By Ed McBain
Eighty-six-year-old George Lasser used to be the superintendent of a construction within the 87th Precinct until eventually only recently. regrettably his tenure led to the building’s basement with a pointy, heavy blade of an ax in his head…
There aren't any witnesses, no suspects, and no clues. The spouse and son? They’re either a bit off-kilter, yet they've got alibis. simply whilst Carella and Hawes are approximately to place the case at the shelf, the killer moves back. Now the detectives are sizzling at the path of a guy loopy sufficient to homicide with an ax.
One of the 87th Precinct series’ best installments, Ax is a pointy, extreme crime mystery that's vintage Ed McBain. the hot York instances hails it as “the better of today’s police stories—lively, creative, convincing, suspenseful, and absolutely satisfactory.”
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Additional resources for Ax (87th Precinct, Book 18)
He hoisted it, headed for the bin, then changed his mind, returning to the car and distributing items from the carton on the back seat and floor. A blue and yellow plastic bucket here, a red shovel there. It would be good camouflage, he told himself, because anybody taking a quick peek at the car’s interior would know he was looking at the car of a husband and father, not an assassin on the run. Unless they just figured him for a pedophile . . Back to the trunk. There was a metal tool chest of the sort he supposed most men carried in their cars, tricked out with all manner of tools and gadgets, not all of which he was able to identify.
And they might have more than that, if her car had a GPS unit in it. Oh, hell. Did his? It stood to reason that the rental car companies would put something in their cars in case they lost track of them. He didn’t know that they did, but he knew some long-haul trucking firms equipped their rigs in that fashion, to guard against the occasional amphetamine-crazed driver on his way from Little Rock to Tulsa suddenly deciding he’d be happier in San Francisco. He really had to do something. And he had to do it in a hurry, and it had better be something that wouldn’t just substitute one peril for another.
He turned off the radio—it was just making it harder to concentrate—and he took a bite of pizza and wished he had some Coke left to wash it down. And then it came to him. And, when he decided he couldn’t see anything wrong with his idea, he turned the key in the ignition and put the car in gear. 8 The third time was supposed to be the charm. The best place to find a car that no one would return to in a hurry, he’d decided, was the long-term parking lot at Des Moines International. And that was also the best place he could think of to abandon a car; whoever found it would figure he’d somehow slipped past them and caught a flight somewhere.