William Hill, Sr. shuffled up to the peephole, glanced, then whipped opened the door with urgency. “Tell me you got the bastard.”
Mallory said, “Sir, complications have arisen with the investigation—”
Mr. Hill’s face fell, his eyes smoldering. “My son’s dead. What could complicate things further?”
Mallory used his best calm tone. “With all due respect, and with our sincerest condolences again, sir, we are trying to resolve the case.”
Mr. Hill closed his eyes, sighed, and then said, “You’re right. I’m sorry. C’mon inside.” He forced out the next word. “Please.”
Mallory, then Gunner crossed the threshold, but Mr. Hill hadn’t given them much room. Gunner squeezed around the closing door.
“What complication, detectives?” Mr. Hill cast his eyes to the ground. “They’ve released the body.”
Mallory entered the doily-infested living room. His eyes were drawn to Mr. Hill’s chair, especially the garish bolts holding the arms back in place. “Sir, there is reason to believe the person we suspect in Will’s murder has killed again.”
“William wasn’t enough?”
Mallory avoided looking at the pictures on the walls. “Sir, we need a sample of William’s handwriting.”
Mr. Hill raised his eyes slowly. “Why?”
“A sample would help our efforts, Mr. Hill.”
The father went to a back room. He returned with a notebook. “This is his last school work. Get it back to me when you can.” Mr. Hill passed the detectives, who pressed themselves against a wall allowing him to get to the door. He opened it. “Mailing it would be fine.”
The detectives thanked him and left quickly.
Walking down the stairs, Mallory flipped through the pages. William’s handwriting was big, childish, sloppy, rarely on the line, full of misspellings, grammatical errors, and cross outs. Mallory showed Gunner. “Nowhere near the handwriting meant to be Will Hill’s on the index cards.”
“Good.”
The detectives had reached the second-floor landing when they heard a familiar yell from 2-B.
“I’ll go out whenever I want, dammit!”
“Ahh, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.” Gunner winked, “Sounds like a job for Superman.” He hustled over just as the door swung open.
Johnny backed out, brandishing his middle finger at his mom like a saber, and slammed right into Gunner’s chest. The kid bounced back like a Tom and Jerry cartoon. “Holy Fuck!”
Gunner leaned against the door, one arm casually extended, his bear-like paw pinning Johnny against the far wall. “We’ve spoken about proper respect for your mother already, haven’t we, John?”
“How the fu—”
Gunner applied a bit more pressure to the kid’s chest. The sentence died in a gushing exhale. The detective leaned forward a bit, looking into the apartment. “Ma’am, are you okay?”
From inside, sounding astonished, Johnny’s mother gushed. “Detective Gennaro!” She absently touched her hair, smiled.
“What did you want our friend here to do for you?”
“Just to eat, that’s all.”
Gunner eyed Johnny. The kid struggled to remain defiant. Gunner shifted his fingers slightly. All color drained from Johnny’s suddenly shocked face. His eyes and mouth popped into a comical trio of perfect circles. Gunner relaxed; the kid gasped, “Icouldeat.”
“Ma’am, have you prepared anything, or do you need…?”
“I was just about to…” The voice changed suddenly. “Are you hungry at all, detective? Stay. I could—”
“Only if you allow me to order us all some pizza,” Gunner used his most gallant tone of voice. “On me.”
“Pizza would be cool, Ma.”
Gunner urged the boy in with a light shove. The big detective shot a glance over his shoulder, eyebrow wiggling.
Mallory laughed softly. “I got you covered. But what happened to Callabuffo?”
“Later. Tomorrow,” Gunner, mischief sparkling in his eyes, raised his shoulders slightly. “Duty calls.”