George Chesbro - Shadow of a Broken Man

"Also, Lippitt said that it could be dangerous for other people if I continued the investigation. The fact that he came out of the woodwork proves his contention that important people take an interest in this case. I'm not sure that you want to take a chance on anybody's getting hurt. I know I don't."

"Are you saying that you're dropping the case?" Foster sounded concerned.

"For the time being, at least. I think it's better to let things cool down and sift awhile. I'm leaving Thursday anyway."

"How long will you be gone?" He avoided my eyes.

"Three weeks, unless I get eaten by a great white shark."

Foster wasn't in the mood for jokes. He leaned against the vinyl backing of the booth and pressed a hand to his forehead. "If I drop it now… Elizabeth's in really bad shape."

"She could end up in even worse shape if we continue."

"I'd … always wonder," he said distantly.

"Maybe you can handle uncertainty better than your wife can handle the truth," I said. "Still, I've got a file on this, and I've taped a lot of thoughts. If you want, I'll turn them over to somebody else you can trust before I leave."

"Uh-uh. I like the way you operate." He was staring at a large wall mirror across the room, as if searching for truth there, forgetting that mirrors only reflect the truth of the people looking into them. "You'll be back three weeks from Thursday?" He half-smiled. "Unless you get eaten by a great white shark?"

"Not necessarily to work on this case, Mike. I don't think I want the responsibility."

"But it would be my responsibility if I wanted to continue. I'd just like to know if you'll go back to work on it when you come back … if I decide I want to know more."

"I'll have to think about it."

"Fair enough. Who knows? Maybe I'll be able to convince Elizabeth that we should get away for a couple of weeks. I think a change of scenery might do her some good."

"Do you want my file and tapes?"

"Not now," he said. "Why don't you hang on to them until you get back?"

"Okay. I'd also like to keep the draftsman's kit for a while."

"Of course. How much do I owe you up to this point, Frederickson?"

"Why don't you come around to my office tomorrow afternoon? I'll give you an itemized bill. I should also be finished with the kit by then."

We made an appointment for two o'clock.

The relief I'd expected to feel the next morning wasn't there: only unrelieved anxiety about Abu, distracting as a bad hangover. There'd been no messages left with my answering service. It was too early to start calling, so I tried to put the worry out of my mind, at least temporarily.

After breakfast, I went to see my brother. I found Garth looking hurt and annoyed, stuffed into his cubicle writing reports. The typewriter bounced like a toy under the merciless attack of his thick fingers.

"Hey, brother! Guess who's come to visit you."

"Christ," he said without looking up. "I hope you're not here to take up my time or looking for any more favors; I'm out of both."

"What about a fingerprint kit?"

That got his attention. He eased up on the typewriter, and I thought I could almost hear the machine sigh. "Why the hell do you want a fingerprint kit?"

"Just want to check out a couple of long shots." I took out Tal's pencil and Elliot Thomas' protractor and laid them on the desk in front of Garth.

"What's this? Show and Tell?"

"How long will a fingerprint last?"

Garth shrugged. "Indefinitely, as long as it's on a good surface that's been protected."

I took the draftsman's kit out of my pocket and shoved it across the desk to Garth. "Rafferty's prints may be on some of these tools. I'd like to compare them with whatever you can get off the pencil and the protractor."

"The pencil will be tough."

"Can you get partials?"

"Maybe. I'll have to see. Where'd you get the goodies?"

"The protractor from a man named Elliot Thomas, and the pencil from Ronald Tal."

"Tal? You've been traveling in high circles and keeping bad company."

"Careful, brother. Your Midwest conservatism is showing."

Garth whistled softly. "Christ, you think either of these guys could be Rafferty?"

"Doubtful, but I've got to start thinning the herd somewhere. Both men are about the right height and seem the right age; both men are Americans." Garth looked skeptical. "What can I tell you?" I added. "This is known as being methodical."

"How the hell do you get mixed up in these things? How the hell do I get mixed up in these things?" He rummaged around in his desk drawers until he finally came up with the kit. He used a pair of tweezers to lift the pencil and protractor from the cellophane sleeves I'd placed them in, then laid the items carefully beside the draftsman's kit. He opened the kit and began dusting the flat metal surfaces of the tools inside.

"Can I use your phone?" I asked.

Garth nodded as he continued dusting the implements. I picked up the receiver and dialed Abu's office. Abu still wasn't in; his secretary hadn't seen him since before lunch the previous day. I checked to make sure she had my message right, then hung up. I stared at the phone for a long time. It took me a few moments to realize that what I felt was fear.

Garth broke into my thoughts. "Take a look at these."

I took the magnifying glass he offered and studied the marks he'd raised on the instruments.

"You lucked out, Mongo," Garth said. "You've got good prints on the protractor, and decent partials on the pencil and the instruments. As far as I can see, there's no match anywhere. If you want, I'll have the lab boys take a look."

It wasn't necessary; I could see that the three sets of prints were entirely different. "Don't bother," I said, snapping the kit closed and putting it back into my pocket. "Two down, a few dozen to go. Case closed."

"Case closed?"

"For me, anyway. Too much risk with too little to gain for everybody involved."

"I don't follow you, Mongo. I thought you were really hot to go on this one. I'd have laid odds the trip to Acapulco was going to be postponed."

"Nope. Some folks I liked got hurt in the last case I was working on. I don't want to see that happen again." I outlined for Garth the reasoning I'd presented to Foster. Garth listened in silence, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the desk top.

"Heavy," he said when I'd finished. "You're worried about me too, aren't you?"

"Has anybody leaned on you since Sunday?"

Garth pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. "Haven't heard a word."

"Lippitt knows you gave me his number. The man works fast, and he's dangerous."

Garth shrugged. "All must be forgiven."

"Or he's saving that kind of pressure as an ace in the hole. I'm pretty sure you'd be out on the street in a minute if he lifted the wrong eyebrow."

Garth's eyes glinted angrily. "We don't run this department to suit some super-Fed!" He paused, laughed to break the tension. "I guess I'm getting a little skittish myself. You think this Rafferty really is alive?"

"I don't know. It's impossible to read this Lippitt. He's playing some kind of game, but I don't know what it is. If Rafferty is alive, I think there's a good possibility that Lippitt and his merry band have him; they just don't want anybody to know it. But Lippitt says he shot Rafferty himself."

"Really?" It wasn't a wisecrack; Garth was listening intently.

"One more free opinion," I said. "I'm convinced Arthur Morton's murder is connected with the Rafferty case. I'm sure Lippitt knew what I was talking about when I mentioned it."

"Lippitt said so?"

"No. He pretended not to know anything about Morton. I think he was lying."

"God, you're a veritable lie detector, aren't you?"

"It was a feeling."