At a quarter-til-seven, Rick stepped outside his office and locked the door behind him. It was heavy, sturdy. He knew it would hold tight until he made it back from the police station. He'd promised the boys that he'd stop in and answer any questions they had about the death of Delilah Morgan, and he meant to keep his word. Now that he knew about the Smiling Man, the man named Tony, he felt he might be able to steer the department in the direction it needed to look.
As soon as his foot hit the pavement, the first drops of rain started sprinkling down. The day was off to a bad start already, and he had a feeling in his gut that it wouldn't get much better. It was a warning from the same thing that told him when a suspect was lying and when there was some punk with a gun waiting behind the door. It may have been intuition, but he liked to think it was the whiskey talking to him.
He stopped under a hotel canopy to light a cigarette. It was his last one--last match, too, but that first long drag told him that things would be all right if he just took them one at a time. He turned his coat collar up to keep the water from running down the back of his neck. Suddenly, the day didn't seem quite that bad.
He made it to the station right at seven o'clock and met several officers at the door as they came in for the morning. He knew a few of them, but the department was growing all the time. More and more kids were coming onto the force, and the old-timers were retiring and moving down south in large numbers, like geese in winter. His sources were drying up, he realized, but he didn't see himself quitting any time soon. This was his city, and as long as he could still walk, he planned to stay on his toes.
"Morning, Rick. Here to give your statement, are ya?"
It was Joe, hunkered under a small black umbrella. He ran toward the station for shelter as if it was poison falling from the sky. Rick found a semi-dry spot under the canopy, where he could lean against the building and finish his cigarette.
"That's right."
"Well, come on in," said Joe. He opened the door and waved Rick inside.
"In a minute. The chief don't like smoking in the station, Joe. You know that."
"Well, throw it out. It's coming a flood out here!"
"I'm already soaked head to toe, Joe. A little more rain won't kill me. Besides, this is my last cigarette," said Rick, staring at the lit end and the precipice of gray ash that hung from it. "It's a good cigarette. It's a cigarette that can slow time. You ever had one like that?"
Joe stared at him like he was crazy. "Can't say that I have, Rick. I'll be at my desk when you need me."
Rick took his time, and when he was finally ready to rejoin the world at a normal pace, he threw the cigarette butt onto the rain-drenched sidewalk and stepped inside. The precinct was buzzing like a hive full of bees. He found Joe in the back. It was a nice corner office. It was a detective's office.
"So you need a statement?" Rick asked.
"Just as a formality, Rick. Between you and me, we've all but declared this one a frame job."
"Find anything interesting at the scene?"
"Pulled some prints off that gun of yours."
"Oh yeah?" At that moment, Rick felt the need for another cigarette. He dug in his pocket and fished out a toothpick, at least giving him something to hang in his mouth
"Yep. Two sets. One was yours. Other belongs to a girl named Laura Hunt. That name sound familiar?"
"Can't say that it does."
"Well, we think this might be the blonde dame you're after. Had any luck finding her?"
"Nope," said Rick. "That angle's a busto-crusto. I'd say right about now, she don't want to be found. I picked up a crumb, though. There's a fellow by the name of Tony, likes to smile a lot, you may be interested in. Seems he was a bad influence on our victim."
"Tony, eh? Got a last name?"
"Afraid not."
"Well, thanks, Rick. We'll look into it. We've got a couple of our boys on Hunt's trail, too. With a record like hers, it won't take the jury long to make up their minds when we get her to trial."
Rick nearly bit his toothpick in two. "Record? What record?"
"Well, let's see." Joe started sifting through a file on his desk. He finally found a rap sheet much too long for Rick to stomach. "Seems our girl likes to take things that don't belong to her--stole a car uptown two years ago, a few cases of shoplifting sprinkled across her adult life, and then there's the biggie--suspected accomplice in the murder of Carlos Berretta."
"I should've known that girl was trouble. Should've known the minute I saw her."
"Now we know she was posing as Delilah Morgan up until her death."
"Maybe after that," muttered Rick.
"What's that?"
"Nothing. Nothing important, anyway. But you've got it. She showed up at my office one morning with a sob story. I still ain't got the real one figured out. I let her stay one night at my place, then whoosh. She's gone like a whirlwind. You know the rest, Joe."
"That's about got us covered," said Joe, writing shorthand on a note pad. "Thanks for your time, Rick. I know you wanna close this one up as fast as we do."
"Maybe faster. Say, Joe, got any spare smokes on you? I need a little something for the walk home."
Joe reached into the pack he kept hidden in his top desk drawer and handed Rick a single white cigarette. "Need to stop time again?" he asked.
"Something like that. Thanks, pal. I owe you one."
Rick lit up and set off into the rain. The walk back to his office seemed longer than usual, but it gave him plenty of time to think. The pieces were finally coming together, and for once, he thought he caught a glimpse of the big picture. There was just one more thing to figure out. Who really shot Delilah Morgan?
As soon as his foot hit the pavement, the first drops of rain started sprinkling down. The day was off to a bad start already, and he had a feeling in his gut that it wouldn't get much better. It was a warning from the same thing that told him when a suspect was lying and when there was some punk with a gun waiting behind the door. It may have been intuition, but he liked to think it was the whiskey talking to him.
He stopped under a hotel canopy to light a cigarette. It was his last one--last match, too, but that first long drag told him that things would be all right if he just took them one at a time. He turned his coat collar up to keep the water from running down the back of his neck. Suddenly, the day didn't seem quite that bad.
He made it to the station right at seven o'clock and met several officers at the door as they came in for the morning. He knew a few of them, but the department was growing all the time. More and more kids were coming onto the force, and the old-timers were retiring and moving down south in large numbers, like geese in winter. His sources were drying up, he realized, but he didn't see himself quitting any time soon. This was his city, and as long as he could still walk, he planned to stay on his toes.
"Morning, Rick. Here to give your statement, are ya?"
It was Joe, hunkered under a small black umbrella. He ran toward the station for shelter as if it was poison falling from the sky. Rick found a semi-dry spot under the canopy, where he could lean against the building and finish his cigarette.
"That's right."
"Well, come on in," said Joe. He opened the door and waved Rick inside.
"In a minute. The chief don't like smoking in the station, Joe. You know that."
"Well, throw it out. It's coming a flood out here!"
"I'm already soaked head to toe, Joe. A little more rain won't kill me. Besides, this is my last cigarette," said Rick, staring at the lit end and the precipice of gray ash that hung from it. "It's a good cigarette. It's a cigarette that can slow time. You ever had one like that?"
Joe stared at him like he was crazy. "Can't say that I have, Rick. I'll be at my desk when you need me."
Rick took his time, and when he was finally ready to rejoin the world at a normal pace, he threw the cigarette butt onto the rain-drenched sidewalk and stepped inside. The precinct was buzzing like a hive full of bees. He found Joe in the back. It was a nice corner office. It was a detective's office.
"So you need a statement?" Rick asked.
"Just as a formality, Rick. Between you and me, we've all but declared this one a frame job."
"Find anything interesting at the scene?"
"Pulled some prints off that gun of yours."
"Oh yeah?" At that moment, Rick felt the need for another cigarette. He dug in his pocket and fished out a toothpick, at least giving him something to hang in his mouth
"Yep. Two sets. One was yours. Other belongs to a girl named Laura Hunt. That name sound familiar?"
"Can't say that it does."
"Well, we think this might be the blonde dame you're after. Had any luck finding her?"
"Nope," said Rick. "That angle's a busto-crusto. I'd say right about now, she don't want to be found. I picked up a crumb, though. There's a fellow by the name of Tony, likes to smile a lot, you may be interested in. Seems he was a bad influence on our victim."
"Tony, eh? Got a last name?"
"Afraid not."
"Well, thanks, Rick. We'll look into it. We've got a couple of our boys on Hunt's trail, too. With a record like hers, it won't take the jury long to make up their minds when we get her to trial."
Rick nearly bit his toothpick in two. "Record? What record?"
"Well, let's see." Joe started sifting through a file on his desk. He finally found a rap sheet much too long for Rick to stomach. "Seems our girl likes to take things that don't belong to her--stole a car uptown two years ago, a few cases of shoplifting sprinkled across her adult life, and then there's the biggie--suspected accomplice in the murder of Carlos Berretta."
"I should've known that girl was trouble. Should've known the minute I saw her."
"Now we know she was posing as Delilah Morgan up until her death."
"Maybe after that," muttered Rick.
"What's that?"
"Nothing. Nothing important, anyway. But you've got it. She showed up at my office one morning with a sob story. I still ain't got the real one figured out. I let her stay one night at my place, then whoosh. She's gone like a whirlwind. You know the rest, Joe."
"That's about got us covered," said Joe, writing shorthand on a note pad. "Thanks for your time, Rick. I know you wanna close this one up as fast as we do."
"Maybe faster. Say, Joe, got any spare smokes on you? I need a little something for the walk home."
Joe reached into the pack he kept hidden in his top desk drawer and handed Rick a single white cigarette. "Need to stop time again?" he asked.
"Something like that. Thanks, pal. I owe you one."
Rick lit up and set off into the rain. The walk back to his office seemed longer than usual, but it gave him plenty of time to think. The pieces were finally coming together, and for once, he thought he caught a glimpse of the big picture. There was just one more thing to figure out. Who really shot Delilah Morgan?
No comments:
Post a Comment