me.
“Huh?”
“I said, ‘Drugs.’ ”
“Yes, I know that’s what you said . It’s what you’re getting at that’s throwing me.”
“Listen, the last thing you told me yesterday was that if we didn’t have this supposed affair to look into, we’d have nothing. And that got me to thinking. We have a shooter here who hung around for hours to take a pop at Vincent. And I kept trying to come up with something else that could have merited a stakeout like that.
“There wasn’t anything special in Vincent’s effects. True, he was wearing some decent jewelry and there was over two hundred in cash, which isn’t a bad haul. But how would the perp have known that? Besides, it was no more than he—or maybe she—could have gotten off plenty of other people in that area. Then it struck me: Suppose the killer was expecting the victim to have something a lot more valuable on him that night.”
“Drugs, huh?” I said quietly, attempting to absorb the concept.
“Right. And it’s conceivable the perpetrator was able to rip them off before Lottie Schmidt started screaming. Either that, or Vincent wasn’t carrying on Wednesday, and the shooter had to leave empty handed.”
“Drugs,” I repeated. “I suppose it is possible. Maybe . . .”
Just then a big, blond, Nordic-looking individual of forty-something materialized in the doorway.
“I’ll see you later,” the man told Lou. “I’m interrupting something.”
“As a matter of fact, you are. But come in for a minute anyway, and say hello to Desiree Shapiro. Desiree, this is Walter Peterson—Pete.”
The officer I’d replaced on the Frank Vincent homicide walked over to where I was sitting and extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure. Especially seeing that you’re the one responsible for my getting sprung from the Vincent case.”
“Pete’s not crazy about high-profile investigations,” Lou commented dryly.
“Hey, who needs to work under a microscope like that?” Peterson retorted. He winked at me. “Except maybe Lieutenant Lou here. But I don’t have his ambition.”
“You don’t have anyone’s ambition,” Lou volleyed back, shaking his head while a fond smile played on his lips.
Peterson shrugged. “You could be right. Well, I’d better let you two hot-shots earn your money. Nice meeting you, Desiree.”
“Same here.”
Exit Peterson.
“I think we should have another talk with the grieving widow, don’t you?” I put to Lou now.
“Yep.” And opening the file in front of him, he quickly laid hands on Sheila Vincent’s phone number. I hung around while he made the call.
After a brief exchange punctuated by a nod or two, Lou replaced the receiver, a satisfied expression on his face. “She has a dentist’s appointment this morning, but she expects to be back in an hour.”
“Good. In the meantime, I’m going to give cousin Marilyn a ring.”
“Oh?”
“I want to ask her where we can get in touch with a few people: Sheila’s former fiancé, her publisher, her sister . . . Umm, I figure it might also pay to hear what she has to say about Frank’s dealing drugs.” The truth was, I’d begun to have second thoughts about this theory of Lou’s almost at once, and I had the idea it might be worthwhile to get some feedback from this relative who’d grown up with Frank Vincent. “Care to join me in my office while I talk to her?” I invited.
“No, you go on. You can fill me in when you’re through.”
Marilyn Vincent was wary the instant I announced myself.
With what sounded almost like relief, she supplied me with the name of Ron Whitfield’s firm, Morgan Sklaar’s publishing house, and the town Marsha Whitfield—the widow’s sister—was living in. Following which there was a hurried, “If that’s all, Detective Shapiro—”
“Not quite. I won’t keep you much longer, Ms. Vincent, but there’s something I’d like to ask you about your cousin Frank.”
“Sure, no problem.” But the wariness had
“Huh?”
“I said, ‘Drugs.’ ”
“Yes, I know that’s what you said . It’s what you’re getting at that’s throwing me.”
“Listen, the last thing you told me yesterday was that if we didn’t have this supposed affair to look into, we’d have nothing. And that got me to thinking. We have a shooter here who hung around for hours to take a pop at Vincent. And I kept trying to come up with something else that could have merited a stakeout like that.
“There wasn’t anything special in Vincent’s effects. True, he was wearing some decent jewelry and there was over two hundred in cash, which isn’t a bad haul. But how would the perp have known that? Besides, it was no more than he—or maybe she—could have gotten off plenty of other people in that area. Then it struck me: Suppose the killer was expecting the victim to have something a lot more valuable on him that night.”
“Drugs, huh?” I said quietly, attempting to absorb the concept.
“Right. And it’s conceivable the perpetrator was able to rip them off before Lottie Schmidt started screaming. Either that, or Vincent wasn’t carrying on Wednesday, and the shooter had to leave empty handed.”
“Drugs,” I repeated. “I suppose it is possible. Maybe . . .”
Just then a big, blond, Nordic-looking individual of forty-something materialized in the doorway.
“I’ll see you later,” the man told Lou. “I’m interrupting something.”
“As a matter of fact, you are. But come in for a minute anyway, and say hello to Desiree Shapiro. Desiree, this is Walter Peterson—Pete.”
The officer I’d replaced on the Frank Vincent homicide walked over to where I was sitting and extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure. Especially seeing that you’re the one responsible for my getting sprung from the Vincent case.”
“Pete’s not crazy about high-profile investigations,” Lou commented dryly.
“Hey, who needs to work under a microscope like that?” Peterson retorted. He winked at me. “Except maybe Lieutenant Lou here. But I don’t have his ambition.”
“You don’t have anyone’s ambition,” Lou volleyed back, shaking his head while a fond smile played on his lips.
Peterson shrugged. “You could be right. Well, I’d better let you two hot-shots earn your money. Nice meeting you, Desiree.”
“Same here.”
Exit Peterson.
“I think we should have another talk with the grieving widow, don’t you?” I put to Lou now.
“Yep.” And opening the file in front of him, he quickly laid hands on Sheila Vincent’s phone number. I hung around while he made the call.
After a brief exchange punctuated by a nod or two, Lou replaced the receiver, a satisfied expression on his face. “She has a dentist’s appointment this morning, but she expects to be back in an hour.”
“Good. In the meantime, I’m going to give cousin Marilyn a ring.”
“Oh?”
“I want to ask her where we can get in touch with a few people: Sheila’s former fiancé, her publisher, her sister . . . Umm, I figure it might also pay to hear what she has to say about Frank’s dealing drugs.” The truth was, I’d begun to have second thoughts about this theory of Lou’s almost at once, and I had the idea it might be worthwhile to get some feedback from this relative who’d grown up with Frank Vincent. “Care to join me in my office while I talk to her?” I invited.
“No, you go on. You can fill me in when you’re through.”
Marilyn Vincent was wary the instant I announced myself.
With what sounded almost like relief, she supplied me with the name of Ron Whitfield’s firm, Morgan Sklaar’s publishing house, and the town Marsha Whitfield—the widow’s sister—was living in. Following which there was a hurried, “If that’s all, Detective Shapiro—”
“Not quite. I won’t keep you much longer, Ms. Vincent, but there’s something I’d like to ask you about your cousin Frank.”
“Sure, no problem.” But the wariness had
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