it,” Collins suggested, “but the city streets are so dangerous nowadays. Tourists need all the protection they can get.”
Harry silently retrieved his shoulder holster, replaced the weapon, and slipped the whole rig on under his jacket. He looked at Collins in expectation, hoping the cop wouldn’t make him ask for the name of the other Orenda head.
Instead of talking, Collins merely put a scrap of paper down on the side table, rose, neatened his tan coat, and headed for the door. “Take care of yourself, Inspector,” he said breezily, as if he were afraid someone might be listening. “Thanks for all your help.” He stopped with the door half-open. “And keep in touch,” he said meaningfully.
Once he had gone, Harry shook his head in wonder. He almost wished he had been dreaming it all. The Donovans wanted him to leave. Linda was reluctant, but Peter had convinced her of it. But who had convinced Peter? By the sound of it, Shanna had come down on her parents harder than Harry had any right to expect. It could have been done out of embarrassment, but it also could’ve been done out of fear. Fear that Harry would find out more about the things she was involved in than she wanted him to know.
Whatever the reason, it seemed as if Shanna had told her parents that she didn’t want or need Harry’s help, and they had come to Callahan with the message. Collins, on the other hand, wanted him to stay. The police hierarchy had handcuffed him, so he wanted Harry to be his unofficial private eye. He wanted Harry to tidy up the edges of the operation, checking things he couldn’t.
And the black detective had gone out on a limb to do it. He hadn’t pulled strings to get Harry a gun license overnight; he’d gone and pulled a full-fledged rope! That kind of influence impressed Harry. Collins knew what he was about and was willing to risk his neck to make sure justice was served.
No matter what any of them had wanted, Harry had already decided to stay his entire time in Boston. He owed it to Christine, if no one else. If Collins was right and she had killed Morrisson before he could kill Harry, the San Francisco cop had a debt to repay.
The first step in finding the Sherman girl was talking to Shanna. Then, with or without her blessing, he wanted to see this boyfriend of hers, this Jeff Browne. Harry was already pissed at Jeff Browne. He didn’t like the way the subject of his existence had come up. Linda had been pulling at straws, trying to find anything to say that would make Harry stay and look into things further. She must have known that the sudden mention of his existence would pique Harry’s interest.
Harry collected his stuff and left the room. Just before his exit, he palmed the paper Collins had left for him. After Shanna and Jeff, Callahan pondered, he’d pay a little visit to the cult head. He’d have to see just what kind of person he was, whether he was capable, as Collins suspected, of hatching as perverted a plan as brainwashing another boy to commit murder.
Callahan stopped at the check-out desk. He discovered his bill had been taken care of by the city of Boston. The cashier looked none too happy about it. She realized it would be a long time before the hospital saw their money. It was taking intercity police cooperation and hospitality a bit far, but Harry was still fairly thankful to Collins for it. He guessed the black detective figured that Harry was more apt to follow through if he were happy. And with his medical costs paid and his Magnum back in place, Harry was supposed to owe him something.
It was time to start paying Collins back. Harry walked toward the exit, folding open the scrap of paper Collins had left. When he read the name of the Orenda chief, he started running for the exit. He crumpled the paper and threw it angrily at a standing ashtray as he passed. The address was obliterated on the scrap but the name was still legible. “Jeffrey Browne,” it read.
The hospital was on
Harry silently retrieved his shoulder holster, replaced the weapon, and slipped the whole rig on under his jacket. He looked at Collins in expectation, hoping the cop wouldn’t make him ask for the name of the other Orenda head.
Instead of talking, Collins merely put a scrap of paper down on the side table, rose, neatened his tan coat, and headed for the door. “Take care of yourself, Inspector,” he said breezily, as if he were afraid someone might be listening. “Thanks for all your help.” He stopped with the door half-open. “And keep in touch,” he said meaningfully.
Once he had gone, Harry shook his head in wonder. He almost wished he had been dreaming it all. The Donovans wanted him to leave. Linda was reluctant, but Peter had convinced her of it. But who had convinced Peter? By the sound of it, Shanna had come down on her parents harder than Harry had any right to expect. It could have been done out of embarrassment, but it also could’ve been done out of fear. Fear that Harry would find out more about the things she was involved in than she wanted him to know.
Whatever the reason, it seemed as if Shanna had told her parents that she didn’t want or need Harry’s help, and they had come to Callahan with the message. Collins, on the other hand, wanted him to stay. The police hierarchy had handcuffed him, so he wanted Harry to be his unofficial private eye. He wanted Harry to tidy up the edges of the operation, checking things he couldn’t.
And the black detective had gone out on a limb to do it. He hadn’t pulled strings to get Harry a gun license overnight; he’d gone and pulled a full-fledged rope! That kind of influence impressed Harry. Collins knew what he was about and was willing to risk his neck to make sure justice was served.
No matter what any of them had wanted, Harry had already decided to stay his entire time in Boston. He owed it to Christine, if no one else. If Collins was right and she had killed Morrisson before he could kill Harry, the San Francisco cop had a debt to repay.
The first step in finding the Sherman girl was talking to Shanna. Then, with or without her blessing, he wanted to see this boyfriend of hers, this Jeff Browne. Harry was already pissed at Jeff Browne. He didn’t like the way the subject of his existence had come up. Linda had been pulling at straws, trying to find anything to say that would make Harry stay and look into things further. She must have known that the sudden mention of his existence would pique Harry’s interest.
Harry collected his stuff and left the room. Just before his exit, he palmed the paper Collins had left for him. After Shanna and Jeff, Callahan pondered, he’d pay a little visit to the cult head. He’d have to see just what kind of person he was, whether he was capable, as Collins suspected, of hatching as perverted a plan as brainwashing another boy to commit murder.
Callahan stopped at the check-out desk. He discovered his bill had been taken care of by the city of Boston. The cashier looked none too happy about it. She realized it would be a long time before the hospital saw their money. It was taking intercity police cooperation and hospitality a bit far, but Harry was still fairly thankful to Collins for it. He guessed the black detective figured that Harry was more apt to follow through if he were happy. And with his medical costs paid and his Magnum back in place, Harry was supposed to owe him something.
It was time to start paying Collins back. Harry walked toward the exit, folding open the scrap of paper Collins had left. When he read the name of the Orenda chief, he started running for the exit. He crumpled the paper and threw it angrily at a standing ashtray as he passed. The address was obliterated on the scrap but the name was still legible. “Jeffrey Browne,” it read.
The hospital was on
Similar Books
