Thomas Cook - Streets of Fire

‘Is there anything else?’ Ben asked immediately.

‘As far as the … well … the mutilation, that was done after he was dead,’ Patterson told him.

‘Anything on the knife that was used?’

‘It had a serrated edge,’ Patterson said unenthusiastically. ‘And the blade was about an inch and a half wide at the hilt.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s about all the help I can give you. Not much, is it?’

‘No.’

‘You making any headway?’

Ben shook his head.

Patterson leaned toward Ben, lowering his voice as he spoke. ‘Is it true he was an informer?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ben said. ‘A lot of people think so.’

‘For the federal boys, you think?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, it must have been somebody,’ Patterson said emphatically. ‘I mean, what’s an informer do if he doesn’t report to somebody?’

Suddenly Ben felt a strange night breeze envelop him, saw a dark lake glimmering in his mind.

THIRTY-NINE

The lights of the city blinked brightly behind the large office window, and as Davenport stood before it, they seemed to wrap around him like a shimmering cape.

‘Has there been some break in the case?’ he asked as he shook Ben’s hand.

‘Which case?’

Davenport looked at him, puzzled. ‘Doreen’s case. Isn’t that why you’re here?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Davenport said. ‘I thought you probably came over to report on some new development.’

‘Are you used to that?’ Ben asked pointedly.

‘Used to what?’

‘Getting reports from the Police Department.’

‘No,’ Davenport said. ‘Should I be?’

Ben thought a moment, then decided to go at it from another direction, drawing Davenport in slowly, entangling him in enough information so that finally he would not be able to squirm out of the net.

‘Do you remember the last time we talked?’ he began.

‘Yes,’ Davenport answered. ‘It wasn’t very pleasant. But then, you were accusing me of something. I’m not sure what. But it seemed to me that you thought I had something to do with Doreen’s murder.’

‘Did you?’ Ben asked flatly.

Davenport stared at him coldly. ‘Of course not.’

Ben watched him silently.

‘Why would I hurt a little girl?’ Davenport asked. ‘What would I have to gain?’

Ben did not answer. ‘You said something about lives being at stake.’

A fleeting look of sorrow passed over Davenport’s face. It came and went so quickly that it appeared to have escaped from some deeply guarded quarter of his mind. For an instant it fluttered in his eyes, then vanished into the stern lines and set jaw which now watched Ben coolly from behind the polished desk.

‘What lives?’ Ben asked.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Davenport said.

‘Why?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Davenport repeated. ‘Let it go at that.’

‘Why doesn’t it matter?’

Davenport said nothing. He stared at Ben unflinchingly.

‘Because it’s too late now,’ Ben said. He paused, waiting for Davenport to respond.

Davenport continued to sit stiffly in his chair.

‘When you warned me not to keep at this case,’ Ben said, ‘you told me that I should let someone else do it. Do what?’

‘I don’t know what I meant by that,’ Davenport said, his voice weak, unconvincing, ‘I’m not even sure I said it’

‘Let someone else do the looking,’ Ben replied insistently. ‘That’s what you said.’

Davenport nodded. ‘Maybe.’

‘Who was that someone else?’

Davenport’s body grew tense. He did not answer.

‘It was someone else in the Police Department,’ Ben told him. ‘Someone who was reporting to you.’

Davenport remained silent.

‘Charlie Breedlove,’ Ben said flatly.

Davenport drew in a long, slow breath. ‘And so I told you the truth, didn’t I? There was a life at stake.’

‘How long had he been reporting to you?’ Ben asked immediately.

‘For several weeks.’

‘What about?’

‘The FBI was concerned that there might be some kind of Death Squad in the Birmingham Police Department. They were worried about their agents, and a few other targets. One federal judge in particular, and a few other people. They mentioned a few names. There was a prominent businessman who’s been actively trying to work with the Negroes. They thought he might be ripe for assassination.’ He shook his head. ‘Breedlove never really developed anything. He came up with the idea that Doreen’s death might have been done to provoke the Negroes, cause them to riot. He thought the Death Squad might be behind it.’

‘Did he find any evidence of that?’

Davenport shook his head. ‘No. He told me that he got desperate one night and went after you.’

‘Me?’

‘In your house,’ Davenport said. ‘He told me that he thought he scared you pretty well, but that you didn’t tell him anything.’

‘I didn’t know anything,’ Ben said.

‘That’s what Breedlove figured,’ Davenport told him with a slight smile. Then he stood up. ‘I could use a drink. Want one?’

‘No.’

Davenport walked to a small bar at the opposite end of the room and made himself a drink. For a moment he simply stared at the amber liquid he’d poured into the glass. Then he downed it quickly and returned to the desk. ‘I don’t have to tell you how important it is for you to keep your mouth shut about all this. I mean, that Death Squad – it may still be out there.’ He shrugged. ‘Or it may be nothing. It may be purely imaginary, something they dreamed up in Washington.’

‘Well, somebody killed Charlie Breedlove,’ Ben said.

‘Yes, somebody did,’ Davenport said. ‘Teddy Langley.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I don’t know it for sure,’ Davenport said. ‘But Charlie was afraid of Langley. He thought that Teddy suspected him, and that if anybody had the making of a Death Squad type, it was Langley. I mean, for God’s sake, he’s been going after Bearmatch like some kind of avenging angel. And according to Charlie, he’s really gotten brutal since the demonstrations began, talking even meaner than before.’ He hesitated, glanced at the window, then back at Ben. ‘There are times when I think he killed Doreen,’ he said. ‘Maybe he found out about me, too, and just decided to get even in some way.’

‘Would killing Doreen make it even?’ Ben asked doubtfully.

‘We’re not talking reason here, Sergeant Wellman,’ Davenport said. ‘We’re not talking high intelligence.’ He shook his head. ‘We’re talking about something in the guts, like a fire in the guts. Who knows what that could lead to?’

‘Did Charlie ever mention Langley’s house?’

‘House?’ Davenport asked. ‘What house? I thought they lived in a trailer.’

‘They do,’ Ben said. ‘But Teddy Langley had a house, too.’

‘What kind of house?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Ben said, ‘if Charlie never mentioned it.’

‘Yes, but –’

‘Did Charlie suspect anybody else?’ Ben asked quickly.

‘Of what?’

‘Of knowing that he was an informer.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Davenport answered.

‘Starnes? Daniels? McCorkindale? Even the Chief?’

Davenport shook his head.

‘Anybody outside the department?’

Davenport’s lips curled downward. ‘I don’t think Charlie knew many people outside the department.’

‘So you don’t have any idea who fingered him?’

Davenport shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’ He turned toward the window. Beyond it, the city glowed in the summer darkness. ‘It could have been anybody,’ he whispered. ‘Anybody at all.’ He looked back at Ben. ‘That’s the trouble with a situation like this,’ he said. ‘You just don’t know who’s who.’