In this city, you have to pay attention. In this city, things are happening all the time, all over the place, and you don't have to be a detective to smell evil in the wind. Take this week's tabloids: the face of a dead girl is splashed across the front page. She was found sprawled near a park bench not seven blocks from the police station. Detectives Carella and Brown soon discover the girl has a most unusual past. Meanwhile, the late-night news tracks the exploits of The Cookie Boy, a professional thief who leaves his calling card -- a box of chocolate chip cookies -- at the scene of each score. And while the detectives of the 87th Precinct are investigating these cases, one of them is being stalked by the man who killed his father. Welcome to the Big Bad City. People Ed McBain is, by far, the best at what he does. Case closed. Publishers Weekly McBain is so good he ought to be arrested. Robert B. Parker It's hard to think of anyone better at what he does. In fact, it's impossible. Boston Herald Classic McBain -- taut with trenchant dialogue....In The Big Bad City, McBain proves he can pack punches in both the physical and emotional arenas. Seattle Times-Post Intelligencer As good as it gets...compulsively readable. New York Newsday Full of noir touches and snappy dialogue. The Philadelphia Inquirer Vintage stuff. The dialogue is sharp, the plotting accomplished, and the prose bears the McBain stamp uncluttered, unpretentious, ironic. Omaha WorkHerald (NE) [A] juicy mystery...McBain...lives up to his daunting reputation....The 87th Precinct is always an exciting place to visit. Syracuse Herald-American (NY) If you're looking for a sure thing, pick this one up. Winston-Salem Journal (NC) You wouldn't want to live there, but you will enjoy visiting The Big Bad City. Ed McBain, a recipient of the Mystery Writers of America's coveted Grand Master Award, was also the first American to receive the Diamond Dagger, the British Crime Writers Association's highest award. His books have sold more than one hundred million copies, ranging from the more than fifty titles in the 87th Precinct series (including the Edgar Award–nominated Money, Money, Money) to the bestselling novels written under his own name, Evan Hunter—including The Blackboard Jungle (now in a fiftieth anniversary edition from Pocket Books) and Criminal Conversation. Fiddlers, his final 87th Precinct novel, was recently published in hardcover. Writing as both Ed McBain and Evan Hunter, he broke new ground with Candyland, a novel in two parts. He also wrote the screenplay for Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds. He died in 2005. Visit EdMcBain.com. Chapter 1 The detectives hadn't even noticed the two men were aquainted. One of the two men was in the holding cell because he'd inconsiderately shot a little Korean grocer who'd resisted his attempts to empty the store's cash register. The other one was just being led into the cell. He'd been caught running from the scene of a liquor store holdup on Culver and Twelfth. Aside from their occupations, the two men had nothing in common. One was white, the other was black. One was tall, the other was short. One had blue eyes, the other had brown eyes. One had the body of a weight lifter, possibly because he'd spent two years upstate on a prior felony. The one being led into the cell was somewhat plump. Sometimes, the plump ones were the ones to watch. "Inside, let's move it," Andy Parker said and nudged him into the cell. Parker would later tell anyone who'd listen that he'd automatically figured the arresting blues had frisked the perp at the scene. "How was I to know he had a knife tucked into his crack?" he would ask the air. In this instance, "crack" was not a controlled substance. Detective Parker was referring to the wedge between the man's ample buttocks, from which hiding place he had drawn a sling-blade knife the instant he spotted the body builder slouching and sulking in the far corner of the cage. What Parker did the minute he saw the plump little magician pull a knife out of his ass was slam the cell door shut and turn the key. At that very moment, Steve Carella and Artie Brown were together leading nine handcuffed basketball players into the squadroom. Both detectives smelled trouble at once. The trouble was not that any policeman was in danger from the chubby little knife-wielding man in the cage. But the body builder was in police custody, and presumably under police protection as well, and every cop in that room conjured up visions of monumental lawsuits against the city for allowing a black man -- black, no less -- to be carved up while in a locked cell -- locked, no less -- with a fat white assassin who kept slashing the air with the knife and repeating over and over again, "Oh, yeah? Oh, yeah? Oh, yeah?" Carella fired a shot at the ceiling. "A minute before I was about to," Parker would later claim. "You!" Carella yelled, sprinting toward the ca