Dell Shannon - Mark of Murder

"Hell!" said Wills violently. "You Goddamn cops-"

"I ain't taking no murder rap either, Mike,” said Kellerman. His broad forehead wrinkled painfully with thought.

"It ain't sense. So maybe we get hit a little tougher if we tell them, it's still not murder. Gee, none of us'd do a bad thing like a murder!" He looked at Mendoza earnestly. "We couldn't've, because we was down in Boyle Heights last Tuesday night, we cracked a TV store and got a lot of stuit. You can check it, I guess-lessee, we was with them girls up to about nine, and then we did the store, and we sold a lot of the stuff at a pawnshop on Whittier Boulevard, that'd be about ten-thirty, wasn't it, Mike? And-"

"Oh hell!" said Wills sullenly. "Well, all right. That's where we was, just like George says."

"That's right, mister, honestamente -"

Mendoza looked at Nesbitt and raised his eyebrows. Nesbitt shrugged.

"We'd sold stuff there before-the old guy's name is Behrens. Honest, he'd tell you we was in, about ten-thirty, and-”

"All right, what's the address?" Mendoza wrote it down. "I'll probably be seeing you again." He turned on his heel. Walking down the corridor, he asked Nesbitt, "What do you think?"

"Finding a gun," said Nesbitt. "I ask you."

"Down on Main," said Mendoza absently. He thought suddenly, suppose you had a gun you wanted to get rid of? A hot gun. Maybe one you had a license for, so the serial number could be traced. You could sell it, but the transaction would be traceable too. You could pawn it, but all pawnbrokers were supposed to keep records of serial numbers. You could just dump it somewhere, in anzio empty lot, but there was always the chance of someone seeing you, or Ending it and reporting it. Really, a very excellent way of getting rid of it would be to file away the serial number and then drop it somewhere, casually, in a district like Skid Row, where the chances were that whoever picked it up would keep it for his own nefarious purposes or pawn it for drinking money.

He wished now he'd asked those punks if they remembered anything about the hypothetical man who'd dropped the. 22. But it had almost certainly been after dark, and they wouldn't remember any details. Hell. And no way to…

"We'd better check," he said to Nesbitt. "The pawnbroker, and his stock. Just in case."

"Sure," said Nesbitt sadly. "We have to check everything."

Boyle Heights-Wl1ittier Boulevard. That would be the Hollenbeck station, and Mendoza thought he'd get them to check it out for him. He thanked Nesbitt for cooperation and drove back to headquarters, thinking about the gun.

The Sheldon woman hadn't shown, though it was after eleven. He called the Hollenbeck station, and the sergeant he talked to groaned but said he knew they were keeping busy with this Slasher down at headquarters, and they'd check out the pawnbroker for them. "How's that sergeant of yours doing in the hospital?"

"Not so good," said Mendoza. But a sudden queer warmth spread through him, for the real concern in the man's voice. That sergeant over at the Hollenbeck station had probably never laid eyes on Art Hackett. This was a big police force, though perennially undennanned for the population it served, and it took pride in itself for being, for all that, the top force anywhere. He realized suddenly that every man on this force who had read that brief newspaper story-Veteran Homicide Officer in Near Fatal Accident-was pulling for Hackett. Just because he was another cop.

Cops had to stick together.

He put the phone down. Palliser came in, looking annoyed, and said that Miguel Garcia hadn't recognized any of the three men with burn-scarred faces they'd held overnight. "I got the Rollen girl to look at them too, she said definitely no. So we let them go."

"Yes. It won't be as easy as that," said Mendoza. "Have those search warrants come through yet?"

"A few. Your idea was that button? Well, if that is a real clue," said Palliser, "and Nestor really did snatch it off his killer, I should think X would have felt it go. And-" He stopped.

"Yes," said Mendoza. "Belatedly, I saw that too. If he realized that Nestor had snatched it, maybe in reaching for the hand that held the gun, how easy simply to take it back when Nestor was dead. So he doesn't know it's gone from his jacket or whatever. Or didn't then. So maybe he's hung the jacket away in his closet for us to find… I thought for a little while we'd cleaned up Nestor, but I'm having second thoughts." He told Palliser about the young punks, about the gun.

Palliser said thoughtfully, "Well, I'm bound to say, if I had a hot gun to get rid of, that might be a damn safe way to do it. Down there, nobody'd be likely to hand it to the nearest patrolman and say, ‘Look what I found- Of course you're checking with the pawnbroker."

" Naturalmente -or rather, Hollenbeck is. You and Bert and whoever else is available had better go out on these warrants. Of course, there's every chance that since the murder X has noticed the missing button and, taking no chances that he dropped it somewhere incriminating, has got rid of the jacket or suit-or replaced the button. Anyway, have a good look for that-a button that doesn't quite match the rest… l want to see Elger again-and this damn Sheldon woman-"

The outside phone rang, and Sergeant Lake looked in and said, "It's your wife."

All Mendoza's muscles semed to tighten. If the hospital… He said, "O.K.," and picked up the phone, seeing his fears mirrored in Palliser's dark eyes… " Querida? "

"Luis," she said. "Luis-we're at the hospital. Angel's just got the doctor to tell her-how it really is."

"Oh," said Mendoza. Some of the tension went out of him, and Palliser, seeing it, drew a breath and went out.

"I'm sorry about that."

"He kept looking so serious, and- When we'd thought- And he tried-but Angel kept at him, and he finally told us-how it might be. Luis, it can't happen, can it?"

"I don't know, belleza. It's a thing, we wait and see."

"I know-but-”

"How is she taking it?"

"All right," said Alison. "It's no good fainting and having hysterics, but- She's-all right, so far. But I can't bear-"

"Yes,” he said. "There's more to Art's Angel than I'd thought. She's a good girl. But I'1n sorry she knows. I'd hoped-"

" Protecting us!" said Alison with a little angry half sob. "Just not running to meet trouble, amante."

"No. I know. But-"

Neither of them said anything for a moment; there was nothing more to say. The line hummed between them, a small comforting contact.

"Alison," he said. "Alison."

"Yes."

"How would you feel about it-if I resigned from the force?"

There was another little silence. "You mean…? I-I don't know, darling," said Alison. "Would you-want to? I mean-"

"I don't know," he said.

"What would-you do with yourself?"

"Something, I suppose. Find something. Esa es cuesti o n aparte. I don't know."

"If you really wanted to-" she said. He heard her draw a little breath. "Will you be home at all? I know how you're working at it-"

"I don't know that either, my darling. I'll call. You take care of Art's girl-and yourself."

"Yes," she said forlornly. "Yes, Luis."

He put the phone down. He looked around the office.

He really didn't know. Twenty-two years. Riding a squad car. In plain clothes, down in Vice-spotting the pro gamblers mostly, because maybe he was half a pro gambler himself. And eleven years in this office, sergeant and then lieutenant.

He'd sat at a desk up here for eleven years, working the cases as they turned up. Always plenty of cases to work. He wondered how it would feel, to be plain Mister instead of Lieutenant. To have nowhere special to be at a specified time every morning. To have no work to do at all. Just time to play.