Authors: Whit Masterson
“Well,” Holt said slowly, “if McCoy is back, I don’t know why you’re worried. He doesn’t miss.”
“I agree with you. Undoubtedly he won’t miss this time, either. But this office, like the police department, is in the middle of a tense situation. That’s the unfortunate side of public service. Sometimes it’s not enough for us to do our best. We also have to demonstrate publicly that we’re doing our best.”
“I don’t follow you.”
Adair grimaced. “One of the political decisions arrived at last night, Mitch. The district attorney’s office is supposed to show some muscle on this case. We’re going to appoint a special investigator. So consider yourself appointed.”
“Why me? If it’s an investigator you want, Van Dusen is the — ”
“No. You fill the bill. You’re coming off the Buccio case a winner, your picture’s in the paper, the public knows your name. Appointing you is our proof to the taxpayers that we’re making the maximum effort to break this thing.”
Holt swore softly and stared at his boss. Adair met his eyes and shrugged helplessly. “The penalty of success — more work. You have my personal apology, Mitch. I know you’re due and overdue for your vacation, but this is only a temporary assignment. Might not last more than a day or two, a week at most. Just until something breaks or the pressure eases.”
“No, I don’t mind the work. I don’t like being a figurehead.”
“I rate you higher than that.”
“Well, whatever I am, I’m no cop and I’ll make a fool of myself trying to act like one. Particularly in fast company like McCoy and Quinlan.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You might show those old dogs some new tricks.”
“Oh, sure,” said Holt. “They’d love that.”
“At least, it’ll be a good change of pace for you. I’ll want you to work with me on the trial end, anyway, and if you already know the case from the ground up, so much the better.” Adair patted him on the shoulder. “Look, if you’re worried about your wife flying off the handle, I can call Connie myself and explain it to her.”
Holt got up; he was over six feet. “I’ll do it myself. I’m bigger than she is. That’s becoming my sole advantage.” He knew he’d might as well joke about it; orders were orders, no matter how much he disliked the assignment. He was stuck with it now, just as Adair had been stuck with it, and so on up the line. But he couldn’t resist giving the boss his final opinion of the whole business. “Just one thing I’d like to get straight — ”
The telephone interrupted him. Adair answered, grunted, then hung up, a grin on his stony face. “Old Man Buccio got the limit. Five to ten. Now what were you going to ask, Mitch?”
“This. Am I really supposed to solve the Linneker case or am I just supposed to smile for pictures?”
Adair got the point. He said seriously, “Both — if you can manage it.”
“Okay.” Holt opened the door. “As a public service, I’ll try. But right now I doubt that I can do either one.”
M
ITCH
H
OLT
had been assistant district attorney for a little over three years, having been appointed shortly after Adair had taken office. Most men didn’t stay that long in the job, viewing it as merely a stepping-stone to something better. Also, he was older than the average and, taken together, these two facts might have indicated that Holt was without much ambition. This was only partly true. He had no overwhelming desire for self-advancement, particularly in the political arena, but he was not entirely without it, either. Holt’s career, like many another’s, had fallen victim to two wars. World War II had put him four years behind and the Korean conflict — he was a reserve naval officer — added two more. As a result he was, at thirty-five, where most young attorneys were at twenty-nine — still in the process of building his professional reputation. This did not chafe him. He knew that soon he would be in a position to open his own private practice without unduly endangering the eating habits of his family. And, until that day arrived, he was content to plug away at his job, unresentfully giving it the best he had even when the assignments weren’t exactly what he would have chosen for himself. As, for example, this present one.
It was characteristic of him that, although he had indicated his distaste for the role of special investigator to Adair, he plunged into it immediately and wholeheartedly. It was nearly lunch time and he could have been excused for delaying, but Holt left the Civic Centre and drove across the city’s business district to police headquarters.
The headquarters, together with the city jail, occupied an entire block only a stone’s throw from the harbour. It was a one-storey building of tan stucco, Spanish style, with a red-tiled roof and deep recessed windows. Palm trees shaded it, a pleasant patio was embraced by its walls and it resembled a country club more than a police station. Inside, however, this impression vanished. The uniformed men, the grimly-lettered doors — Homicide and Vice and Burglary and Auto Theft — and the continual clack of teletypes and the metallic buzz of the police radio left no doubt that this was a place of serious and sometimes tragic business.
Holt identified himself to the desk sergeant and asked for Captain McCoy.
“He and Quinlan and Captain Troge are in with the chief right now,” the sergeant told him. “Want me to tell them you’re here, Mr. Holt?”
Holt didn’t think it was necessary. His business was not pressing enough to interrupt a top level conference. As a matter of fact, he had no business except to introduce himself to the officers in charge of the Linneker investigation and ask their help. He strolled out into the corridor to await the end of the meeting.
The press room stood opposite Administration. A man was sitting on the edge of a desk, talking on the telephone. When he saw Holt through the open doorway, he hung up and came out to intercept him.
“You’re Holt, aren’t you?” he said. “From the D.A.’s office. I’m Barker. I handle the police beat for the
Sentinel
. That was a good job you did on Buccio.”
“Thanks. But I had a lot of help.”
“I just got a buzz from the paper. The word is you’re going to do the same thing on this Linneker killing.”
Holt raised his eyebrows, surprised. Adair hadn’t wasted any time informing the newspapers. “Well, hardly that. The police are in full charge. I’m just acting as liaison for the district attorney’s office, actually.”
“You must have some ideas on it, though,” the reporter persisted. “Something I can hang a story on to keep my editor happy. You know, some angle the cops have overlooked, that sort of thing.”
Holt shook his head. “Sorry I can’t help you out, but I don’t know a thing worth printing.”
There was a heavy tread of feet along the corridor behind him and Holt swung round to see three men approaching from the direction of the chief of police’s office. Captain Troge, the homicide head, he recognized; they had worked together before. The other two men were strangers to him but Holt guessed that this was the famous team of McCoy and Quinlan, though he wasn’t sure which was which. The bigger of the two carried a cane and walked with a deep limp.
The reporter knew them well. He barred their path cheerfully. “Well, now that I’ve got the whole brains trust all together, somebody ought to be able to tell me something. How about it, Captain Mac? What’s new on Linneker?”
The man he addressed was the smaller of the two strangers, lean and leathery, with a wiry shock of white hair like bleached fleece. His face was lined and stern but there was something fatherly about it, too. McCoy was about sixty, Holt judged, give or take a year either way. He just smiled and shook his head at the reporter, but the man with the cane — who must be Quinlan — growled, “Don’t push the captain, Barker. When we get something, you’ll know it.”
“Don’t get edgy, Hank,” the reporter told him. “I’m just doing my job. And I thought that with the new special investigator from the D.A.’s office here, you might want to prove how hardworking you are.”
McCoy and Quinlan stared at Holt as if noticing him for the first time and Troge made the introductions. They said they were glad to meet him but Holt was inclined to doubt it. He didn’t blame them; to the police officers it must look as if he had brought the reporter with him. Nobody likes a publicity hound.
McCoy confirmed his suspicions by saying, “I believe I saw your picture in the morning papers, Mr. Holt. The Buccio case. Congratulations.” He had a pleasant melodious voice with a slight hint of brogue to it.
“Thanks,” said Holt uncomfortably. “I suppose you know why I’m here.”
“The chief just told us,” Troge said. He glanced at his watch. “I’m late already. It’s all yours, Mac.” He included Holt in this responsibility-shifting statement, nodded and hurried away in the direction of Homicide.
The three men, with the reporter alertly on the fringe, were left standing in the middle of the corridor for an awkward moment. Holt said, “Is there somewhere we could talk, Captain?”
“Hank and I were just going across the street for a bite of lunch.” McCoy hesitated. “Be glad to have you join us.”
Holt accepted the unwilling invitation and went off along the corridor with the two policemen, leaving the reporter behind. Barker called after them, “I’ll be waiting for a statement, Captain.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” muttered Quinlan. “Damn all newspapers and their readers, anyway.” McCoy chuckled but Holt thought it better not to comment, since the imprecation could be interpreted to include him.
They crossed the street to the corner lunch room and settled into a booth in the rear. While they studied the menus, Holt examined his companions more closely. Though a team, they were nothing alike. McCoy was obviously the thinker, Quinlan the doer. The sergeant weighed at least fifty pounds more than his superior and was half a head taller. Quinlan scowled where McCoy smiled but Holt decided that both expressions hid the same thing — a cold and competent determination. They were cops, first and foremost, with a cop’s hard bold stare. McCoy hid his behind a twinkle and Quinlan wore rimless spectacles, but it was still there. It was a look that all manhunters acquired.
McCoy was gazing out the window while they waited for their order to be taken. “Clouding up. Going to rain, Hank?”
“According to my knee,” Quinlan agreed, indicating his left leg which stuck stiffly out into the aisle. The sergeant had been badly wounded in a gun battle three or four years ago, Holt recalled hearing. Had he been anyone else he would have been retired on disability. But McCoy had wangled him a desk job to allow him to serve out the remainder of his active duty which now had only a year or so to run.
Holt earnestly desired to establish amiable relations with the two veterans. When the waitress had taken their orders, he said bluntly, “I want to make my own position very clear. As you know, the district attorney has made me a special investigator for this Linneker case. I’ll be working with you from here on in.”
“So we understand,” murmured McCoy with no expression whatever.
“To me, that simply means that I’m available to give you two any help you might need from the district attorney’s office. That’s all it means. I’m a lawyer, not a cop, and I’m not going to pretend to be anything I’m not. I was assigned to the case for about the same reason that you were — to demonstrate that we’re all doing our best to solve it. But you’re still running the show.”
McCoy, packing a scarred old pipe, didn’t say anything and Quinlan’s red-faced scowl didn’t alter, but Holt sensed a lessening of their hostility. Finally McCoy said, “Sounds reasonable. What do you think, Hank? Shall we let Holt play on our team?”
“Always room for one more,” Quinlan replied. He peered towards the kitchen. “What takes these people so long to open a couple of cans I’ll never know. Hey, Alice, step on it — this is a working day.”
“Relax,” McCoy advised, winking at Holt. “You’ll live longer.”
“Who wants to? I just want to get up to Seacliff and back before the rain sets in.”
Seacliff was a small beach community about twenty miles to the north but still within the county. McCoy interpreted for Holt’s benefit. “Seacliff is where they bought the dynamite for the Linneker job.”
“They?” repeated Holt, fastening on the key word. “Sounds like you’re on to something.”
The waitress brought their order at that moment so McCoy didn’t reply to the question. Instead, he looked at the bowl of chili Quinlan had ordered and gave a mock shudder. “How can you subject your stomach to bile like that? Haven’t you got any respect for the insides the good Lord gave you?” Quinlan merely grunted and began to eat. McCoy’s own lunch was on the bland side, soup and a salad. Before eating, he took a white pill from a small medicine bottle. After a few bites, he said to Holt, “This is not for general circulation as yet, but we think we’ve got this thing about sewed up.”
“Well, good deal,” said Holt. The job was going to be even shorter than he had supposed. He might still get away on his vacation by the end of the week. “Can you tell me what you’ve found?”
“It was the daughter,” said McCoy, between bites. “Tara Linneker and her boy friend, Shayon. Nothing complicated about it. They wanted to get married. The father didn’t approve, threatened to tighten the purse strings if she didn’t behave. So he got blown to kingdom come and now Tara has both her boy friend and the money. Open and shut.”
“Sounds logical all right,” Holt admitted. “How much of it can you prove?”
Quinlan, hunched over his bowl of chili, snorted. “Just give me a free hand in the interrogation and I’ll prove it, all right.”
“The proof will come,” McCoy said imperturbably. “When you know you’re right, it always does. It’s just a question of looking in the logical places.”
“It’d come a lot faster if we didn’t have to stew around with lab reports and IBM machines,” said Quinlan. Holt was not surprised that the beefy sergeant should take a dim view of scientific crime detection; many old-time police officers did. “People did the job. People’s what you should concentrate on.”
McCoy was more moderate. “The lab analysis and the statistical work are just an extension of man’s intuition, Hank. That’s the important thing. Everything else follows from the original intuition.”