Ed Lacy - Dead End

“That's a lousy thing to do.”

Doc shrugged, pushed his sandwich away. “We're the police. He isn't helping us.”

“Only because he wants his child back.”

“And if he gets away with it, it will set a pattern for future kidnappings, encourage them.”

We were awakened at eleven that night when the owner of a trailer camp outside town reported seeing a little redheaded girl and a thin man and woman in a new trailer. In less than twenty minutes we surrounded the trailer and scared the bejesus out of the guy and his wife. It was their own kid and they'd just driven into town.

I didn't get back to the dormitory before one thirty and I was really beat, hadn't changed my clothes for nearly three days. I felt dirty, tired, and I missed Betty. Also I was mad because nothing had come of my lead. I thought about Judy, wondering if she had talked about our relationship, if I should volunteer to question her. But how could I, without spilling the beans? And what could she tell me? I didn't believe she'd have anything to do with kidnapping. Still, it almost seemed as if she was part of my beat, that I should have been the one who lucked up on her knowing Wyckoff.

I was overtired, found it hard to sleep. There was a young guy hanging around, a sharp dresser who looked about seventeen. Doc was getting a last smoke and I nudged him, said, “Look at Junior. Must be looking for one of the women cleaning up, his mother, or—

“He's a detective, a hot rock, like you.”

“Him? He's too short, and he looks like a kid.”

“Made a couple of big collars. Don't let that baby face fool you. Name is Wintino. He's the one found out about Judy and poppa.”

That made me angry. I knew it was stupid, but I'd gone for the idea I was the youngest dick there, and this guy made me look like an old man. And he looked fresh, clean—and the little punk had beat me to Judy. I stretched out and told myself to stop being a jerk. I needed sleep. And I needed Betty. I dozed off thinking of her, the two of us on the beach at Miami.

The morning papers were calling for “action.” It was ridiculous; even the papers that had been yelling for us to keep off the case were now yapping about the kidnapping being three days old and the police department was still sitting on its badges.

We started making our usual rounds, asking and asking again about strangers, peddling our snapshots. Doc drove me to the house and I changed my underwear and took a fast shower while Elma was sleeping. I still felt tired and on edge, but at least clean. At noon we were called back to the squad room, where Bill Smith told us, “The kidnappers contacted Wyckoff early this morning. Same routine; he was told to be in a drugstore at Rye Plains, on the outskirts of the city. They gave him just enough minutes to get there—then the call on a public phone. They must have arranged the pay-off. Wyckoff admits he has the money ready. We don't know how he got it. We've agreed to leave him alone for a while. However, the Feds aren't talking. They may try to pull a fast one on us.”

Smith rubbed the stubble on his haggard face. “This isn't my idea, but until we get further orders from downtown, I want you all to hang around.”

We went out for coffee and Doc cursed because we hadn't gone to the zoo for a decent meal. When I asked why we weren't tailing Wyckoff, Doc snapped, “Ask the brass, they're running the show. Sorry, Bucky boy, this whole mess is getting on my nerves. Don't worry, he's under surveillance; you can bet on that. Probably being tailed from a distance through high-powered telescopes.”

Two hours later we were all back on the prowl again. Smith told us the kidnappers hadn't shown. Over the radio I heard poppa blasting the F.B.I. for tailing him. Via a direct phone call to his office, he had been warned to keep the F.B.I. away or never see Joanie again.

In the middle of the afternoon, poppa rushed to a busy downtown cigar store to take another call in a public booth. He again took the suitcases full of money and drove off in his Lincoln for a deserted road where it would be difficult to follow him without being seen. He returned within an hour and said he hadn't met anybody. I heard he was hysterical and on the verge of cracking.

I had a long talk with Betty over the phone, and a much shorter one with Elma. It seemed we were going around and around in the same circles. If I was on edge, the strain was starting to tell more on Doc. He wanted to have supper in some Jewish restaurant, but Smith had us hanging around the precinct house and Doc was kicking about the lousy stool-joint hamburgers. I had some stew that wasn't bad and Doc claimed I had to be nuts to eat stew in a greasy spoon. It was a silly argument, yet we damn near came to blows.

The evening papers carried an attack on and sharp reply from the F.B.I. I read the sports section, went up to the dormitory for a few hours of sack time. About the time I fell off, somebody ran in and shouted that payment had been made to the kidnappers! I shook Doc awake and we went down to the squad room, where Smith angrily told us, “Wyckoff has pulled a fast one on us. That supposedly dry run he made with the dough was the real thing. They must have told him over the phone to put the money in laundry bags inside the suitcases, dump it at some prearranged spot, then return with the suitcases and claim he hadn't made contact. The girl hasn't been returned yet. She's supposed to be sent home sometime tonight. I want you out looking for anybody carrying bags, suitcases, anybody spending money. Be as open about it as you want. Get rough if you have to.”

The young punk who looked like a junior G-man, Wintino, asked, “Won't we be endangering the child's life if we come out in the open, sir?”

Smith growled, “Just follow my orders!”

Doc and I cruised in and out of bars, restaurants, until 3 a.m., when they shut. Doc shook up his stoolies once more, but we didn't even get a sniff of anything. Doc said, “This is silly. If they have the loot, why the devil should they start spending it now?”

“They might try to make a getaway.”

“Maybe, but it would be the first dumb move they've made. Still, all punks are stupid or they wouldn't be punks. Damn, my back hurts. Hope I'm not coming down with a cold.”

“I'm going to sleep around the clock, now that this is over. I'm glad he got his little girl back.”

“Has he got her back?” Doc said, rubbing the sleep out of his veined eyes. “I'm too old to be on the go for three days. Let me call in.”

At a few minutes before 4 a.m. we were told to knock off and return to the dormitory. I was so bushed I felt dazed. It seemed I'd hardly hit the cot when somebody shook me awake. A voice snarled, “What do you think of those miserable bastards—they killed the baby!”

“When?” The word “bastards” making me wide awake.

“She was found strangled in the trunk of a wreck in an auto junk yard. Medical Examiner says Joanie was killed days ago, within a few hours after she was snatched.”

“Then she was dead from the go!” I said, a deep anger covering my tiredness.

“Seems that way. Wash up and be in the squad room in ten minutes,” this guy said, awakening Doc, and going down the line of cots.

11 —

ADDED TO EVERYTHING else, there wasn't any hot water. I had shaved with ice water and was holding a wet paper towel to my eyes, trying to come fully awake, when somebody threw a heavy arm on my shoulder, shouted, “Bucky Penn!”

The full impact of the child's death had finally hit me, leaving me very tired and in a kind of dumb rage. I kept thinking about Wyckoff, a guy who had gone all the way—adopted a baby, gave her everything, was willing to drop a million for her, and all the time she never had a chance: She'd been murdered immediately by these cold-blooded lice. I wasn't in the mood for greetings or arms on my shoulder. I swung around, muttering, “Take your damn hands off me!” Then I pulled the paper towel from my eyes and saw Ollie's smiling brown face.