Margaret Maron - The Right Jack

"You got it, honeybunch."

WHILE Alan Knight used her typewriter to type up his notes from all their interviews that weekend, Sigrid went to Captain McKinnon's office to deliver a progress report. She had never felt entirely at ease with him and had tried in the past to cover it with strict professionalism. Knowing now that he and her father had once been partners, that he must have recognized her the moment she was assigned to him and yet had never spoken of it-all these combined to make her more distant than ever.

A gruff man who did not lightly suffer fools, McKinnon was usually accessible to his staff. 'If my door's open,' he was wont to say, 'then walk in. If it's closed, stay out.'

The door was open today and Sigrid paused on the threshold while her boss finished speaking to one of the clerks.

As the other man left, McKinnon beckoned for Sigrid to enter. "Close the door and have a seat."

She closed the door, but remained standing. "This will only take a moment. I wanted to post you on the status of the Maintenon homicides."

"I understand Detective Tildon's better," he said, sounding equally stiff. He was large and solid and he filled the battered leather chair behind the wide cluttered desk. His big hand absently shuffled papers.

"Yes, he was moved out of intensive care into a regular room yesterday. I plan to see him after lunch today."

"And that Navy commander. Too bad about her arm. How's your arm?" he asked, glancing at the loose sling.

"It feels much better. My doctor's going to take a look at it today."

"Not rushing things too much, are you?"

"No, sir."

The crisp monosyllables seemed to bring him back to the official nature of her visit. "Okay, what do you have?"

As she succinctly outlined the facts learned, people interviewed, alibis established, and theories they had formed, McKinnon leaned back in his chair and listened with half his attention, while the other half studied her face.

An odd combination of her parents, he thought. Leif's tall slender build and Anne's coloring, although Anne's eyes were more hazel than gray.

His thoughts flew back across the years. 'She's such a serious little thing,' he remembered saying as he watched Leif and Anne's baby daughter try to wind the musical toy he'd brought for a Christmas present.

'It's her eyes,' Anne had laughed. 'They're too big for her face right now. Our baby owlet. She'll grow into them.'

Anne had knelt gracefully on the carpet to turn the blue knob. As a nursery tune tinkled from the toy radio, the child's large gray eyes caught the glow of the Christmas tree and her solemn little face had beamed in delight.

"Will that be all, Captain?" Sigrid repeated, and a tinge of color flushed her thin cheeks, as if she were aware of his scrutiny and his memories.

"No, that's not all," he growled. "Ands it down, dammit!"

She sat and gazed at him warily.

"I've been calling all weekend," he said bluntly. "Anne doesn't answer the phone."

"No, she's on assignment in Peru."

" Peru?"

"An interview with El Diego, the poet."

"Oh."

McKinnon had picked up a pencil from the desk top and he turned it in his big hands while the silence grew.

"She should be home this weekend," Sigrid said at last. "I'll tell her you were-"

The pencil snapped. I

"What did she say about me Friday night?" he asked, not meeting her eyes.

"That you and my father were once partners."

"That's all?"

"And that you were with him when he was killed. She blames you for Dad's death, doesn't she?"

"Is that what she said?" Suddenly he looked more tired than she had ever seen him, and sad.

"No, but why else would she-?" Sigrid took a deep breath and began again. "She's heard me speak your name, yet she never once asked if you were Dad's partner. And you! You've known all along who I was, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Then why, Captain? Is Mother right? I always thought he was killed in the line of duty."

"He was." McKinnon looked up from the broken pencil ends he'd been fitting back together and his brown eyes met hers squarely. "Pull the report and read it yourself."

"Who wrote it?"

He gave a short bitter laugh. "Right." Sigrid flushed. "If I'm wrong-"

"No, don't apologize for your instinct. Anyhow, you're right. I wrote most of it. But not all. And every word's the truth. Leif got careless. The guy that did it-a penny-ante small-timer messed up in something bigger than he could handle-he was holed up in a hotel room off Times Square and scared out of his skull. Your dad knew him. From the days when he was walking the beat.

He figured he could just walk in the guy's room and waltz him down to the station. He laughed at me because I had my gun out."

His voice trailed off as he remembered.; Sigrid waited quietly.

"He was a Viking. Do you remember him? Big and blond and so sure of himself." There was pain in his voice.

Sigrid shook her head. "Not very clearly. There are pictures, of course. And I remember standing at a high window once and waving good-bye to him down in the street. A few things like that. Not much more."

"You were so young." He looked at her and his smile was almost wistful. "I don't suppose you remember the trot-a-horse rides you took on my knee?"

"No. What happened to the man who shot him, your penny-ante small-timer?"

"I saved the state the cost of a trial," McKinnon answered flatly. "It's all in the report."

"If that's the way it happened, why did Mother react the way she did?"

"You'll have to ask her." He'd gone back to twisting the pencil ends. "Maybes he thought I should have shot sooner or maybe she thought I should have been the one to go into that room first. She wouldn't talk to me or see me after the funeral. I tried. God knows I tried. She called me a murderer and said she hoped to heaven she'd never see me again. I don't know. Maybe she was right. Maybe there was something I could have done. I couldn't bring Leif back, but I could get out of her life and I did."

"Why didn't you tell me when I was first assigned to work here?"

He shrugged and threw the broken pencil aside. "What was the point? At first I thought you knew and chose not to speak of it. Later I realized you probably didn't know and then it seemed best not to rake up the past. You're a good officer. I didn't want you to transfer out."

"I wouldn't do that! I fought for this job. It's all I ever wanted to do."

"So maybe I should let you get out of here and do it," McKinnon growled, reverting to the gruff superior she'd always known.

She rose and crossed to the door. "Keep me posted on these Maintenonk illings," he said as she stepped throught he doorway. "And, Harald?"

"Sir?"

"Would you let me know when Annec omes back?"

Returning to her office, Sigrid passed Peters and Eberstadt in the hallway, Peters knotting his tie as he hurried on short legs to keep up with his partner.

"We thought we'd catch the Wolferman funeral," said Eberstadt. "It's at eleven up at St. John's."

That explained the somber suits, Sigrid realized. Usually the two men wore casual sports jackets and went tieless as much as possible.

She turned the corner and almost bumped into Elaine Albee.

They did those ridiculous mirror movements of two people trying to dodge each other until Sigrid grasped what was happening and stood still, a good strategy except that the other officer adopted it at the same moment and now they stood motionless, face to face.

Elaine Albee stared at her, embarrassed, and then began to giggle. "Sorry."

As Sigrid stepped around her, Albee said, "Lieutenant?"

"Yes?"

"I was wondering. About Lieutenant Knight."