company, since he's much more human than the other local cops I've had run-ins with. Dave is the only black cop in town, and I think being an outsider has upped his sensitivity quotient.
After a couple of minutes of cowering, I went outside with Dave to do some quick surveillance by flashlight. We didn't find any muddy footprints or dropped guns. We did find a bunch of dried leaves on the driveway that I hadn't gotten around to raking up. They crackled loudly under our feet, and I wondered why I hadn't heard the crackling under the gunman's feet when I was at the computer. The window had been open about a foot.
We ended our surveillance when the other cops started coming. My opinion of Saratoga's finest was not improved by my encounters with them that night.
Not counting Dave, five other cops made the scene, including the grand poohbah himself, Chief Walsh. As I've mentioned, Chief Walsh was not exactly my biggest booster. He once tried to bust me for murder, and I tried to bust him for conspiracy to extort. Given how intensely we disliked each other, I guess he gets points for at least showing up at my house in the first place. But that's all he gets points for.
Andrea took the boys upstairs and went to bed with them while I told the chief and his square-jawed minions exactly what had happ ened. First I described the gunshots, then filled them in on my recent activities. "Because it's obvious," I declared, "that whoever shot at me was trying to stop my murder investigation—either by scaring me off or by killing me."
Chief Walsh eyed me dubiously. He was handsome and distingue, with classical features, clear blue eyes, and perfectly coifed silver hair, and I hated everything about him. I always thought he would have made a perfect Nazi colonel, casually sipping Rhine wine with his pinky extended as he sent victims off to the camps. "Have you learned anything in your 'investigation' that someone might actually be worried about?" Walsh asked with a tinge of sarcasm.
"Yeah, I might've learned a thing or two," I drawled, then hit them with both barrels blazing. "Jack Tamarack was blackmailing Senator Medwick, sleeping with Medwick's wife, and beating his own wife."
I expected to see all those square jaws dropping, but I was disappointed. Inste ad all their eyebrows began rising. "Do you have proof for any of this, or is it just gossip?" the chief asked.
"It's not gossip."
"So you have proof?"
"Well," I said defensively, "I'm still, you know . . ."
One of the two lieutenants in the room—a guy I knew and despised from before named Foxwell—cut in. "How do you know he was beating his wife?"
I couldn't very well say, "Because I stole her portfolio," so instead I hemmed and hawed for a moment. That gave Chief Walsh his opening.
"Listen, Burns," he said, "it's much more likely this whole thing was just a stupid prank."
"A what?"
Now he lifted his shoulders as well as his eyebrows. "Face it, you piss off a lot of people. I could name about ten guys in this town that would love to take a potshot at you. Hell, there's a few of them sitting right here in this room."
The lieutenants sitting on my living room sofa snickered. I was outraged. "Just a goddamn minute," I said. "Somebody took three 'potshots' at me and my sons. I fail to find that humorous!"
"Hey, we take it seriously and all," the chief said, "but I doubt they were actually trying to kill you."
"Thanks, that's so reassuring."
"Look, you were just three feet from the window. If they wanted to kill you, they could've walked right up to the window and put a bullet through your head."
I already knew the flaw in that theory. "But the shooter couldn't have walked up that close without me hearing him. His shoes would have crackled on the dried leaves, and I would've turned around and seen him. Maybe he realized that, so he decided to try and kill me from the sidewalk."
"I don't buy it," the chief said.
"Neither do I," said Foxwell. The other cops sprinkled
After a couple of minutes of cowering, I went outside with Dave to do some quick surveillance by flashlight. We didn't find any muddy footprints or dropped guns. We did find a bunch of dried leaves on the driveway that I hadn't gotten around to raking up. They crackled loudly under our feet, and I wondered why I hadn't heard the crackling under the gunman's feet when I was at the computer. The window had been open about a foot.
We ended our surveillance when the other cops started coming. My opinion of Saratoga's finest was not improved by my encounters with them that night.
Not counting Dave, five other cops made the scene, including the grand poohbah himself, Chief Walsh. As I've mentioned, Chief Walsh was not exactly my biggest booster. He once tried to bust me for murder, and I tried to bust him for conspiracy to extort. Given how intensely we disliked each other, I guess he gets points for at least showing up at my house in the first place. But that's all he gets points for.
Andrea took the boys upstairs and went to bed with them while I told the chief and his square-jawed minions exactly what had happ ened. First I described the gunshots, then filled them in on my recent activities. "Because it's obvious," I declared, "that whoever shot at me was trying to stop my murder investigation—either by scaring me off or by killing me."
Chief Walsh eyed me dubiously. He was handsome and distingue, with classical features, clear blue eyes, and perfectly coifed silver hair, and I hated everything about him. I always thought he would have made a perfect Nazi colonel, casually sipping Rhine wine with his pinky extended as he sent victims off to the camps. "Have you learned anything in your 'investigation' that someone might actually be worried about?" Walsh asked with a tinge of sarcasm.
"Yeah, I might've learned a thing or two," I drawled, then hit them with both barrels blazing. "Jack Tamarack was blackmailing Senator Medwick, sleeping with Medwick's wife, and beating his own wife."
I expected to see all those square jaws dropping, but I was disappointed. Inste ad all their eyebrows began rising. "Do you have proof for any of this, or is it just gossip?" the chief asked.
"It's not gossip."
"So you have proof?"
"Well," I said defensively, "I'm still, you know . . ."
One of the two lieutenants in the room—a guy I knew and despised from before named Foxwell—cut in. "How do you know he was beating his wife?"
I couldn't very well say, "Because I stole her portfolio," so instead I hemmed and hawed for a moment. That gave Chief Walsh his opening.
"Listen, Burns," he said, "it's much more likely this whole thing was just a stupid prank."
"A what?"
Now he lifted his shoulders as well as his eyebrows. "Face it, you piss off a lot of people. I could name about ten guys in this town that would love to take a potshot at you. Hell, there's a few of them sitting right here in this room."
The lieutenants sitting on my living room sofa snickered. I was outraged. "Just a goddamn minute," I said. "Somebody took three 'potshots' at me and my sons. I fail to find that humorous!"
"Hey, we take it seriously and all," the chief said, "but I doubt they were actually trying to kill you."
"Thanks, that's so reassuring."
"Look, you were just three feet from the window. If they wanted to kill you, they could've walked right up to the window and put a bullet through your head."
I already knew the flaw in that theory. "But the shooter couldn't have walked up that close without me hearing him. His shoes would have crackled on the dried leaves, and I would've turned around and seen him. Maybe he realized that, so he decided to try and kill me from the sidewalk."
"I don't buy it," the chief said.
"Neither do I," said Foxwell. The other cops sprinkled
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