Уильям Макгиверн - Rogue Cop

“We’ve got to take a ride,” Murphy said. “You set to go?”

“Yes.”

When Father Ahearn came down the steps, Murphy’s sedan was moving away from the curb. He watched until it had disappeared at the corner, and then shook his head and started back to the rectory. His expression was weary and troubled.

“Well, what is it?” Carmody asked, as Murphy headed through the bright streets toward the River Drive.

“The Dobbses we found in the clips didn’t add up to anything,” Murphy said. He looked tired and hot; his day-old beard was a black smudge along his jaws, and his eyes were narrowed against the sunlight. “I worked all night on them and didn’t get a lead. But I found another Dobbs, and he could be our man.”

“Who’s that?”

“This fell into my lap, from an old guy named Sweeney who’s been a rewrite man on our paper since the year One. I got talking to him this morning, and he told me about a Billy Dobbs who worked on the Intelligencer years back. Not a reporter, but a photographer. The only memorable thing about Dobbs, Sweeney told me, was that he once stumbled accidentally into a bank stick-up. This was in ’38. Dobbs was coming in from a routine assignment, driving south on Market Street, when three guys ran out of the old Farmer’s Bank with satchels of dough and guns in their hands. They killed two cops right in the street, and a bullet hit the windshield of Dobbs’ car. He stopped and scrambled into a gutter to get out of the fire. All he thought about was taking cover instead of taking pictures. He could have been a hero by photographing the gunmen, but he’d probably have been a dead one. That’s what he said, at any rate. Two years later Dobbs quit the paper and that’s all Sweeney could tell me about him.” Murphy glanced at Carmody. “You see where this might be leading?”

“I’ve got an idea.”

“Right now we’re going to where Dobbs used to live. A guy in the Intelligencer’s personnel section gave me his old address. It’s in Avondale, in a pretty average neighborhood. Dobbs lived there with his mother and father. But they’ve all been gone for a long time.”

“We’ll have to ring a lot of doorbells to find someone who knew them,” Carmody said.

“I can’t think of any short cut,” Murphy said, and rubbed a hand wearily over his face. “I wish there was. I could use some sleep.”

They parked in front of the two-story wooden house in which the Dobbs family had lived, and got out of the car. The street was shady and quiet, in a neighborhood that was deteriorating steadily but gradually.

“You want the odd or even addresses?” Murphy said dryly.

“I’ll take the other side. Let’s go.”

It was in the middle of the afternoon and two blocks from the Dobbs home that Carmody got his hands on a lead. She was a pleasant little woman, starched and clean in a blue house dress, and she had known the Dobbses very well. “Funny you should ask,” she said, tilting her gray head at Carmody. “I was just thinking of Ed and Martha the other day. Something brought them back to mind, what I just can’t remember. But come in, won’t you? No sense baking there in the sun.”

In the dim old-fashioned parlor, Carmody said, “Do you remember when they moved away?”

“Yes, it was just before the war. The Second World War, I mean. About ’40 or ’41. Ed quit his job on the cars, and off they went. To California.”

“Did you know their son? Billy Dobbs?”

“Indeed I did. He was a quiet, steady youngster, and got himself a fine job on the paper. Took pictures for them. We used to see his name on them sometimes. Fires, accidents, all sorts of things you’d never expect little Billy Dobbs to be mixed up in.”

“But he quit his job, didn’t he?”

“That’s right. Moved off to another paper. It worried his mother, I can tell you, but it turned out pretty well, I guess.”

“Do you know what paper he went to?”

“His mother told me but I forgot,” the woman said, with a little sigh.

“Anybody around here ever hear from the Dobbses?”

“No, not for years anyway. Old Mr. Johnson, he’s dead now, looked them up when he was in California. He was out seeing his son who was in camp there, you see. And the Dobbses had come into good luck. Some relative of theirs in Australia had died, they told Mr. Johnson, and left them a nice little bit of money. They were living in style, he said. Flower garden, nice home, a maid even.” She smiled and shook her head. “A far cry from the days when they were on the cars.”

“Was their son around?”

She frowned. “Mr. Johnson never said anything about Billy...”

Carmody went quickly down the stairs to the sidewalk and looked along the street for Murphy. He saw him in the next block and yelled at him to get his attention. When Murphy turned, Carmody shouted, “Let’s go. I’ve got it...”

“Everything fits,” Carmody said, as they headed back toward his home. “Dobbs did take pictures of the stick-up. He waited two years, probably protected himself from every angle and then parlayed them into a pension plan.”

“Nice guy, Dobbs,” Murphy said, nodding. “Didn’t forget the old folks either. The thing is, I guess, to find Dobbs.”

“We won’t find him,” Carmody said. “Ackerman has sent him on the road by now. Dobbs is on his way to South America or Newfoundland, I’d bet.”

“Then we got to find the pictures,” Murphy said.

“I want to think about that angle a little,” Carmody said.

“We got something good here, Mike. This is what Delaney had on Ackerman. He must know about Dobbs. And that pressure was strong enough to make Ackerman take the big risk of killing your brother. So if we get Dobbs’ pictures we get Bill Ackerman. On a rap he can’t beat.”

“That’s it.” Carmody glanced at Murphy’s tired profile. “You’d have made a good cop, George.”

“So would you, Mike,” Murphy said. Then he rubbed his lips with the back of his hand. “Forget that; okay? It’s no time for cracks.”

“Nobody’s mad,” Carmody said bitterly.

They said good-by in front of the house and Carmody went inside and tossed his hat on the piano. He was on his way to the kitchen for a beer when the phone began to ring. Picking it up, he said, “Yes?”

“Mike, this is Karen. The police took me downtown this morning to look at more pictures. There was no guard here while I was away.” Her voice began to tremble. “Nancy’s gone, Mike.”

“Who picked you up?” he said sharply.

“A Captain Green. From the records station.”

Green was on Ackerman’s leash, Carmody knew. Technically, he had the right to bring a witness downtown... And someone else could have pulled off the police guard... Carmody swore furiously.

“Stay right there,” he said. “I’m coming over.”

Nancy might have walked out by herself, he thought, as he ran down to his car. But in his heart he knew he was kidding himself. This was Ackerman’s work. He wanted her and he had taken her.

It was twenty minutes later when he reached Karen’s apartment. She let him in and sat down on the edge of the sofa, locking her hands together in her lap.

“I’ve got to know just when this happened,” he said. “Right to the minute.”

“I’ll try to remember.”

Carmody saw that she was holding herself under control with an effort. Her small face was pale and strained, and her lower lip was trembling slightly. “If you can hang on you’ll be helping her,” he said. Sitting beside her, he took her clenched hands between his and rubbed them gently. “Start from the time the police picked you up here.”

“That was ten o’clock. Captain Green got here then and said he wanted me to come downtown. I told him I’d get ready. Nancy was frightened. She didn’t want to stay alone, but I said it would be all right.” Karen drew a long breath and a little tremor went through her body. “I didn’t get back until two-thirty. Captain Green showed me dozens of pictures and took his time about it. When we got back he made me wait downstairs until he radioed the local district and told them to put the police details back at the apartment. That was the first I knew that they’d been taken off. I was scared then. And when I came in I saw that she was gone.”