Уильям Макгиверн - Summitt

She put the pack in her desk drawer and locked it.

“You see,” Slocum said, “if you stay on the case the jury will be wondering if Earl Thomson’s life might be wrecked just like Toby Clark’s was, because the rape charges turned out to be nothing but some horny kid’s imagination working overtime.”

He knocked a length of ash into Brett’s clean ashtray, but his aim was off... the ashes missed the tray and scattered a film of gray flakes over the photostatic reports on her desk.

“Sorry about that.” Slocum stood and smiled at Brett. “My wife’s always getting on me about spilling ashes when I’m watching TV. We’ve got a rug, it’s Oriental, and she’s particular as hell about it.” He stopped in the doorway. “If you happen to come down with a cold tonight, a fever, say, I’m sure the police surgeon could get your assignments canceled, arrange a few weeks of recuperative leave.”

“I don’t feel a fever coming on,” Brett said.

“These things hit pretty sudden. My kid used to argue with me about that. She’d come in soaked from riding, but didn’t want to rest up, miss school. The important thing, Miss Brett, is that nothing hurts the Thomson case. Right? If you step aside, it could be all to the good. Otherwise Davic files first thing when court convenes. I’ll see you in Mr. Lamb’s office. We need your decision tonight, so he can assign a back-up deputy. It’s been a long day, everybody wants to get home. Don’t keep us waiting.”

When the door closed, Brett put the back of her hand against her forehead. Her skin was cool and dry as ash. She looked at the photostats on her desk and tried to fight back her memories, and her tears.

After a moment she drew a deep breath and dialed the Selbys’ home. No matter what she decided, she owed an explanation to Shana. If a new counsel for the People against Earl Thomson had to be appointed, Shana must be prepared for it.

Selby phoned Shana from the lobby of the Franklin Hotel in Philadelphia.

His daughter’s voice was subdued... Brett had called to tell her that she seemed to be coming down with a heavy cold and might not be in court tomorrow. “She sounded sort of strange,” Shana said, “but she told me it would be okay if one of the other deputies took over—”

“Was she home when she told you that?”

“No, she was at her office. But she seemed okay today. Super, in fact. When are you coming home?”

“I expected to be back before this.” Selby looked at his watch; it was after eight. The Cadles had been out that afternoon but had checked into their room a few minutes ago. “I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”

“Well, everything’s fine here. Mrs. Cranston and Davey are watching TV, and I’ve been looking up Switzerland in the map book. I found a town called Beaurive near Lausanne, it has hotels right near the ski lifts. I’m going to write for brochures and holiday rates. I’ll write a letter in French and have Miss Calder check it out so I don’t say something about putting ski wax on the plume of my aunt. I’ll ask Miss Culpepper to make me a checklist of books from the library.”

If the fantasy of white slopes, Christmas lights and chocolate in a Swiss village could help distract Shana, Selby thought, so much the better... she still had Davic’s cross-examination to face. But as if sensing her father’s thoughts, Shana’s voice became shaded. “I want to talk to Kelly tomorrow,” she said, “there’s something I’ve got to tell her.”

“A couple of aspirin and a night’s sleep can work wonders, honey.”

“Well, I’d better talk to you anyway. Will you wake me when you get home?”

“Sure thing.”

“No matter how late?”

“No matter. It’s a late date...”

After the hanging up, Selby dialed Sergeant Wilger at the Division in East Chester.

“Can you talk?”

“Go ahead.”

“What’s up with Brett?”

“I wish to hell I knew. She’s in a meeting with the DA and Slocum. A secretary they sent out for coffee leaked that they’re moving to get her off the Thomson case. Slocum for sure, and Lamb is leaning that way. The private muscle from New York, Davic’s investigators, have come up with something that apparently gives the defense the opportunity to file a motion to disqualify.”

“Any idea what? ”

“No... where are you?”

“Philadelphia. I spent part of the afternoon talking to Petey Komoto at Hell for Leather. You sure we can talk?”

“Who knows? They could have a wire up my ass. But go ahead. You told Komoto you were a cop, is that it, Harry? Used a police badge from a crackerjack box?”

“I didn’t need to. Petey spotted you the other night. He described you as a thin nervous guy with glasses parked across from his spot. Made you for a cop and figured you were interested in Thomson and Taggart because you split when they did. So Petey Komoto decided his operation was under surveillance and I was part of it. I let him assume whatever the hell he wanted. It seems Thomson and Taggart rented a film called Knots and Lashes, a four-reeler about a modern cruise ship. Lady pirates in boots and bikinis board her. Nautical fun and games, seamen walking the plank, cat-o’-nine-tails. But Thomson didn’t screen Knots and Lashes . He had another can of him. Komoto heard Thomson tell Taggart he’d put it together from a master print.”

“You got this for contributing to Petey’s favorite charity?”

“Yes, it’s called the Komoto Foundation. Two hundred in cash. But Komoto didn’t see any of Thomson’s him—”

“Hold it, I got a party on another line. Where can I call you?”

“You better not. I’m at the Franklin but I’m about to pay a social call on the Cadle brothers. They’re registered here as Ed and John Nelson.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Wilger’s voice became angry. “You don’t know what you’re into. This isn’t amateur night. That prick Taggart testifies tomorrow, and Goldie Boy. Davic will put Shana through the wringer. What good will you do if you’re in a body cast? Sit tight, Harry. I’m off duty in two hours. I can be in Philly—”

“I’ll be all right.” Selby hung up and walked down a flight of steps to the men’s room. He checked his duffel coat with the attendant and splashed water on his face and smoothed down his hair, which looked copper-tinted in the fluorescent lighting. He dried his face and hands and adjusted his tie and absently touched the white scar on his cheekbone.

After brushing his jacket, the attendant knelt and took several dextrous swipes with a towel at Selby’s L.L. Bean dark brown country shoes. A black man with pleasant eyes, the attendant thanked Selby for his tip and assured him he’d keep an eye on the duffel coat. Selby told him he’d be back in about an hour.

He took a self-service elevator to the fifth floor and knocked on the “Nelsons’ ” door. The man who opened it wore dark slacks and a gray sports shirt. His black hair was cut so short his scalp showed through it. His wrists were almost as thick as his forearms, and his shoulders filled out the shirt without a wrinkle. Life or poor digestion or something had made a pessimist of him, Selby decided. Cadle’s flat, hard eyes looked hostile out of sheer habit.

Selby’s name generated neither interest nor recognition.

“Okay, so you’re Harry Selby. What d’you want?”

His body partially blocked the door, but behind him Selby saw a TV set and a table with bottles, glasses and a cardboard icebucket. A man’s legs sprawled out in view on the bed.

“I’m looking for one of the Cadle brothers,” Selby said. “Aron or Ben.”

“Wrong room, sport.” The man started to close the door.