The Shot in the Park Affair: Chapter 2 ssclassof56
As Illya ran after the gunman, Napoleon crouched by the body, careful to keep the hem of his trench coat from trailing in Parson Brown's lifeblood. He yanked off his glove and felt for a pulse. "Damn." He gently dragged the lids over Brown's glassy eyes, then began to search his pockets.
After a few minutes, Illya returned, half-sliding down the snowy knoll which separated them from the walking path. He was alone. "I lost him," he reported tersely.
"That makes it 'two and oh,'" Napoleon said, carefully returning a wallet to Brown's coat. He got to his feet and checked himself for bloodstains.
Illya circled the body to stand beside his partner. "Was he married?"
"I don't think so."
"There is that, at least." He folded his hands at his waist. "He was a good saxophone player," he said by way of eulogy.
Running footsteps pounded on the nearby path, and a police officer appeared at the crest of the hillock. Spotting the two men, the prone body, and the dark stain around it, he quickly drew his weapon. "Hands up!"
With a frown, Illya complied. Napoleon raised his hands to shoulder height and waved one at the patrolman. "Hello, Kelly."
The officer peered at the shadowy, moonlit figures, then released an exasperated sigh. "You two again. I wish you'd stay off my beat." He holstered his weapon and negotiated the shallow slope. "One of theirs or one of yours?" he asked, looking at the body.
Napoleon slowly lowered his arms. "Ours. Their man gave my partner the slip somewhere in that direction." He pointed to the muddled trail of footprints leading west.
Illya rolled his eyes. "Five nine. Dark Hair. Blue anorak."
"Haven't you guys heard of a Christmas truce?" Officer Kelly squatted down to take a closer look at the body. "Shot in the back. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. This poor bastard got a name, or are you leaving another John Doe on my hands?"
"His name was Parson Brown. You'll find his wallet intact, all except for this." Napoleon held up an ID card that affiliated Brown with The Command.
"I got half a mind to take you boys in," Kelly said, shaking his head. "Then the other half remembers the last time I got mixed up in your cloak and dagger bull—." He censored himself in deference to the Season. With another sigh and shake of his head, he pulled the whistle from his belt. "Get outta here, will ya? "
Napoleon gave a small salute of thanks, and the two agents left the way they had come. When they were across the clearing, Kelly's whistle shattered the mild, snowy night, summoning fellow officers to the murder scene.
"Do you think Thrush got the name as well as the package?" Illya asked his partner.
"My guess is he shot first and didn't bother with questions."
"What now?"
"Brown was coming here from rehearsal. I suggest we pay Whittles a visit and see if we can pick up anything useful."
The agents descended a narrow staircase and entered Brown's former place of employment, an old rathskeller that had been serving up bourbon and jazz since before Prohibition. The walls and barrel-vaulted ceiling of exposed brick were papered haphazardly with countless layers of newspaper clippings, programs, and other ephemera, giving the unsettling impression that their removal would trigger a structural collapse.
Napoleon and Illya navigated a sea of small tables, sparsely occupied, the hour being a relatively early one for Whittles' patrons, and approached the bar. The man behind the expanse of scarred mahogany sported a green fedora over his fawn-colored hair and a wary glint in his eyes. "Can I help you, gentlemen?" he asked around the Chesterfield King that dangled from his lip.
As Napoleon opened his mouth to reply, Illya hopped onto a stool. "Vodka," he said, leaning his forearms on the bar. "A double."
While the bartender fixed his partner's drink, Napoleon said, "Actually, we need to ask you a few questions about Parson Brown."
"Ain't here." He slid the drink toward Illya, then returned to polishing glasses. "Should be back soon though. Almost time for the band to go on."
Illya sipped his vodka and frowned. "Mr. Brown will not be returning…ever," he said and shot back the rest of the drink.
Napoleon grimaced. "He was attacked in Central Park."
"Geez." The bartender's large, dark eyes filled with dismay. He put out his cigarette, then immediately lit another. "Mugged?"
"Possibly, but we need to be sure the attack didn't have a more personal motive. Did Parson say where he'd been today?"
"No, not to me. But he might've told Suzy." He gestured to the waitress who was crossing toward the bar. "I saw them talking when the band finished rehearsal."
Suzy slapped her empty tray on the bar. "A round of bourbons for Table Three, Rudy," she said, with a sidelong glance at Napoleon. She brushed an invisible piece of lint from her snow-white blouse.
Rudy poured the drinks with an unsteady hand. "Did Parson tell you where he was earlier today?"
"Playing in the subway." She tapped her frosted nails on the mahogany as she waited for her order. "Raked in a good amount, too. He's taking me to dinner tomorrow."
"Do you, ah, know which station?" Napoleon asked.
"Somewhere in Hell's Kitchen. They go for 'Christmas in Killarney' in a big way." With a smile for Napoleon that invited his own dinner offer, she took up the tray and headed for Table Three.
Rudy poured another bourbon for himself and drank it in one swallow. His ruddy cheeks and red, swollen nose indicated this was not an infrequent occurrence.
"Mr. Brown's saxophone is still here, is it not?" Illya said, placing a bill on the bar. At Rudy's nod, he continued, "We will need to look at it."
"Sure, sure. It's in the back room." Rudy pointed to a door beside the dais. "But do it quick, would ya? The band'll be back any minute."
The back room was a small, dingy space littered with sheet music, empty glasses, and overflowing ashtrays. Illya honed in on Brown's saxophone case and unlatched it.
"Anything of interest?" Napoleon asked, looking over Illya's shoulder as his partner rifled through the case.
"Two ticket stubs from the circus."
"Aren't they all in Florida this time of year?"
"Not this kind." Illya held up the stubs for his partner to view.
"Circus on Ice at Madison Square Garden," Napoleon read. "I don't find that very interesting. He probably took Suzy there on a date."
"Personally, I find it interesting that Brown was playing Christmas carols in the subway today. That is the perfect set-up for a drop." He flicked the ticket stubs against his other hand. "And a station in Hell's Kitchen would be close to The Garden."
"I think you're grasping at straws."
"Do you? What about this, then?" Illya smoothed out a crumpled handbill for the Circus on Ice. Between the show's title and the performance dates was a photo of the full cast. He handed it to Napoleon. "There is writing on the back."
Napoleon turned the handbill over and read aloud.
"In the meadow we can build a snowman,
And pretend that he's a circus clown.
We'll have lots of fun with Mr. Snowman
Until the other kiddies knock him down."
Napoleon pursed his lips. "Okay. That is interesting."
