Manhattan Is My Beat

She looked at the bulky envelope the minister had given her. The return address was the Bon Aire Nursing Home in Berkeley Heights, New Jersey.

"What's that?"

"Something Mr. Elliott sent to Mr. Kelly at the church."

She opened the envelope. Inside was a letter taped to another thick envelope, on which was printed in old, uneven type: Manhattan Is My Beat, Draft Script, 5/6/46.

"Oh, look. A souvenir!"

Rune read the letter out loud. " 'Dear Mr. Kelly. You don't remember me, I'm sure. I'm the nurse on the floor where Mr. Raoul Elliott's room is. He asked me to write to you and asked if you could forward the package I'm enclosing here to the young girl who came to visit him the other day. He was a little confused as to who she was-maybe she is your daughter or probably your granddaughter-but if you could forward it, we'd be most appreciative.

" 'Mr. Elliot has mentioned several times how nice it was for her to come visit and talk about movies, and I can tell you her visit had a very good effect on him. He put the flower she brought him by his bedside and a couple times he even remembered who gave it to him, which is pretty good for him. Yesterday he got this from his storage locker and asked me to send it to her. Thank her for making him happy. All best wishes, Joan Gilford, R.N.' "

Richard, driving through commercial Brooklyn, said, "What a great old guy. That was sweet."

Rune said, "I think I'm going to cry."

She tore open the envelope.

Richard stopped for a red light. "You know, maybe you can sell it. I heard that an original draft of somebody's play-Noel Coward, I think-went for four or five thousand at Sotheby's. What do you think this one'd be worth?"

The light changed and the car pulled forward. Rune didn't answer right away but after a moment said, "So far it's up to two hundred and thirty thousand."

"What?" he asked, smiling uncertainly.

"And counting."

Richard glanced over at Rune then skidded the car to a stop.

In Rune's lap were bundles of money. Stacks of wrapped bills. They were larger than modern Federal Reserve notes. The ink was darker, the seals on the front were in midnight-blue ink. The paper wrappers around the stacks were stenciled with $10,000 in a scripty old-time typeface. Also printed on them was Union Bank of New York.

"Thirty-three, thirty-four… Let's see. Thirty-eight. Times ten thousand is three hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Is that right? I'm so bad with math."

"Christ," Richard whispered.

Cars honked behind them. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, then pulled to the curb, parked in front of a Carvel ice cream store.

"I don't understand… what…?"

Rune didn't answer. She ran her hand over the money, replaying the great scene in Manhattan Is My Beat where Dana Mitchell is inside the bank and opens the suitcase of money-the camera cutting between his face and the stacks of bills, which had been lit to glow like a hoard of jewels.

"Raoul Elliott," she answered. "When he was researching the film he must have found where the loot was hidden. Maybe it was buried there…" She nodded back toward the church. "So he donated a bunch back to the church and they built the home for actors. The minister said he'd been very generous to them. Raoul kept the rest and retired."

Two tough-looking kids in T-shirts and jeans walked by and glanced in the car. Richard looked at them then reached over Rune, locked the door, rolled up the windows.

"Hey," she protested, "what're you doing? It's hot out."

"You're in the middle of Brooklyn with four hundred thousand dollars in your lap and you're just going to sit there?"

"No, as a matter of fact"-she nodded toward the Carvel store-"I was going to get an ice cream cone. You want one?"

Richard sighed. "How 'bout if we get a safe deposit box?"

"But we're right here."

"A bank first?" he asked. "Please?"

She ran her hand over the money again. Picked up one bundle. It was heavy. "After, can we get an ice cream?"

"Tons of ice cream. Sprinkles too, you want."

"Yeah, I want."

He started the car. Rune leaned back in the seat. She was laughing. Looking at him, coy and sly.

He said, "You're looking full of the devil. What's so fu

"You know the story of the Little Red Hen?"

"No, I don't. How 'bout if you tell it to me?" Richard turned the old car onto the Brooklyn Bridge and pointed the hood toward the turrets and battlements of Manhattan, fiery in the afternoon sun. Rune said, "It goes like this…"

About the Author

Former attorney and folksinger Jeffery Deaver is the best-selling author of a dozen suspense novels and numerous short stories. He has been nominated for an Edgar Award three times and is a two-time recipient of the Ellery Queen Readers’ Award for best short story of the year. The London Times has called him the “best psychological thriller writer around.” He makes his home in Virginia and California. The Bone Collector, the first Lincoln Rhyme thriller, is soon to be a feature film from Universal Pictures.