Уильям Макгиверн: Rogue Cop

It was in Miami, two seasons ago, when he’d been down with Beaumonte for an unscheduled winter vacation. He had seen her in the expensive lobby of an expensive hotel, making her way on crutches. That was why he had remembered her, because she had been on crutches. That had stuck in his mind.

Smiling down at her he said suddenly, “Where were you on the night of December 15th two years ago? Don’t huddle with your attorney. Let’s have it without rehearsal.”

“What do you mean?”

“Miami, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right.” She watched him gravely. “How did you know?”

“I was there. I remembered you.”

“Yes, I expect you would,” she said.

His mind was working smoothly and sharply. Could she help him with Eddie? She looked smart; maybe she could pound sense into his head. The chance was well worth taking.

“I want to talk to you,” he said. He smiled into her steady blue eyes and put his hands lightly over her bare shoulders. “I’ve got a proposition to make. Concerning Eddie, so don’t haul off and slug me yet. How about having a drink with me when he’s out safeguarding the ash cans in the neighborhood?”

“Let me go,” she said quietly; but her voice was tight with anger. “Take your hands off me.”

Carmody put his hands on his hips and studied her closely, bewildered by her reaction. “Take it easy,” he said gently. “You’re jumping to conclusions, I think.”

“The Miami phase is over and done with,” she said. “You’d better get that straight.”

He didn’t understand this. “I’m sorry you got the wrong idea,” he said.

She was pale and defiant, but he saw that her lower lip was trembling. “Don’t take it so hard,” he said, still puzzled. “What can I say after I say I’m sorry?”

“You don’t believe me, of course,” she said.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Stop grinning like an adolescent at a burlesque show,” she said angrily. “They whistled in my day,” Carmody said. “But that was quite a spell back. You know you’re awfully touchy. Does it worry your psychiatrist?”

“You’re very funny. I’ll bet you do imitations, too.”

“Don’t try to creep into my heart with flattery,” Carmody said, smiling at her. “I know you just want to borrow my badge to give to some police dog.”

She started to say something but Eddie came swinging down the room, grinning cheerfully, and she turned her back to Carmody and let Eddie take her arm.

“We’ve got to rush it up a little,” he said, patting her hand. “You two have a chance to get acquainted?”

“We sure did,” Carmody said, looking at Karen. He half expected her to tell Eddie about their little flare-up, but she avoided his eyes, said nothing. It would come later, he guessed. When she could flavor her version to Eddie’s taste.

Outside they said their good-bys and Eddie and Karen walked away together in the soft clean darkness. Carmody stared after them, frowning slightly and flipping the coin in his hand.

He would save Eddie all right. With or without help from this cool, poised little character. But probably with her help, he thought, smiling slightly.

She knew the score. She could count; all the way up to ten thousand.

He drove into the city on Broad Street and parked in a restricted zone on Fifteenth Street under the eye of a friendly traffic cop. Beaumonte was waiting for him but first he would have to check in with Lieutenant Wilson. There was always the need to preserve the illusion that he was a responsible member of the department.

Carmody called from a drug store. Wilson, a sharp and businesslike cop, sounded annoyed when he got through to him. “I can’t run a shift without a sergeant, Mike,” he said. “Where’ve you been?”

“Something developed on that Fairmount Park murder,” Carmody said. “I’m meeting a character who wants to make a deal.”

“Another Carmody exclusive,” Wilson said dryly.

“Don’t be sensitive. You can give it to the papers,” Carmody said.

“I don’t give a damn about that,” Wilson said. “We’ve had two jobs tonight, a knifing in South with no leads and a murder in the Wagner Hotel. Everybody’s out but me and I’m holding down your desk.”

“I’ll stop at the Wagner and take a look,” Carmody said, checking his watch. The delay wouldn’t improve Beaumonte’s disposition, he knew. “Who’d you send on that one?”

“Dirksen and Myers.”

“I’ll take a look. And stop worrying.”

“Gee, thanks,” Wilson said. “It’s real friendly of you to pitch in this way.”

Carmody laughed and dropped the receiver back in place. He went out to his car and drove through center-city to the Wagner, a well-run commercial hotel near the railroad station. There he found Myers browbeating an hysterical little man in whose room the girl had been shot, and Dirksen talking baseball with a lab technician. The girl lay on the floor beside the rumpled bed, a heavily built blonde in her middle thirties. She wore only a slip and her make-up stood out like clown markings against the white emptiness of her face. Dirksen digressed reluctantly from the baseball to give him the story. The elevator operator had heard the shot and summoned the night manager, who had opened the room with his passkey. The girl was on the floor, a bullet hole under her heart, and the man, a furniture salesman from Michigan, was sprawled on the bed out cold.

“It was his gun fired the shot,” Dirksen said in conclusion. “It’s open and shut. He’s playing dumb but he’s our boy.”

Carmody glanced around the room, frowning slightly. He noticed a tray of smeared highball glasses on the bureau with two whiskey bottles beside it. One was empty, the other full, and they were of different brands.

“What’s our boy’s name?” Carmody asked.

“Samuel T. Degget.”

“Did you check his wallet? Was anything missing?”

“No, he’s got all his money.”

Carmody stared at Degget for a moment or so, trying to get an impression of the man. He was married and had grown daughters (Degget was telling Myers now in a high squealing voice). You couldn’t be sure, Carmody thought, but he didn’t seem to fit this kind of trouble. The girl, yes; the shooting, no. Degget looked like a cautious methodical person, and was probably a pillar of rectitude in his own community. When he cut loose it would be far from home and with all risks reduced to the absolute minimum. Everything bought and paid for, anonymous and artificial, and no unpleasant after effects except a big head in the morning. Why would he louse himself up with murder?

“What do you have on the girl?” he asked Dirksen.

“She works as a waitress in the coffee shop in the lobby. No folks in town. She lives in a boardinghouse on Elm Street with another girl. One of the waiters in the coffee shop remembers that Degget and she were pretty friendly. You know, he kidded around with her a lot.”

Carmody frowned and looked once more at the whiskey bottles. Two different brands, one bottle empty, the other full. He checked his watch. The State liquor stores had closed two hours ago; he was wondering where Degget had got the second bottle. It wasn’t likely that he had bought them both at the same time; if so, they would have been the same brand.

He glanced at Dirksen, who wet his lips. “Something wrong?” Dirksen asked, worried by Carmody’s expression.

“Call the bell captain and ask him if there was any service to this room tonight,” Carmody said.

Dirksen was on the phone a moment, and then looked over the receiver at Carmody. “No service, but somebody from here asked to see a bellhop.”

“They may have run out of booze and wanted another bottle,” Carmody said sharply. “Bellhops can find one for a price. Get the name of the boy who came up here, and find out if he’s still on duty.”