Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (great novels of all time txt) 📕

to death with one shoe on and one shoe off. My greatest regret was that I wouldn’t be able to drag Joey Figlio to hell with me. I tucked my chin into my chest and shivered, my rear end already turning numb. And then I heard the crunch of rubber tires on frozen snow and the crackle of a two-way radio.

I poked my head out of my coat to see the headlights of a sheriff’s cruiser staring dumbly at me from fifteen feet away. The door popped open, and Stan Pulaski stepped out looking like Randolph Scott climbing off his horse.

“Ellie!” he called once he’d recognized me. “What happened to you?”

I struggled to my feet and limped toward him. He made a move to receive me in his arms, but I tacked to the left and the passenger-side door of his cruiser instead. In a trice, I was inside the humming car, propping my right foot against the heat vent on the floor for warmth.

“What the heck happened?” asked Stan once he’d joined me inside the car.

“God . . . damn . . . Joey . . . Figlio . . . stole . . . my . . . car,” I chattered. “He’s got a ten-minute head start. Go!”

Stan threw the car into gear and swerved into the road, gaining speed as he floored it.

“Sheriff Olney was right to have me follow you,” said Stan, eyes fixed on the straight, white road. “He told you to stay away from Fulton.”

“Never mind that,” I said. “Get on the radio and tell Frank to meet us at the junior high school.”

Stan threw a quick look at me before shifting his attention back to the slippery road. “The junior high? What for?”

“Joey Figlio’s going to kill a music teacher named Mr. Russell if Frank doesn’t get there first.”

Stan plucked the mic from its perch and radioed headquarters. Pat Halvey answered, chewing on something, and Stan started to explain in cop-talk that a perp was heading south on Kendall Road in a stolen vehicle. I’d heard enough and snatched the mic from his hand.

“Pat, this is Ellie Stone. Put Frank on the horn now!” I said.

After a few moments, the sheriff’s booming voice came over the radio.

“What the hell’s going on, Ellie?”

I didn’t have time to explain about my car. I told him to get down to the junior high school before a fifteen-year-old juvenile delinquent killed a music teacher with a butter knife. Frank tried to ask for clarification, but I assured him a man would be dead within twenty minutes if he didn’t move fast.

I replaced the mic in its cradle just as Stan veered onto Route 5 and hit the gas. My right foot was still freezing, despite the heater’s best efforts. Stan’s eyes were still fixed on the road, so I shimmied down in the seat, raised my skirt to mid-thigh, and rolled the right stocking down and off my leg. Then I removed the left one and tossed them both to the floor. Sure enough, Stan stole a glimpse and nearly drove off the road.

“I need a favor from you,” I said to Stan as I examined the scrapes on my knees. Not too bad. They looked worse than they were.

“Anything for you, Ellie,” he said, glancing again at my bare legs.

“When we get to the junior high, give me your gun. I’m going to shoot Joey Figlio between the eyes.”

We skidded to a stop in front of the junior high school fifteen minutes later. Three county cruisers and four city black-and-whites surrounded the building’s exits. My red-and-black Dodge was sitting innocently next to the main entrance on Division Street, the driver’s side door opened wide with four cops milling about, doing little more than freezing in the cold.

“I see you’ve found my car,” I said to be friendly. They just stared at me quizzically. “The kid stole my car,” I explained. “This is it. I’d like to take it when I’ve finished here.”

“You’ll have to talk to the chief, Miss Stone,” said one of the men in blue. I’d seen him a few times before. Tall and nice looking. I’ve got a thing for cops.

“You know my name?” I asked.

He smiled. “Your press card is in the glove box.”

Inside the school, I found Frank Olney and Patrick Finn, New Holland police chief, holed up with the ancient principal, Clarence Endicott, Louis Brossard, and a fifth man I didn’t know. Frank acknowledged me from across the room with a short nod then turned his attention back to the conference. I was waiting quietly near the door for the huddle to break, when the secretary, Mrs. Worth, motioned for me to join her at her desk.

“Who’s the man with the mussed hair in the houndstooth jacket?” I asked.

“That’s Mr. Russell,” she said. “Ted Russell, the music teacher Joey Figlio attacked.”

“Where’s Joey now?” I asked, wanting to chain him to my car’s bumper and drag him through the ice and snow back to the Fulton Reform School for Boys.

“Got away. But not before he tackled Mr. Russell in the hallway and tried to slit his throat. He would have, too. Mr. Brossard arrived just in time.”

“Oh, my, that’s what I feared he’d do. Was Mr. Russell injured?”

“No,” she said, dismissing my concern with a wave of her hand. “Mr. Brossard pulled Joey off before he could do any real harm. Managed to slice Mr. Russell’s tie in half, though.”

“I thought he looked a little too casual for a teacher. Any idea why Joey wanted to kill him?” I asked, wondering if others shared Joey’s suspicions about him.

She almost said something then held back. I smiled to encourage her, but she wouldn’t say.

“I know about Mr. Russell and Darleen,” I whispered.

Mrs. Worth adjusted her glasses as she pretended to read a sheet of paper she’d just taken from the Ditto machine. The smell of volatile solvent gave me an almost Proustian nostalgia for my school days. I inhaled deeply and was transported back to a sixth-grade social-studies test and Mrs. Jelkin’s