Where There's Smoke

Twenty-Five

It was ten minutes to eight when I got to the Twelfth Precinct. The desk sergeant told me Captain Cupera was out. I asked for Detective Horowitz, and the sergeant told me he was out, too. I didn’t bother asking for O’Neil. In­stead, I politely inquired whether it would be okay to use the pay phone in the swing room. The sergeant shrugged. I walked away from the desk and into the next room. A patrolman was sitting there in his undershirt, drinking coffee. I had the feeling he was the same patrolman who’d been there yesterday. I went into the phone booth, closed the door, and dialed the Twelfth Precinct. In the muster room outside, I heard the telephone ringing.

“Twelfth Precinct,” the desk sergeant said. “Sergeant Knowles.”

“Captain Cupera,” I said.

“Who’s calling?”

“Deputy Inspector Walsh,” I said.

“One moment, sir.”

I waited.

“Captain Cupera,” Coop said.

“Coop,” I said, “this is Ben, don’t hang up.”

“Benny, I told you—”

“I’m right outside in the swing room,” I said. “I’ve got some information for you.”

“What kind of information?”

“I know who owns that Volkswagen bus, and I’ve got the registration number.”

“Come in,” he said. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

I hung up and went out into the muster room again. Coop had already buzzed the sergeant. As I approached the desk, he said, “It’s okay for you to go in. I wish they’d make up their damn minds.” I crossed the room to the frosted-glass door and knocked.

“Yeah, yeah, come in,” Coop said.

He did not offer me a chair. He pointed his finger at me instead, and said, “Don’t ever say you’re Walsh again, you hear me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Let me hear what you’ve got.” An odd smile suddenly replaced his frown. A moment ago he had told me he was going to enjoy this. He was now beginning to enjoy it even before I began talking.

“The bus is registered to a man named Arthur J. Wylie at 574 Waverly Street,” I said. “S22 dash 9438.”

Coop was still smiling. He was making me very ner­vous. I realized he knew something I didn’t know.

“Tell me,” I said.

‘Tell you what, Benny? I simply wish to commend you for your fine work. You’re still a good cop, it’s a shame you’re not on the force.”

“You already know who owns the bus, is that it?”

“We know.”

“How long have you known?”

“Ever since the FBI got back to us.”

“You found some latents on the crowbar,” I said. “That’s what was in the lab report.”

“On the pendant,” Coop said, and nodded. “A good thumb print. The I.S. came up negative, so we ran it through the FBI. They got back to us around five o’clock. Turns out the guy who left the thumb print was in the Navy during the Korean War. He didn’t have a criminal record, but his prints were on file.”

“Arthur J. Wylie,” I said.

“That’s who,” Coop said.

“So the next thing you did was call the MVB.”

“Very good,” Coop said. “And they told us they had a red-and-white Volkswagen bus registered to an Arthur J. Wylie at 574 Waverly Street. We put out a teletype right away.” He was grinning from ear to ear now; it was thor­oughly obscene.

“And then O’Neil drove uptown to talk to Helene Wylie.”

“That’s exactly what he did,” Coop said. “He wasn’t too thrilled to hear you’d already been there. He must’ve missed you by maybe ten minutes.”

“Did she tell him she hasn’t been able to locate her husband since July?”

“She told him. Gave us a nice picture of him, too.”

“Big blond guy, bushy hair, walrus mustache?’

“Yes.”

“He doesn’t look like that any more, Coop.”

Coop seemed startled for a moment, but before he could say anything, the telephone on his desk rang. He picked up the receiver. “Captain Cupera,” he said. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. Where is it? Okay, right away.” He hung up, immediately pressed a button in the base of the phone, and waited. “Danny,” he said, “I just got a call from the Fifth downtown. They’ve found that VW bus.” He listened for a moment, and then said, “All right, come on down. I’d like to go with you.” He hung up and looked at me across the desk. “You heard,” he said.

“I heard.”

He lifted the receiver again, pressed another button in the base of the phone, and then said, “Sergeant, I’ll be out with O’Neil. If Horowitz calls in, tell him we’re down near the Tolliver Street Bridge, the approach road. He’ll find it.” He hung up, and looked at me again.

“Let me go with you, Coop,” I said.

“We don’t need you,” he answered.

“There were times when you did,” I said.

He didn’t answer. But when O’Neil came downstairs, he told him I’d be following them to the scene. O’Neil frowned. He was wearing his hat on the back of his head, like a movie cop of the thirties. A day’s beard stubble was on his chin and his cheeks. His mouth tightened.

“Why?” he asked Coop.

“He’s been helpful,” Coop said flatly. “I want him along.”

The two men looked at each other.

“Just don’t get in the way,” O’Neil said to me, saving his dignity in the presence of his commanding officer. “This is a homicide we’re investigating.” He hitched up his pants, and I followed him and Coop outside.