Flashpoint by Ed Gorman Page A

in the packed drunken crowd. But then he said: ‘There. The tall guy talking to the little redhead.’ Almost as soon as he said it the redhead disappeared behind a surge of bigger people. But the tall man with the rimless glasses and the gaunt face could still be seen. He must have been six-five, at least.
    â€˜He says his name is Michael Hawkins.’
    â€˜Thanks again, Earl.’
    For the next three minutes I pushed, twisted and sidestepped my way through a crowd of resistant bodies that smelled of perfume, aftershave, sweat, cigarettes and most especially alcohol. Hawkins loomed like a lighthouse above this wreckage, almost serene in his indifference to all the clamor of the people who were talking at him. He was just taking it in, like a recorder. Some kind of law, he had to be.
    He didn’t hear me at first because I had to shout over the din. The third or fourth time I shouted, the green eyes behind the rimless glasses narrowed and then the gaze ran down his long, thin nose and settled on me. The briefest smile. He managed to say: ‘The coffee shop. Five minutes.’
    Grateful we weren’t going to stay here, I turned and plowed and muscled my way back to the lobby. Earl wasn’t anywhere in sight.
    The coffee shop had red leather booths and a small spray of fresh flowers on every table. The food and the coffee smelled warm and inviting. I took a booth next to the window. I ordered coffee and a tuna sandwich and sat watching people stream from the parking lot into the hotel. The wind was knocking them around; a few of the slighter women resembled toys being scrambled by the invisible hand of a girl playing dolls.
    â€˜That bar is one hell of a place, isn’t it?’
    Hawkins seated himself in parts; he was that tall. Now that I got a good look at him I saw he was in his forties, graying of hair and decent-looking in a stern, Latin teacher way. He wore businesslike blue pinstripes. He had that kind of quiet authority the good ones have.
    The waitress came so quickly I didn’t even get a chance to tell him that I agreed – that the bar was indeed one hell of a place. He ordered coffee and a steak sandwich.
    Long fingers then went inside his suit coat and retrieved the kind of small brown leather holder that contains badges. ‘Just so you know who you’re talking to, Mr Conrad. My name is Michael Hawkins and I’m an investigator for the US Attorney in this district.’
    He showed me the badge and then the ID on the facing side. Since the ID contained not only his name but also his photograph, I had no doubt that he was who he said.
    â€˜I was looking for you because I’m trying to locate a man named Howard Ruskin. I’ve never worked a political case like this one before but I do read the newspapers. Ruskin has quite a reputation.’
    â€˜I’m not sure why you’d think I could help you locate him. I work the other side of the street politically.’
    â€˜We have a warrant out for his arrest. We believe he’s been in our jurisdiction for over a month now but I haven’t been able to find him. This morning our office got a tip that Ruskin was spotted in town here. I was on my way before anything about this murder broke.’
    â€˜Senator Logan did not murder her.’
    He leaned back. ‘Believe it or not, Mr Conrad, I’m only interested in Senator Logan’s case as a spectator. I’m after Ruskin. I assumed that you might be assuming that Ruskin might be involved in your case in some way. I checked you out. Army intel and you’ve worked on criminal cases for a couple of your clients.’
    Pretty impressive. He would assume that I would assume Ruskin was behind the murder – maybe even committed it himself – so I would be trying to track him down. So why not tap me for any information I’d already been able to pick up and save himself some time in trying to nail Ruskin?
    â€˜If I had anything,