?”
    Â 
    CARELLA AND KLING were waiting for Ollie when he got back to the Eight-Eight’s squadroom at five minutes to three that Wednesday afternoon. Ollie was carrying two white pizza cartons. He opened one of them, shoved it across his desk, said, “This is for you guys, my treat,” and then opened the second carton and began eating even before they sat down. Kling, who had never seen Ollie eating before, watched in amazement.
    â€œSomething, Sonny Boy?” Ollie asked.
    â€œNothing,” Kling said, but he continued shaking his head in wonder.
    It was like a juggling act. With only two hands, Ollie seemed to keep three slices of pizza in constant motion from the box to his mouth. But now, adding to the splendor and mystery of the act, he added a fourth element. As if suddenly growing another hand, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, and took from it a folded sheet of paper, which he tossed onto the desk top, never missing a pizza-beat, pizza to mouth, paper to desk, more pizza to mouth, incredible.
    â€œTake a look at this,” he said, and nodded at the sheet of paper while biting into what appeared to be two slices of pizza at the same time.
    â€œWhat is it?” Carella asked.
    â€œDiagram from the electrical guy.”
    Carella put down his slice of pizza, unfolded the sheet of paper, and flattened it on the desk top.

    â€œThe podium’s in the center there,” Ollie said. “Henderson came on stage left, walked across to it, got shot just as he reached it. The shooter was in the wings stage right. The electrical guy saw repeated muzzle flashes, are you guys going to finish that pizza or what?”
    â€œGo ahead, have a slice,” Kling said.
    He was eager to see if Ollie could juggle four slices simultaneously.
    â€œKept the follow spot on him all the way to the floor, dedicated, huh?” Ollie said, hands reaching, mouth working, teeth biting, sauce and toppings and cheese dripping all over his hands and his shirt and the desk top. Astonishing, Kling thought.
    â€œIs there a Detective Weeks here?” someone said.
    They all turned toward the slatted wooden railing that divided the squadroom from the corridor outside. A female police officer was standing there. She was holding a manila envelope in her right hand. The word EVIDENCE was printed across the face of the envelope.
    â€œI’m Detective Weeks,” Ollie said.
    â€œOfficer Gomez,” she said, and opened the gate in the railing and walked over to the desk. She was trying to learn attitude. Fresh out of the Academy, her uniform trimly tailored, the buttons all shiny and bright, even her shield looking glistening new, she walked with a sort of sidelong gait that tried to negate her obvious femininity while emphasizing the authority of the Glock on her hip.
    â€œI was asked to bring this over,” she said, and placed the envelope on the desk. “You have to sign the Chain of Custody tag.”
    â€œI know, honey,” Ollie said.
    â€œIt’s Officer Gomez, Detective,” she said, firmly but politely correcting him.
    â€œOh my, so it is,” Ollie said, glancing at the name tag pinned above her perky left breast, which read P . GOMEZ in white on black. He signed for the envelope, hefted it on the palm of his hand, and said, “Would you happen to know what’s inside here, Officer Gomez?”
    â€œYes, sir,” Gomez said. “I was there when it was recovered at the scene.”
    â€œAnd where would that have been, this scene, Officer Gomez?”
    â€œIn the alley outside the auditorium