The lieutenant could have been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty; his face was fat and pale, his eyes appearing as little more than slits of blue light set deep in pouches of gray flesh. Strands of black hair were combed across his scalp. His brown suit was a size too large for him, and his heavy hands were tracked with veins as thick as lead pencils. He wore a wide red tie.
“What we have here, Eberle,” Slocum said, “are some pictures that could help us in that Selby case.” He handed them to the lieutenant. “Check out the photographer, but call Harrisburg first and get a make on this Porsche. Tell them to put their computers on it.”
When Eberle went out, Slocum stood and leaned over his desk, supporting his weight on his clenched fists. The pulse in his throat seemed to be trying to jerk itself free from the tight flesh around it.
“Like I was saying, I had this educated darky in here the other day, Selby. Wearing a turban and one of them African bathrobes. He didn’t like how we treated his brother boogies. He told me they had cities of ivory and gold in Africa ten thousand years ago, libraries, museums, hospitals and were doing eye surgery and things like that while we were still learning to count our fingers and toes. I asked him what happened to all those beautiful African cities, and he told me they were the victims of floods and disease, historical cycles and so on. Know what I told him? I said the same thing happened right here in beautiful America. To Detroit and New York and Cleveland and what’s left of Newark, New Jersey. And the people who destroyed civilization in Africa are the same people who are doing it here and now in America. He said that was an unfair comparison and I told him the only thing his people know about fair or unfair is that it rhymes with welfare ... so we get all kinds here and I’m pretty fucking thick-skinned. We’re the pros, we got the troops and we’re paid to do the job.”
He jabbed a button on his phone. “Now I got a couple of homicides and some other shit coming down, Selby, so would you mind letting me get back to work? You heard what I told Eberle. When we get a make on that car, we’ll be in touch.”
Selby nodded. “You obviously needed to make that speech, captain. Naturally, I’m wondering why, since the lost cities of Africa don’t have a goddamn thing to do with checking out that plate number. As a pro, I imagine you know that... I’ll hear from you, Captain, or I’ll be back,” Selby said, and walked out of the office.
When Selby got home, everyone was in bed except Blazer. He made himself a sandwich, poured a beer and went through the notes he had made of Shana’s outbursts under sedation. He had checked what she had said, Bartlett’s Quotations and Sarah’s college books and reading guides.
The list now read:
1. Hornets — (The helicopters).
2. Waves — (Diesel locomotives and freight cars. Noise from the switching yard).
3. Birds crying, singing. — (The children playing at Stoneville grade school).
4. Mommy, I’ll kill it — hand hurts — hate it, mommy.
(Shana says she doesn’t remember saying this. But there was a cut on her right palm that night.)
5. A time to serve and to sin. — (S. said this twice, I think. Not in “Ecclesiastes.”)
6. Tunnel or tunnels. — (The Rakestraw covered bridge).
7. Hell is alone. — (A lot of hells in Bartlett’s, a couple of dozen or more. Still checking).
Selby took Blazer for a walk to the top of the meadow. From there he thought he saw a car slow down, then make a turn on Fairlee Road, its headlights flickering through the trees. But when he got back to the house with Blazer, the lights were gone and the woods were dark again.
Before turning in for the night, Selby slipped the photograph from the Standard under Shana’s bedroom door. They could discuss that tomorrow.
Captain Slocum called the next morning, before Selby had a chance to talk to Shana. The captain’s voice was cheerful and expansive.
“Well, we’re finally making some progress... sorry if I rubbed you the wrong way last night. But we had those homicides and a string of burglaries going off like goddamn firecrackers around here. So let’s forget the other shit, okay? The important thing is, we got a lead. You know the old saying, Selby, nothing cheers a cop like overtime and a break in the case he’s working on.”
Selby was in his bedroom, still in his robe. “Glad to hear it, Captain. Who did that plate lead you to?”
“Just a second. I’ll get my notes sorted out.” Selby heard papers rustling. “Okay now,” Slocum said. “Here’s where we are. Lieutenant Eberle got a reply from Harrisburg, the Motor Bureau, around one-thirty this a.m. Computers kicked out the whole plate number. It’s N4796, issued this year to a 1978 Porsche registered to an Earl Thomson in Wahasset.
“Late as it was, Eberle and I drove out to his house and got him out of bed. That’s always best, don’t give ’em time to think. It was Earl Thomson’s Porsche at Vinegar Hill, no doubt about it.
“Thomson told us he was in Muhlenburg that afternoon at a bar called The Green Lantern. Around five-thirty. After a few beers, he went out and found his car gone. He’d left the keys in the ignition like a damn fool. Two things struck us kind of funny. One, he didn’t report his car stolen until the next morning. Second, The Green Lantern’s a colored joint. You know the old saying, a redbird don’t sit on a blackbird’s nest. Thomson’s white, comes from a wealthy family, went to good schools, doesn’t have a police record. So we shook his story pretty goddamn hard to see if something else funny might fall out of it.”
Selby said, “Is this the Thomson family that owns the Harlequin Chemical Company?”
Slocum hesitated. Selby heard him grunt. “Yeah, I think it is. His father’s George Thomson. But I got news for you, Selby. A stud walks into my office with a smoking gun, I don’t give a shit about his Dun and Bradstreet rating. It doesn’t matter who Earl Thomson’s father is. He’s got nothing to do with this, understand?”
“I hear what you’re saying.”
“Okay. Thomson told us he’d been to The Green Lantern to look at a shotgun some colored boy wanted to sell. Boy name of Charlie Lee. I sent Eberle and two other men out to Muhlenburg to check that out. They also talked to a waitress at The Green Lantern—” Again Selby heard a rustle of paper. “Here it is, a colored chick, Elbe Mae Cluny. It all checks out. Thomson was at The Green Lantern, no question about it. After he found his car gone, he called home for a lift. Miguel Santos, he works for the Thomsons, picked him up around six-thirty and Thomson was home for dinner with his mother a half hour later. We checked them out, too, Selby, the Puerto and Thomson’s mother. Thomson’s in the clear, Selby. No doubt of it. But eliminating suspects is ninety percent of a cop’s work.
“So we eliminated Earl Thomson, Selby. That’s for sure. We taped everything he said to Lieutenant Eberle and me, so that’s part of the case record now. The Thomson kid was never at Vinegar Hill. He told us that. Told us he had a vague idea where Dade Road was, but he’d never been to anyplace out there. Never heard of you or your daughter either, by the way. On the plus side, Selby — thanks to you, we’ve got a positive make on the stolen car the rapist used, license, engine number, all the other specs. When the bastard tries to sell it or trade it, we’ll have his ass. An APB went out on it early this a.m. If that heap’s still on the Atlantic seaboard, we can expect a report any time. Like I told you last night, the minute I had news, I’d be in touch. Anything else comes in, same thing holds.”
Selby said, “Why didn’t Thomson report his car stolen when he found it missing?”
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