must have pulled a thorn out
of his boot, because O’Hara claims that Grimes would listen to her
advice. Only that’s all changed since last night. O’Hara says
Grimes believes that Sarah set him up. And Grimes is a vindictive
son-of-a-bitch. O’Hara is afraid that he’ll come gunning for the
girl."
"And me?"
"Oh, you’re on his list, too. Right up near
the top, according to O’Hara."
"How come O’Hara suddenly got so talkative?"
McMasters smiled humorlessly. "He’s a
snot-nosed kid, Harry. And we were in no mood to mess around last
night."
"You worked him over?"
"Wake up and smell the coffee," McMasters
said with disgust.
"So why was Grimes worried about federal cops?"
"O’Hara wouldn’t say. But those pictures you
gave us tell part of the story. And when we busted the club last
night, we found a regular armory in the back office. Pistols,
grenades, the works."
"You think Lovingwell’s death is tied to this
business?"
"We don’t know. If we can trace the murder
weapon to the cache we found on Calhoun Street, we’ll be in a
better position to say. Right now, we have no idea where the gun came
from."
I said, "How much do you have on Sarah
Lovingwell?"
"We’ve got a motive," McMasters said.
"And we’ve got a witness who can place her near the scene at
twelve on Tuesday. The girl claims she didn’t go all the way up to
the house, that when she saw her father’s car in the driveway she
turned around and went back to the club. But even if she’s telling
the truth and she didn’t do the I killing herself, she probably
knows who did. The lab puts the time of death between twelve and
twelve-thirty, and that would be right about the time that Sarah was
moseying up to the door. We’ve also got the fact that she lied to
us about being with O’Hara."
I frowned at McMasters. "You don’t have a
shred of hard evidence. Any lawyer in his right mind would have her
out on habeas by this afternoon."
"That’s true," he said. "She
probably will get bailed out tonight. But then we haven’t talked to
you, yet, Harry."
I pointed innocently at my chest.
"Yeah, you," McMasters said. "You must
think I’m an idiot. I’ve got eyes and half a brain. You’ve been
holding out on me from the start. And I told you—I don’t like
that. You knew the O’Hara kid was lying. You knew he wasn’t with
the girl between noon and one. You had to know, because the jerk-off
was following you home."
I’d realized it was there all along; but this was
the first time I actually felt the ice beneath my feet.
"All right," I said carefully. "Say I
did know. I’m still working for the girl."
"The hell. She hates your guts. She thinks it
was you who set her and the O’Hara kid up."
"Then why does she want to see me?"
McMasters shrugged. "All I know is that after
you’re done talking with her, you’ve got an appointment to talk
with me. We want to know why she killed her father. And you can tell
us."
"Suppose I don’t?"
"Then I’ll throw you in jail, Harry."
"On what charge?"
"Something’ll come
to me," McMasters said.
***
I waited for another twenty minutes in a big, drab
ante-room on the eighth floor. The place was as tense and cheerless
as a hospital emergency room. Two dozen sad cases waited along with
me—nervous, dispirited fathers, mothers, kinfolk. I was vaguely
conscious of a pecking order among the old hands. The sort of thing
you see at welfare offices—the poor abusing the poor with a
heartless gusto. One woman in particular, graying, with large crooked
teeth and the cold black eyes of a Negro tough, seemed to be holding
court in her corner of the room. But I was too preoccupied with Sarah
Lovingwell to pay her much attention, even when she turned to another
old hand sitting beside her and said: "That man there has him
some trouble."
I laughed to myself. What trouble? There wasn’t
going to be any trouble. I’d just walk into the visitor’s room
and tell Sarah L. that I was quitting the case, that
of his boot, because O’Hara claims that Grimes would listen to her
advice. Only that’s all changed since last night. O’Hara says
Grimes believes that Sarah set him up. And Grimes is a vindictive
son-of-a-bitch. O’Hara is afraid that he’ll come gunning for the
girl."
"And me?"
"Oh, you’re on his list, too. Right up near
the top, according to O’Hara."
"How come O’Hara suddenly got so talkative?"
McMasters smiled humorlessly. "He’s a
snot-nosed kid, Harry. And we were in no mood to mess around last
night."
"You worked him over?"
"Wake up and smell the coffee," McMasters
said with disgust.
"So why was Grimes worried about federal cops?"
"O’Hara wouldn’t say. But those pictures you
gave us tell part of the story. And when we busted the club last
night, we found a regular armory in the back office. Pistols,
grenades, the works."
"You think Lovingwell’s death is tied to this
business?"
"We don’t know. If we can trace the murder
weapon to the cache we found on Calhoun Street, we’ll be in a
better position to say. Right now, we have no idea where the gun came
from."
I said, "How much do you have on Sarah
Lovingwell?"
"We’ve got a motive," McMasters said.
"And we’ve got a witness who can place her near the scene at
twelve on Tuesday. The girl claims she didn’t go all the way up to
the house, that when she saw her father’s car in the driveway she
turned around and went back to the club. But even if she’s telling
the truth and she didn’t do the I killing herself, she probably
knows who did. The lab puts the time of death between twelve and
twelve-thirty, and that would be right about the time that Sarah was
moseying up to the door. We’ve also got the fact that she lied to
us about being with O’Hara."
I frowned at McMasters. "You don’t have a
shred of hard evidence. Any lawyer in his right mind would have her
out on habeas by this afternoon."
"That’s true," he said. "She
probably will get bailed out tonight. But then we haven’t talked to
you, yet, Harry."
I pointed innocently at my chest.
"Yeah, you," McMasters said. "You must
think I’m an idiot. I’ve got eyes and half a brain. You’ve been
holding out on me from the start. And I told you—I don’t like
that. You knew the O’Hara kid was lying. You knew he wasn’t with
the girl between noon and one. You had to know, because the jerk-off
was following you home."
I’d realized it was there all along; but this was
the first time I actually felt the ice beneath my feet.
"All right," I said carefully. "Say I
did know. I’m still working for the girl."
"The hell. She hates your guts. She thinks it
was you who set her and the O’Hara kid up."
"Then why does she want to see me?"
McMasters shrugged. "All I know is that after
you’re done talking with her, you’ve got an appointment to talk
with me. We want to know why she killed her father. And you can tell
us."
"Suppose I don’t?"
"Then I’ll throw you in jail, Harry."
"On what charge?"
"Something’ll come
to me," McMasters said.
***
I waited for another twenty minutes in a big, drab
ante-room on the eighth floor. The place was as tense and cheerless
as a hospital emergency room. Two dozen sad cases waited along with
me—nervous, dispirited fathers, mothers, kinfolk. I was vaguely
conscious of a pecking order among the old hands. The sort of thing
you see at welfare offices—the poor abusing the poor with a
heartless gusto. One woman in particular, graying, with large crooked
teeth and the cold black eyes of a Negro tough, seemed to be holding
court in her corner of the room. But I was too preoccupied with Sarah
Lovingwell to pay her much attention, even when she turned to another
old hand sitting beside her and said: "That man there has him
some trouble."
I laughed to myself. What trouble? There wasn’t
going to be any trouble. I’d just walk into the visitor’s room
and tell Sarah L. that I was quitting the case, that
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