Kiss Her Goodbye

Chapter 2

TOMORROW THERE WOULD be an inspector's send-off for Doolan.

The city would escort the cortege to the county line and the motorcycle squads would pick it up from there. At the gravesite there would be rifles fired over Doolan's casket, bugles blowing, and somebody would present a flag to his granddaughter. Then it would be over and everybody would go home glad that it was over so they could get back to normal again, the bureaucrats and the foot soldiers and distant relatives and kids of deceased parents who'd been the old boy's friends having served out their obligation to a dinosaur of a cop who had taken way too long to get around to dying.

But tonight was different.

Tonight would be the gathering of the clan, and like all reunions, the pack would assemble in little groups according to age, rank, and serial number—the old-timers, long-retired, with their own little clique near the casket, those working buddies of Doolan's getting ready for their own inspector's parades. Gold badges gleaming on freshly pressed uniforms as the brass arrange themselves in ladderlike order of importance, wearing their funeral masks beautifully, but singing no praises to the corpse. In their own way, they'd be working.

We found a parking place down the block and walked till Pat nodded toward the old brick building with the gold lettering on its window.

"Let's go on in," he said. "Just about everybody else'll be there already."

I followed Pat, leaving my bag and my hat in the coat closet. Religious music played just softly enough to be heard but not loud enough to be recognized, and a female employee in her fifties with a white corsage and a trained sad face had us sign in at the book.

A good thirty cops, plainclothes and uniformed alike, were milling, chatting, ranging in age from late fifties to early thirties. Old Doolan had trained a lot of guys— special guys. The kind who had gone into some pretty high places—some on the streets, where the pace was fast and deadly, others up the departmental ladder where the air got thin with politics.

For the cops in the trenches, it wasn't a game that you retired out of. The end usually came with a startling suddenness and with little note of it anywhere. A lucky few stayed alive and slowed down enough so that they went into a desk job, where it was the lack of pace that killed them.

Pat was one of those organizational types who didn't fit the wild-man mold, and had been steered by Doolan into an active but largely administrative role. Doolan was right in that decision, although Pat still could take care of himself on the street.

Me, Doolan had scoped out quickly. As far as he was concerned, I never should have had that early on-the-job army training in the Pacific, a kid who went in lying about his age and came out older than his years. Lousy goddamn hellhole to go to school in, he'd said.

"You learn to kill too young, kid," he'd told me, "and something happens. You can get to like killing—but on the PD, if you have to kill, you make it part of the job and not some emotional damn explosion."

I had a streak that worried him. Doolan had trained me and guided me, but I still lasted less than two years on the department before hanging out my private shingle.

"The rules dictate the action," he told me once.

And, punk kid that I was, I'd just grinned and said, "Yeah? Well, if there are no rules, you have to make your own up on the spot, don't you?"

Doolan had lost me my job. I hated him for it—for maybe a month. Years later, he let me read the memo he put through, advising that the NYPD send me to a desk or cut me loose.

"This is a good man," he'd written, "a brave man, and he has brains. But his emotions dictate his behavior, and he is the kind of unpredictable officer who will cause tragedy for himself and others."

I couldn't challenge that assessment.

Still, he had trained me well—all these years later, and here I was, still alive. One of the walking wounded maybe, but alive.

The sweet smell of flowers sickened me. I said to Pat, "Where are all the bad guys? Aren't they required by their dumb-ass code to come by and pay their respects?"

Pat glanced at his watch. "It isn't eight o'clock yet. They like to make an entrance."

"I'd like to help them make an exit. Why, after so many years, do these Cosa Nostra boys bother with all this ritualistic crap?"

"Tradition—gives 'em a sense of structure and pseudomorality. Whether they like it or not, they're still tied to old-country ways. The young guys hate it, but all of that omertà bull is bred into them, and they can't get rid of it."

"You turned into a regular philosopher, Pat."

"Hanging around you will do that." He nodded toward a little civilian crowd near the simple pine-box coffin. "Let's tell his granddaughter hello ... even though any tears she sheds will be of joy, anticipating what she'll inherit."

"I got no argument with that philosophical insight."

I followed Pat, nodding to some of the cops I knew. One, a captain from uptown, said, "I thought you was dead."

"You thought right," I told him.

He frowned, trying to work that out.

Nearer the coffin, the crowd thinned. Pat fell in line by the mass of floral displays from the police and fire departments, a dozen lodges, and a full wall from old friends. I looked at my own watch. Ten minutes to eight.

A red-headed fading beauty, Anna Marina, Doolan's only grandchild, was putting on her own stage play. Her makeup was dutifully smeared, her dark, church-perfect clothes indicated proper bereavement, but there was no real sorrow on display. Her hulking husband stood beside her, not really capable of showing any decent emotion, unless it was a frustrated desire for a drink. His dark suit was rumpled and he could use a shave.

I had known Anna since she was a kid, but no love was ever lost between us. I saw through her manipulative girly ways, so she was never pleased to see me. Maybe in part it was because I busted her wiseass husband in the chops one night for a lousy remark he made about somebody whose color he felt superior to.

She looked up at me, her mouth tight.

I said, "Anna. Sure sorry about this. Doolan and I were always great friends."

"I'll never understand that. He got you fired."

"It was the right thing. Doolan put me on my path."

Her upper lip curled. "It would be more respectful if you called him 'Mr. Doolan,' or even 'Bill.'"

"Sure. Bill was a mentor to me, and I'll always love him for it. You and I have never been tight, but if you ever have problems..." I glanced at the husband who had sent her to the emergency room more than once. "...just let me or Pat know."

Now I swung my head and stared straight at hubby Harry Marina. He was looking at me and gauging the pounds I'd lost, and taking in the looseness of my collar, and he had a wet-lipped expression like a nasty, stupid mutt wondering whether or not to take a bite out of a puppy.

What the hell. I was trying to keep it friendly, out of respect to Doolan. Anyway, I was an old tiger now, and who knew if I could go up against a big slob like this anymore.

So I just grinned at him and his face seemed to freeze and little white lines formed half-moons around his nostrils and almost unconsciously he pulled back a few inches.

Pat was watching me, his eyes narrowing. I nodded to Anna and walked away.

When we were in the crowd, Pat said, "I'd swear that clown wanted a piece of you."

"You think?"

"Man, you shouldn't grin at people that way. You scared the shit out of him."

I was about to tell Pat I wasn't trying for that kind of action, but suddenly he wasn't there, having paused to speak to somebody—a tall, sandy-haired guy with a narrow, well-chiseled face with light blue eyes and a tan even deeper than mine. The guy's dark gray tailored suit with lighter gray silk tie screamed money, but quietly.

"Mike, meet Alex Jaynor."

Jaynor's hand gave up a good, solid grip.

"I feel like I know Mr. Hammer already," Jaynor said good-naturedly. "My admiration goes way back—you've made for a lot of great reading over the years."

"More fun to read about," I said with half a grin, "than to experience."

"Alex is our new congressman from this district," Pat told me.

Jaynor held up a hand as he gave me his own half a grin. "Don't hold that against me," he said.

"I'm not a voting type myself," I told him.

"Why not, Mr. Hammer?"

"The politicians—it only encourages them."

"Ouch," Jaynor said, still friendly. "I'm hoping there are a few of us these days who might change your opinion, maybe even get you into a voting booth."

"You're welcome to try. Where'd you get your tan?"

"Damn," he said with a chuckle, "I was just about to ask you that." One dark hand gestured to another. "What you see here, I'm afraid, comes out of a machine in a little cubicle—one hour a day, every other day. You've caught me already, Mr. Hammer—just another phony."

I smiled at that. "Honest enough to admit it, anyway. And make it 'Mike'...me, I'm a beach bum these days—Florida."

He gave me a confused frown. "I thought you were strictly a Manhattanite."

"Call it a leave of absence." I shrugged. "Got to where I'd had about as much of New York as I could stand. You getting a head start on a summer tan?"

Jaynor laughed abruptly. "Hell no. This is show-off stuff. The voters love it. And you know who advised me to do it? Bill Doolan. He said I should follow the JFK model—present myself as young, vital, fresh. Said voters were tired of looking at ward-heeler types."

"So Doolan was your mentor, too?"

"Oh, yes. He knew this city, and its inner workings, like nobody else. Now I'll just have to take off the training wheels and learn to ride on my own."

Pat glanced at me and grunted. "Guess old Doolan had angles I never knew about."

"Well, he needed a hobby, Pat—too old to chase women anymore. How'd you get to know him, Alex?"

"It was a few years back, when I was a reporter for McWade's."

"That's the Canadian magazine, right? Sort of their Life?"

"Right. But I covered the New York beat for them, or anyway was one of several journalists who did. There was some juvenile gang activity in Doolan's neighborhood and he pulled out all the stops to help get things calmed down. That guy was damned near unbelievable, the way he could relate to young roughnecks."

"Tell me about it," I said.

"Anyway, I did a big layout on his neighborhood work, and we got to be friends. He's the one who encouraged me to move out of journalism and into politics—to quit writing about problems, and really get my hands dirty solving them." He stopped, nodding toward the door. "Well—here they come..."

"Eight o'clock," Pat said with a lift of the eyebrows.

"Rogue's gallery on parade," I muttered.

It took two men in delivery livery to carry each floral wreath, fourteen altogether. When the wreaths were arranged, the donors appeared, somber well-dressed men who made the circuit past the suddenly hushed assembly to the pine coffin, then to Anna and her husband.

Camera flashes started then, not with the wild brilliance of the old bulbs, but the muted winks from the new electronic jobs. I hadn't even noticed the damn reporters and photogs lurking, but they scurried into play like cockroaches when a light switches on.

The press had been waiting for this parade of dapper killers, the other inhabitants of Doolan's world who had come under the inspector's gun, and respected him for it.

Every one of these cops knew every one of them, the young crowd who hated the term "button man," the capos who had the look of progressive business about them, and the elder dons, two under indictment and another just released from a five-year sentence.

And Alberto Bonetti.

The old man wasn't big, but he had the forced rigidity of a soldier on parade. His oval face had a softness to it, but I knew that was forced too, his gray hair combed back immaculately, his eyebrows black as an eightball. He was a man of many masks and this was the one he wore at funerals. Even his hands were under total control and, if you didn't know him, you would think he was merely a dignified old man trying to live out his life.

Only when he was almost past me did he stop, turning his whole body on a swivel to recognize me with a smile. "Ah, Mr. Hammer. Michael Hammer."

I barely nodded. "Mr. Bonetti."

His smile widened a bit as I matched the formality he'd given me. "Please know that I am very sorry for the loss of your friend. He was an honest man. A good man. A rare thing in a dishonorable world."

I managed not to tell him to stuff the pretty speeches. Instead I just said, "You knew Doolan pretty well yourself, I understand."

"Oh yes, very well." The old don chuckled. "Don't you recall, Mr. Hammer? A long time ago, he sent me up for seven years."

"A bad rap?"

Again, the mob don let out a little laugh. "Only my being caught was bad. I understand, many years ago, he threw you off the force."

"Not exactly threw me off. Recommended I be taken off the street and put on a desk."

"Which, of course, he knew would mean you would resign, and seek other employment. So we have Bill Doolan to blame for Mike Hammer becoming a private vigilante."

"Not vigilante. Not anymore. Just a private detective. And a retired one."

"Really?" He paused to look at me critically, taking in my tan. "You have enjoyed Florida, I see."

I almost smiled. "Well, it makes a nice change from the city."

"Yes. I get to Florida from time to time. My friends there tell me you have quite a reputation as a fisherman. For snook, I believe."

"I'm a rank amateur. But I go out with pros, so yeah ... I caught a few fish in my time."

That made him smile, just a little. Then: "Maybe someday I will join you in sunny retirement. When a man gets lonely, there are some things better done in another's company."

"Anytime, Mr. Bonetti."

"Good evening, Mr. Hammer."

He turned on a swivel again to join the others, smiling back at the hostility coming at him from the rows of police. The cameras never stopped until the doors closed behind them.

Only then did Alex Jaynor say, "What was that all about?"

There was a touch of irony in Pat's voice when he said, "Old Alberto was letting my friend here know that he knew all along where Mike Hammer has been holed up. That he could have had Mike tapped out at any time."

Jaynor frowned. "Killed?"

"Certainly."

"But why?"

I said, "Because I blew his kid's head off."

The politician's jaw dropped in sudden remembrance. "Hell, that's right, isn't it? A year ago ... but you were almost friendly with the man, Mike."

"Old man Bonetti knows his son Sal was a bad seed," I said. "He knows it was self-defense. If he'd decided to have me killed, it would have been to save face, not out of revenge."

Pat was studying me. "You see any of his guys down there in sunny F-L-A?"

"I wasn't looking."

He made a face. "Playing stupid isn't your game, buddy."

"Pat, I just didn't give a damn. And I wasn't in the game. Still aren't."

"Now you know Bonetti knows your Florida address. Doesn't that bother you?"

"Why should it? If he wanted me dead, it would have gone down a long time ago. And now? Now there's no sense killing me anymore."

Jaynor had the expression of a guy visiting a foreign country who has lost his translation booklet. "Why would you think that, Mike?"

"Because there's no profit in it, Alex—and profit is all those guys live for."

Pat was checking his watch. "Mike—it's time." He reached in his suitcoat pocket and handed me the small canvas pouch with the metallic lump in it.

"Sure you don't want to handle this, Pat?"

"No. Doolan would've wanted you to do it."

So I nodded to each of the men as I walked to the coffin. All of them wore those invisible scars of the field, and they nodded back, each with a subtle look of curiosity because although I was, in a way, one of them, I hadn't played on their team for a long, long time.

I stood there looking at what was left of Bill Doolan. Once he had been young and vital as hell, but what was left was an old gray-headed corpse, barely recognizable. The stupid embalmer had tried to cover up the scar across his left eye and fill out the cheeks that had always been hollow with contained rage. Those bony hands should have been clenched into fists instead of being folded across his chest like all the other dead bodies in the world.

I looked at a mannequin cosmetically prepared to hide all signs of reality. For that I was glad. This wasn't Doolan at all. The real man still lived in memory.

When I'd finished looking at what was left of my mentor, I took a step back and felt the others come up around me. I reached in the canvas pouch, then unwrapped the oily cloth and held out the hammerless Browning automatic for all of them to see.

Carefully, I dropped the clip and let them see me thumb a full load in place, then snap it back and jack one into the chamber. With the rag I cleaned the piece off, then separated Doolan's hands from their frozen position and got the Browning into his right palm as best I could.

The Little Italy bunch weren't the only ones who had rituals.

I said, "Bill Doolan gave this to Pat Chambers a long time ago, and really it should be Pat up here talking now. Pat and the rest of you were really his boys. Yet in my two short years on the force, Doolan twice saved my ass, and if he had notched this gun butt the way they did in the old West, there wouldn't be anything to hold on to now. At least when that pine box he's in collapses under the dirt, he and that gun will fade out of existence at the same time. So long, buddy."

Two of the quiet men stepped forward, closed the lid of the coffin, then hammered it shut with steel-cut nails. In that solemn place the sound of the banging was almost thunderous, and when they were done, what was left was just a box—a rough-cut pine box resting on a pair of sawhorses, as Doolan himself had specified.

Everybody turned their backs when the attendants came in with the table and wheeled the coffin out.

Strange, I thought, real strange. Like a bunch of kids in their clubhouse, playing at something.

These cops may have shared a strange little ritual, preparing their friend for the boneyard; but those guys weren't playing. Death was part of every cop's life, whether you bought it on the street or survived into an old age haunted by nightmares or ate the muzzle of your gun as a rookie who couldn't take it or an old soldier who wanted to one-up the Big C.

The guests had started to clear out. The photogs were first, hurrying to get their pictures into the labs, then the police. Pat and I walked Alex Jaynor to the door—he seemed moved by the simple, if odd ceremony. Well, Doolan had been his mentor, too.

Alex got cornered by a reporter, and we left him behind as we headed down the street for a booth in the nearest gin mill.

Pat and I both ordered a Canadian Club and ginger ale, and toasted each other silently

Over the second drink Pat suddenly said, "What about Velda, Mike?"

The sound of her name hit like a physical blow and I had trouble looking at him. "It's over."

"That simple. 'It's over.' Why is it over?"

"Can't we drop the subject?"

"No. She was too much a part of you. Of us. What happened?"

Suddenly the drink tasted lousy. "Hell, I was dying. My life expectancy was maybe a month. I wasn't about to let her watch me go out like a cat that's been half run over, yelling and screaming until they shot the drugs into me again."

"But you pulled through."

"Nobody thought that old army surgeon could bring it off. The odds were ridiculous. I signed the papers and let him go ahead because I thought it would be an easy way to get the whole damn thing finished with in a hurry."

"What are the odds now?"

I shrugged. "If I'm not too stupid, I'm going to make it."

He nodded, sipped his drink. "That brings us around to Velda again. When you knew you were coming out of the tunnel, why not let her know?"

I shook my head. "You saw Bonetti in there. His soldiers might have shown up at any time. She'd have been at my side when the bullets started flying."

"She's a big girl. Not your average secretary. She's a P.I. herself, and then there's her military intelligence background. What makes you think she couldn't have handled that?"

"Because she loved me, Pat. You know it, I know it, and we both know I didn't deserve her, but there it is. She would have been so distracted, worrying about me, nursemaiding me, she could easily have taken a hit. And I could stand a lot of things, Pat ... but after all these years, losing her because she's trying to save me? No. No way. Now can we change the subject?"

"Mike, you don't tune somebody out when you love them."

"You said it yourself, Pat. She's a P.I. Probably a better detective than either of us. If she'd really wanted to find me, she could have."

"Really? After your letter?"

Barroom noise and chatter filled a pregnant silence.

Finally I said, "You know about that?"

A sad little frown flitted across his face. "Yeah, I know about it."

I tried not to ask. I swear to God, I tried not to ask.

"What's happened to her, Pat?"

He looked past me, gnawing gently at his lip. When he was ready, he said, "Six months ago, she called. She'd gotten your letter. She read it to me, Mike. How could you say those things to her?"

I had to ask him.

"How'd she sound?" I tried to keep the anxiety out of my voice.

He thought about it, then shrugged. "Cold. Remote. Not the way she used to."

"Come on, Pat."

"There was a new man in her life, she said. She said she'd moved on, and called me to say she was leaving town. She did ... just mention that she ... wondered if you were still alive, or if you had asked about her."

My chest felt tight and my shoulders bunched up under my coat.

He was saying, "I told her I didn't know where you were, and that we hadn't spoken since you slipped our guard at the hospital. She told me your letter had a Miami postmark, which gave me a starting point, tracking you down. The last I heard, she'd left town."

"...New man in her life. Well, good. I'm glad for her."

"In a pig's ass you are."

"Let's just say I can handle it, okay? It was a phase of my life."

"A goddamn long phase."

"You know me, Pat. Women come and go."

"Yeah, you come and they go. But not Velda—she was a constant. She was with you for ... forever."

I'd thought it would be forever.

"Like I said," I said as casually as I could manage, "now it's over."

"I'm supposed to believe you're not hurting?"

"I'm not hurting. I won't forget her, but I'm not all whacked out of shape over it."

I leaned back and wondered whether or not I was lying. For sure, I'd never forget her.

Never.

In his typical fashion, Pat turned the whole subject upside-down. He asked very casually, "You have a gun on you?"

He was a winner, all right.

"No. I haven't carried one since that night at the pier."

"You renewed your permit."

"The man's a detective ... yes, and my driver's license and the one for the agency. The office is closed but the rent is paid up. I sublet my apartment but didn't let it go."

"Why? Why bother?"

Good question. "Some things you just never give up, pal."

"Are you planning on staying?"

"Not long-term. Not sure I could handle that dark cloud you say follows me around."

He waved for the waiter and asked for the check. "You need to crash with me?"

"No thanks. I booked a room at the Commodore." I waited a moment, then added, "I want to go over to Doolan's pad tomorrow."

"I figured as much. No problem. When you're done, we'll turn the place over to Anna, and she and her husband can loot it. Come on, I'll give you a ride to the hotel."

We walked to where he'd parked his old sedan. Pat pulled out and turned left, cruising down one of those sick streets where nobody gave a damn about anything. If you were a stranger, you'd wonder where the slopped-up jokers got the money to buy a pint and who the hell those poor old hookers were going to solicit in this neighborhood.

We were in the nowhere zone of a street that had died and hadn't been buried yet. Somehow, nobody had broken the antiquated street lamps yet and a pale yellow blob of light seemed to droop away from the poles.

"What's this, a shortcut?" I asked.

"Just cutting around some road maintenance. Besides, you ought to remember this area."

"When I left it was different."

"Nothing stays the same."

"Just this old car of yours—damn!"

"What?"

I gripped his sleeve. "Pat—hold it."

He laid on the brakes.

"Go back," I said tightly. "Between the lights."

He shifted into reverse, gassed the car backward till I told him to stop, then I jumped out and ran to the sidewalk. Behind me, his sedan squealed into a tight turn, then ran up to the curb with the headlights shining like twin theatrical spots on the body sprawled on the concrete.

She was blonde and young but the frozen grimace wiped out any prettiness she might have had. There was terror in her half-open eyes and her chin drooped into a silent death laugh. She hadn't been down more than thirty seconds because blood was still puddling from the gaping wound in her chest.

Pat checked her pulse, nodded at me, then both of us moved at the same time, running away from the body to cover both ends of the street. But there was no movement, no sounds of panicky feet or the odd noises of somebody trying to be quiet when things are closing in. It was one of those damned unlivable streets you find here and there in the city, condemned, partially dismantled, dirty, and only good as a walkway from one avenue to another—that is, if you didn't give a flying fuck for your life.

Back at the car, Pat finished calling in the kill and asked, "Nothing?"

I shook my head. "There are a dozen open basements on either side that anybody could have dropped into. You know these buildings. Those tunnels go right through to the other street."

"There are cars coming in from both sides. We may get lucky."

"No way," I told him. "These street people make a science out of disappearing." I shook a finger at the corpse. "Put the light on her hand."

Pat flashed the beam over and saw what I meant. A thin purse strap was still clutched in her fingers, the cut-off loop of it going around her wrist, the bag itself M.I.A.

The captain of Homicide swore under his breath. "Kid like that, dead—over a lousy goddamn mugging."

"Looks like he came up behind her, and she spun around when he made a grab for the purse, and he stuck her when she started to scream."

Pat thought about it a moment. "Usually this kind of mugging would be a face-to-face job."

"If he were waiting for a patsy around here, he'd have a long damn wait. No—this mugger followed her. And if she's a hooker, she doesn't belong around here, not in that spring frock."

She was maybe twenty-five, slender, and you could tell she'd had a nice shape until death twisted it into a kind of question mark that left her very physicality asking Why? The butter-color hair was long and curled and styled, the dress was a pink and white floral with short-sleeve cuffs, worn with nude panty hose and pink pumps.

"Hell, Mike, it's fifty yards to either corner. She would have heard him."

"Not if he were wearing sneakers. These bastards stay in step with the victim, but faster. She only heard her own feet. Dig her shoes—they're heavy leather heels and soles."

Before he could answer, the first squad car turned the corner. Behind it, we could hear the siren of the following one.

But for Pat's taste, they were on the slow side, and he said, "We're going to have to motivate these drivers a little more."

It was less than an hour before they were finished. The area had been covered by a search team that turned up one sodden drunk passed out in an alley, the photos had all been shot, and Pat had given all the details to the only reporter who bothered to show up, a young kid from the News. In New York, only muggings with a death involved got any notice at all.

The odd note was the arrival of a new white Japanese sports car that nosed right in between the police cruisers and, with an impatient blast of the horn, signaled two of the uniforms to make room at the curb. Ordinarily anybody who pulled a stunt like that would be snatched out of the car and laid down for a full inspection; but the officers just edged out of the sporty number's way.

Pat was squatting down beside the body, going over final details with Les Graves, a fifty-ish, heavyset, graying detective from Homicide South.

I knelt next to them and asked, "Anything?"

Graves snapped his miniature flashlight off and clipped it on his pocket. "Unless she's got something tattooed on her, she's clean. Any I.D. would've been in her purse."

Pat got back on his feet. "Well, we'll see how we make out with her prints and the laundry marks."

The door to the white car opened, but until the driver got into the glare of the headlights, I couldn't tell who the guy was.

Some "guy."

Some pussycat—a tallish, black-haired doll in a gray pants suit with black trim housing a body with curves even her sports car would find it a challenge to navigate. Self-confidence was there in her face with its hooded yet sharp dark eyes, daring anybody to doubt her—the new breed of professional woman who wasn't afraid to stay feminine while she broke your very balls.

I asked, "Who the hell's that?"

Graves thought I was kidding until Pat said, "He's been away, Les."

"Oh."

"She's an assistant D.A.," Pat told me, "and a real pisser." He turned and waved to the pair on the morgue wagon. "You can take it now."

But the lady assistant D.A. called out, "Just one moment," and clicked over on heels to step in front of them.

I could feel myself starting to grin because this little scene was about to be a real beaut. I had known Pat too many years not to realize what was about to happen, and this pretty little broad—well, not so little—was about to get her ass chewed out by an expert.

But the show she just put on spoke of political clout and I wasn't about to let Pat get hung out on a hook to dry.

So I shoved my hat back and got right in her face where she could get a good look at all my teeth. And I have a few.

"Lady," I said, "I don't know what you think you're pulling, but this is a crime scene. I'd advise you to get your attractive tail back in that un-American bucket and beat it the hell out of here."

One of the uniforms choked back a laugh so hard he farted.

Les snapped his head around and growled at his boys, "Who did that?"

This pulled all the heat out of Pat and, despite his frown, his eyes were grinning like hell. A fart in the night had broken the ice—who'd have thunk it?

Pat pushed me out of the way nice and easy, laying all the apologetic charm he could dredge up. "I'm very sorry, Ms. Marshall, but this, uh, detective didn't recognize you. And this is a crime scene."

The cockiness she had rocketed in with had been shot down and she wasn't going to let it get worse. When she thought she had it together, she slowly turned to me to deliver that big stare that withers the weak, but my teeth were still on display and I don't remember the last time I withered.

She took a good look at me and knew not to take me on.

Smart.

Softly, yet loud enough for all to hear, she said, "Captain Chambers, I want this detective in my office at nine tomorrow morning," then hip-swayed back to her car, got in, and drove off, in full control again.

The guy with the body bag at the mouth of the morgue wagon looked at Pat. "Now?"

"Sure. Go ahead."

I had my hands on my hips and was looking in the direction where she'd disappeared. "What was she all about, Pat?"

"Ms. Marshall came in on the last election."

"Any good?"

Pat shrugged. "Started out a civil-rights attorney. They got good ones and they got bad ones, but this one's a pain in the ass."

"In what way?"

"She has a radio in her car and keeps sticking her pretty butt in where it doesn't belong."

"Well, at least she's interested."

"Interested in spotting the important cases."

"Why, is this one of 'em?"

He shrugged. "Doesn't look like it. But she's always out trolling for headlines. That was a good try you gave, cutting her down a notch."

I said, "Whoever farted wins the medal on that one."

Behind Pat they were lifting the body into the rubber bag. Rigidity had set in and an arm flopped down, something flashing near a cuffed short sleeve, the edge of which the attendant grabbed to lift the limb back in place.

I felt a frown settle across my face. Back in this concrete purgatory just a few hours, and I find death, murder, waiting for me. But this had nothing to do with me. Right? This was just another goddamn mugging gone tragically wrong.

Right?

Pat said, "Mike—did you hear me?"

I hadn't. "Oh, sorry. What'd you say?"

"Marshall—the assistant D.A.? She doesn't know you, and I don't want her knowing you. Tomorrow, when you don't show, she'll call me and I'll put Peterson on her. The inspector's no friend of hers and he won't let any of his guys get hassled, so everything stays clean."

Now I gave him the grin. "Not with that big kitten."

"Mike—"

"What's her first name?"

"Angela."

"Beautiful name for a beautiful woman, Pat ... only that's no angel."

The morgue wagon pulled away and two cruisers followed it. I walked over to where the body had been and stared down at the sand they had poured out over the spilled blood.

I don't know why these simple kills bother me. There was nothing elaborate about it. Just a lousy mugger punching a hole in a young girl's chest to grab what few bucks she had in a cheap handbag. Bing. One life down the drain. Maybe enough in that bag for a fast snort.

I bent down and picked up a handful of sand and let it sift through my fingers until only a pebble was left. Some great headstone. Fingering it, I stood up and absentmindedly stuck the little stone in my pocket. Now I had a souvenir to commemorate my homecoming.

"Let's get you to your hotel, Mike."

I got in Pat's old sedan and slammed the door shut. He put the key in the ignition, but didn't turn it. "You know, kid," he said, "I can't go anyplace with you. Man, sometimes I think a dark cloud does follow you."

"Hey, you're the one invited me back, remember?"