Уильям Макгиверн - Rogue Cop

She twisted around until she was lying on her back. “I’ll get out,” she said. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said, taking one of her hands and rubbing it slowly.

“Why did Beaumonte do it to me?” she asked him in a small, weary voice. Then her eyes began to fill with tears. “I was as good to him as I knew how. I tried my best to do everything he wanted. Really, I did. And he must have liked me a little, Mike. In all the time he never had another girl. He used to laugh about that. Said he was growing old. But that wasn’t it. He must have liked me. But he must have hated me, too. That’s what I can’t understand. Unless he hated me he wouldn’t have done this, would he, Mike?”

“He doesn’t hate you. He wants you back.”

“I don’t want to go back,” she said, and her hand tightened in his like a frightened child’s. “Can he make me?”

“No, of course not.”

She sighed. “This is my chance, Mike. I don’t want to wind up in some alcoholic ward. I’ll lay off the booze, and try to get back into show business. I can do that, I know it.”

“That was Ackerman who just called,” Carmody said. “He wants you back, too. Does that make any sense to you?”

She shivered and rubbed her bare arms. “It just scares me.”

“Is there any reason for him to be afraid of you? Have you got anything on him?”

She shook her head quickly, her eyes bright with fear. “I haven’t got anything on anybody, Mike. Tell them that, please, Mike. Even if I could, I wouldn’t bother them.”

“I’m after them,” he said gently. “Because they killed my brother. If you help me they’ll never find out about it.”

“I was sorry about your brother,” she said, beginning to cry. “That was terrible, Mike.” She was slipping away from him, he saw, retreating into irrational, nonspecific grief. “They shouldn’t have done that.”

“You’re sure they did it?” He tightened his grip on her hand. “You know they did it?”

“They talked about it after your fight with Johnny Stark. After you’d gone.” She stared pitifully at him, transfixed by his cold eyes. “Dan said there was a man tailing your brother, and Ackerman said to tell him to get to work.”

Was this what Ackerman was worried about? Carmody wondered. Possibly. But there had to be something else. What Nancy had overheard wasn’t evidence. And Ackerman would know that.

“They’ll be looking for you,” he said. “You told someone you were coming here.”

“Don’t make me go,” she whispered.

“This isn’t safe,” he said. “Let me think.” He had to hide her somewhere. Hotels and boardinghouses were out. If Ackerman were serious he could put a hundred men on her trail. Finally, Karen occurred to him; she was guarded by a detail of police and Nancy would be safe in her apartment. “Come on, let’s go,” he said. “Fix your hair and get into your coat.”

“All right,” she said. She seemed to have lost the power to act or think independently; she moved like a small battered puppet at the touch of his voice.

There was the problem of getting her past the police guard and Carmody put his mind to it on the trip across the dark city. Karen was an important witness, the only lead to Eddie’s killer, and the police wouldn’t stand for any casual boarders in her apartment. When he parked the car, a half-block from the Empire, he said to Nancy, “Now listen closely. We’re going to the Empire Hotel. You can see the entrance from here. You go into the foyer alone and tell the cop that you live in the hotel but don’t have your key. That’s all, understand? I’ll be right behind you and take it from there. Okay?”

Carmody walked into the foyer ten seconds after her and listened as she told her story to the patrolman. Then he said, “It’s okay, officer. I’ve seen her around before. She lives here.”

It worked smoothly, not because the cop was careless but because Carmody’s endorsement had the stamp of rank and authority on it. In the elevator he punched a button that took them to the floor above Karen’s. He led her along the warm silent corridor to the stairway and down one flight to the landing. “Wait right here,” he whispered. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. The young cop stationed at Karen’s apartment straightened alertly, but smiled as he recognized him.

“Everything quiet?” Carmody asked him.

“No one’s been here since you left.”

“Good. I’m going to be here half an hour going through some pictures with her. Why don’t you go down and get some coffee?”

“Well, I’m supposed to stick right here.”

“I’ll take over. And coffee will keep you sharp the rest of the night.”

It was that argument that sold the young cop. “I’ll make it on the double,” he said.

When the elevator doors closed on him Carmody went down the corridor to the stairway landing and brought Nancy back to Karen’s apartment. He rapped sharply on the door and checked his watch. Five o’clock. He wanted to settle this and get to work.

There would be a restless ferment in the city today, precipitated by Eddie’s death, and by fear of the cops’ reactions to this defiant challenge from the big boys. This was the time to strike, Carmody knew, when people were ready to flinch.

The latch clicked and Karen opened the door. She wore a robe and slippers but he saw that she hadn’t been asleep.

“I’ve got to ask you a favor,” Carmody said.

“All right,” she said, looking at Nancy.

“She’s in trouble with the same guys who killed Eddie,” he said. “She needs a safe place to stay.”

Karen hesitated, still watching Nancy. Then she put a hand on her arm, and said, “Come on in. There’s plenty of room.”

“That’s mighty hospitable of you,” Nancy said, with a pitiful attempt at humor.

“She’s had a rough time and is pretty loaded right now,” Carmody said. “The cops won’t let her stay if they find out she’s here, so do your talking with the radio on. And if any detectives come up, put her in the bathroom or kitchen.”

“I can manage it,” Karen said.

The elevator cables hummed warningly and Carmody closed the door. He was standing with his back to it when the young cop came out of the elevator, carrying two cardboard containers of coffee.

“I brought one for you,” he said.

“Fine,” Carmody sipped the black coffee slowly, his thoughts ranging restlessly toward the city. The cop was silent until Carmody was ready to leave, then he wet his lips and told him awkwardly and hesitantly how sorry he was about his brother being killed.

“I worked with him and he was all cop,” he said.

“I think you’re right,” Carmody said soberly. Then he left.

Carmody walked through the double doors leading to Headquarters at five-thirty that morning. Abrams and Dirksen were there, along with a couple of men from Klipperman’s shift. It was their day-off but they had come in when they’d heard the news. The same thing would happen in every station and district in the city, Carmody knew. Off-duty detectives and patrolmen would check in with their sergeants, grimly eager to join the hunt for a cop’s killer.

The men stood when Carmody walked in and Abrams made an awkward little speech. “Rotten shame... we’ll get the son, don’t worry... He was clumsy about it because the situation was marred by a make-believe quality; everyone in the room knew who had ordered Eddie Carmody’s execution. And why. And they knew Carmody’s relationship with Ackerman. But their sympathy was genuine, untouched by these considerations.

“Thanks,” Carmody said, his hard face revealing nothing of what he was feeling.