Уильям Макгиверн - Rogue Cop

The bitterness in her voice confused him. “I’m sorry I spoke out of turn,” he said slowly. “Who am I to be judging people?”

“Excuse me,” she said and stood quickly. He saw that she was close to tears.

“Wait a minute. Please. Is it that easy to get out? Like you did, I mean?”

“Easy?” She was silent a moment. Then she laughed softly. “Try it, if you think it’s easy. Just say, ‘Forgive me, I’ve been wrong.’ That’s all. But keep a drink close by. The words may choke you a little.”

“ ‘Forgive me,’ ” he said quietly. “Who do I say that to?”

“To whatever you’ve got left. Maybe yourself.”

Carmody shook his head slowly. He couldn’t say he’d been wrong and mean it. And how could anybody forgive himself? It was too simple and pat.

Nancy stirred on the couch, and then sat up suddenly, her eyes bright with fear.

“Relax, everything’s all right,” Karen said gently. “Lie down and finish your sleep.”

Nancy recognized Carmody and drew a long, relieved breath. “Old tough Mike,” she said, and put her head down on the pillow. She laughed softly. “I guess I had a bad dream.”

Carmody sat beside her and took one of her hands. She looked cool and comfortable under the single white sheet.

“How do you feel?” he asked her. He heard Karen cross behind him and leave the room.

“Pretty good, I guess.”

“Ackerman is afraid of you,” he said. “What have you got on him, baby?”

She smiled at him but it was a shaky effort. “My mother told me a man could get anything from a woman if he called her baby,” she said.

“Don’t play around, please,” he said. “You told Fanzo’s men you were going to send Ackerman to jail. What did you mean by that?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m afraid, Mike. I don’t want to get mixed up in it.”

“They can’t hurt you,” he said. “You’re safe here.”

“You don’t know them, Mike.”

“I know them,” he said. “They’re scared and on the run. If you keep them running you’ll be safe. But if they beat this trouble you’re in a bad spot. Don’t you see that?”

Karen returned and sat at the foot of the couch. For a moment Nancy stared at her in silence, her eyes round and frightened in her childish face. “Should I tell him?” she said softly.

“I think so,” Karen said. “It would be a big thing to do.”

“All right,” Nancy said, the words tumbling out rapidly. “Ackerman is afraid of a man named Dobbs. Dobbs lives in New Jersey. That’s all I know, Mike, I swear it.”

“Dobbs?” The name meant nothing to Carmody. “How did you find this out?”

“Beaumonte told me. When he was drunk one night. You see, something had gone wrong and Ackerman phoned him and raised the devil for fifteen or twenty minutes. When it was all over Dan was in a terrible mood. He drank a full bottle of whiskey, and then started knocking the furniture around and smashing bottles and records all over the place. I never saw him so wild. When I finally got him to bed, he started talking about Dobbs. He didn’t know what he was saying, I knew. But he said that Dobbs was the only guy smarter than Ackerman, the only guy Ackerman was afraid of. It meant nothing at all to me. The next day I pretended I’d been drunk too. Beaumonte seemed a little scared. He asked me half-a-dozen times if I remembered what he’d been talking about, but I played dumb. Listening out of turn is just as bad as talking out of turn.”

“You must have used Dobbs’ name with Fanzo’s men,” Carmody said.

“I guess I did,” Nancy said sadly.

“And it went back to Ackerman.” Carmody stood up and turned the name around in his mind. He knew men named Dobbs but none who fitted the role of Ackerman’s blackmailer. “Where’s the phone?” he asked Karen.

“In the kitchen.”

Carmody went into the tiny kitchen, took the phone from the wall and dialed his Headquarters. When the clerk answered, he said, “I’m looking for George Murphy, the reporter. Is he around?”

“Well, he was here half an hour ago. He said he was going up to the press room, I think. Wait, I’ll switch you.”

The clerk transferred the call and another voice said, “Press room.”

“Is George Murphy around?”

“Hold on. He’s talking to his desk on another phone.”

“Okay.”

Murphy came on a moment later. “Hello?”

“Mike Carmody, George. Are you busy right now?”

“Nothing that won’t keep. What’s up?”

“I want to talk to you. Can you meet me at the South end of City Hall on Market Street in about fifteen minutes?”

“Sure, Mike. I’ll be the man with the press card in his hatband.”

Carmody walked into the living room and said to Karen, “I’m going now.” His whole manner had changed; the lead was in his hands and his hunter’s instincts had driven everything else from his mind.

“Be careful, Mike,” Nancy said. Karen watched him in silence.

“I will.” He left the apartment and went down to his car.

Murphy was waiting for him at the north entrance of the Hall, his hat pushed back on his big round head, a fresh cigar in his mouth. He looked sleepy and comfortable, as if he’d just finished dinner; but behind those drowsing eyes was a mind like an immense and orderly warehouse. “Hi, Mike,” he said, taking the cigar from his mouth.

“Let’s walk,” Carmody said. “What I’ve got is very private.”

“Okay.”

They strolled across the avenue that wound around the Hall, and started down Market Street, walking leisurely through the crowds that were pouring out of shops and office buildings.

Without looking at Murphy, Carmody said, “I’ve got the start of the biggest story you ever saw. But I need help. When I get the whole thing, it’s all yours. How about it?”

“Let’s hear the start of it,” Murphy said, putting the cigar in his mouth and clasping his hands behind him.

“Ackerman is afraid of a man named Dobbs,” Carmody said. “Dobbs lives in New Jersey. That’s all I know. I want you to help me find him.”

“It doesn’t sound right,” Murphy said, after walking along a few feet in silence. “Ackerman’s not afraid of anybody. He’s got rid of anybody who could hurt him, and don’t bet against that.”

“My tip is straight,” Carmody said. “If we can find Dobbs, and spade up what he’s got on Ackerman, then you’ve got a story.”

Murphy took the cigar from his mouth and looked at it as they waited for a light. “The story I’ll get is your obituary, Mike. You can’t buck Ackerman now. Six months from now, maybe. But the city isn’t ready yet.”

“I’m ready,” Carmody said. “To hell with the city.”

“You couldn’t keep them from killing your brother,” Murphy said thoughtfully. “What makes you think you can stay healthy?”

“We’re different types,” Carmody said.

“I guess you are,” Murphy said cryptically. Then he shrugged his big soft shoulders. “Let’s walk over to the office. Maybe we can find this Dobbs in the library. But I don’t see much hope for it.”

They spent the next three hours in the Express morgue, studying items on those Dobbses whose fame or notoriety had rated interment in this mausoleum of newsprint. There were obits, news and sports stories, announcements of promotions, luncheons, engagements, divorces, weddings. Murphy pawed through the yellowing clips with patient efficiency, occasionally embellishing the stories with scraps from the warehouse of his memory. Finally, he weeded out all but five clippings. “I’ll check these,” he said. “Each one of these guys knew Ackerman in the old days. And that’s where the dirt is, I’ll bet. Here we got Micky Dobbs, the fight promoter. And Judge Dobbs who worked for Ackerman before he retired. And Max Dobbs, the bondsman. Tim Dobbs, the fire chief.” Murphy grinned crookedly. “He used to condemn joints that didn’t cooperate with Ackerman. And last is Murray Payne Dobbs, who was a big trucker before Ackerman ran him out of the state.” He made a pile of the clips and then got up from the table and rubbed the top of his head. “You want me to handle this? I can do it through the paper without causing too much talk.”