Abigail Browining - Murder Most Merry

It was Christmas morning, maybe ten years ago, maybe not that long. And it was snowing to beat hell; over a foot since midnight and no end in sight. I was supposed to take care of business in the detective bureau, but there wasn’t much, this being Christmas in the suburbs, so I brought in a portable TV to pass the time. I was lugging it into the station and I passed Dibbs on the way out—he has the cubicle next to mine—and we wished each other “Merry Christmas” kind of automatically.

At least it was automatic for me; Dibbs took it serious, though, and stopped to look sorry for me. “Damn, Jake,” he said, “nothing worse than working Christmas, is there?”

Well, there’s lots of things worse than working Christmas at a suburban police department: young love and getting your foot stuck in a cannon are the two I know most about, but there’s bound to be more. Actually, with not much work to do and all the food folks bring in, it’s not bad at all. But I looked mournful for Dibbs’s sake and went in to goof off for eight hours.

It should have been that simple. I wish it had been, sometimes. I mean, Sughrue was a pain all right, but what I went through was sure a tall price to get rid of him. And on Christmas, too.

I should tell you about Sergeant “Sugar” Sughrue. Lots of folks used to wonder what made him act so mean all the time, but I think he just figured if you got a God-given talent for something, you oughta use it, and he sure as hell had the touch for making folks around him unhappy. If not plain scared. See, Sughrue was big and fast and strong, and he could shoot good. Him and me, we were on the range one time and he put five shots in a playing card fifty feet away while I was still pulling my piece out of the holster and looking for the target. That’s how good he was.

He was smart, too, and he liked to show it off. No one I ever saw at the station ever won an argument with Sughrue. Even if they were right. Sughrue’d just talk and argue and beat on them with words till they gave up. You win arguments that way, but you never convince anybody.

Being dangerous and capable like he was, it’s no wonder Sughrue made sergeant fast. And it’s no wonder he didn’t go any farther. Once he got into a spot where he could give orders and chew folks out on a regular basis, the brass could see how much he liked it, which was way too much. And about that time, talk started about him and the crowd at Smokey’s, and that was pretty much as far as his career ever went.

So that’s all you need to know about Sughrue, except he shouldn’t even have been in that day, sergeants get holidays off unless we call them in for something, and Sughrue being like he was, the building could burn down, no one would call him. But I hadn’t been there more than an hour and in he comes, looking like hell’s own hangover. He didn’t even stop to rag me; just shuffled into his office and shut the door.

Well, it was good I didn’t have to talk to him, but bad, too, because any minute he might come back out, so I couldn’t get too laid back. No idea how long he’d be in there or even what he was doing here on Christmas. If Sughrue came out and saw me having fun, or not looking busy enough, or even just not looking miserable, he’d make sure I got that way in a hurry.

I sighed, turned off my TV, and went to the dispatch room to find a magazine I could hide under a report; old tricks are still the best.

It was quiet in there, too. Sometimes phones ring and guys yammer on the radio all the time, but this being Christmas, no one was doing much. Ed Rosemont turned from the radio console when I came in; his big swivel chair groaning under him made the only noise in the room. I gave him a look and jerked my thumb at Sughrue’s office. “The hell’s he doing here?”

“I will be damned if I know.” Rosey’s got one of those big. rich, pear-shaped voices, and a body to match—the kind I been working on all my life but never could get just right. Always struck me funny, hearing him swear in that important-sounding voice. “He said he had paperwork to catch up. What do you think?”

“Whoever he’s sleeping with sobered up and kicked him out, is my theory,” I said. Sughrue always had a reputation for acting nasty, but he never had any trouble getting women. Just keeping them. “Where’s he hang his pants lately, anyway?”

Turned out neither me nor Rosey knew who Sughrue was jumping with since his last divorce. But that didn’t keep us from tossing ideas around, and that led to a lively discussion about who else might be sleeping with who else, and what with one thing and another, we went on for nearly half an hour. Which is how I came to be there when we got the call. And saw Rosey’s face go from polite to serious to scared as he sat upright and started jotting stuff down on the pad.

“Hold on the line.” he said finally, and keyed the mike to alert the guys who were probably damn near asleep in their cars by now. “Eighteen and Twenty-Seven.” He pushed each word slow and distinct, even for him. “Code Fifty-two—that’s Code Five-two—at Smokey’s—that’s Smokey’s—Seventy-seven Village Street. See Bob Gates, standing by in front.”

“Damn,” I said. “A stiff at Smokey’s.” It looked like I was going to have to go out in all that weather and act busy; double damn . But I didn’t know the worst of it yet.

“Wuzzit?” I asked. “Some wino fall asleep in the door?” Smokey’s is in a part of town where that happens some, so maybe I wouldn’t have to do much besides take pictures.

But my life just ain’t that pretty. Rosey looked up at me with no look at all in his eyes and said, “It is Mr. Smollett, Jake. And Bob says he was shot.”

That was worth a whistle, and I gave it one. If you believe some folks. Fred “Smokey” Smollett just ran a real busy bar at the edge of town, where we border up on the city. If you believe others, he ran everything out of that bar that would run for money: games, women, drugs, and the occasional bit of stolen property. If you believe still other people, he paid us for the privilege.

Mind you, he never paid me anything. I never got that high up the ladder. Never even got high enough to know for certain he was paying off. But there was lots of talk, and it don’t pay not to listen.

“Tell ‘em just to hold the scene.” If this was what it sounded like, I was going to have to get off my ass and do some detective work. But not much; once the brass learned who it was and what it was. they’d fall all over each other to get to Smokey’s. “Call the lieutenant and see if we can get a real photographer out there. See if he’ll let us call Dibbs.” Dibbs wouldn’t much like that after working all night, but he’d been to more evidence schools than me, so he was the man for an important job. And this was one. Talk was, Smollett had his hooks in some pretty major people here in the department, and that would include—

“What’s up?” Sergeant Sughrue was leaning on the doorframe, still looking bad hungover but talking casual. Rosey told him and he nodded, still leaning, still talking casual. “Cancel those calls.” he said. “Marley and me can take a look and see what has to be done before we go dragging everyone out on Christmas overtime.” He turned to me. “Fetch the car, Jake; I’ll get the kit.” And he slouched off.

Rosey and I traded looks. We both of us knew I was a bad photographer and even worse handling evidence. Any other day of the year, there’d be brass hats enough around the place to make sure a job like this got handled by the best—or carefulest—we had. But this was Merry-dammit-Christmas, the brass was at home, and Sergeant Sughrue had just handed us a direct order. Rosey sure as hell wasn’t going to cross him.