lips. Then she asked, “Was my husband killed? Is
that what you’re telling me or hinting at?”
Lockwood answered, “Call it foul play.”
“Good God.” She took another swig.
“Did you do it?” he asked.
“Do what? Kill him? Get out, get out,” she screamed.
He left. She slammed the door behind him. He wanted to see Stinky again. According to Cynthia Jones, even Stinky had handled
the missing thermos.
He drove by the Catholic cemetery and into Flushing, to see the kid again.
Thermos, thermos, who had the thermos?
CHAPTER
13
The kid wasn’t easy to find. Lockwood tracked Stinky down to a malt shop a half mile from the field reading an Army Air Corps
pilot’s manual and sipping a malt.
“Make mine chocolate,” Lockwood told the counterman and slipped into the booth across from Stinky.
“Hi.” The kid smiled. “How’s the case? Did you get the killer?”
Lockwood told the kid he was onto Lorenzo Jones’ murderer and that the kid had to help him.
Stinky went for it.
“Gosh, just like Dick Tracy. Or Terry and the Pirates.”
The kid was making disturbing noises in the bottom of the malt with his straw. Lockwood wondered if that semipermanent smear
of grease on the kid’s nose was there as some sort of badge of aviation know-how.
First, Hook went over the design of the P-16 craft that Jones was flying when he went down. Stinky agreed that there was nothing
wrong with the plane.
Then Lockwood dropped his bomb. “How come you didn’t tell me you had handled the thermos?”
A cloud passed over the speckled moon of the kid’s face. “I didn’t touch the thermos. Who told you that?”
“Cynthia Jones,” Lockwood said, staring him right in the eye.
“It’s a lie, Hook. I didn’t tell the FAA guys, but just before Lorenzo took off, Mrs. Jones told me to go buy some cigarettes.
She gave me money. I shouldn’t have gone. But all those adults were saying good bye to Lorenzo, and they didn’t want me around.
So I got on my bike and—I shouldn’t have left. Not for some lousy cigs.” A tear formed in his right eye. “When I heard the
crash, I pedaled back as fast as I could. Now Mrs. Jones says I did it? She probably got rid of me so she could do it herself.”
Both eyes filled with tears.
“You couldn’t have known, Stinky. Here’s my handkerchief.”
The kid wiped, blew hard, and handed back the results, as Lockwood cringed.
“Thanks,” said Stinky.
Lockwood gingerly repocketed the kid’s present and continued his questioning.
“Did anyone else try to get rid of you?”
“No.”
“Whatever made Jones crash, Stinky, happened in those few minutes you weren’t there. I don’t believe you had anything to do
with it. I know you liked Lorenzo. You’re going to grow up and be an aviator like Lorenzo, I’ll bet.”
“I
am
grown up.”
“I mean, when you reach legal age. You could even join the Air Corps.”
“You bet, Hook.”
“He must have been a great man, a great pitcher, too. By the way, how was his arm? Did he talk to you about hurting it?”
“He kinda hurt it the last game of the season. He worried about it ‘cause it still hurt. But he told me the doctor told him
not to worry.”
“Jones told you the doctor said that?”
“Yup!”
Jones seemed to have confided in Stinky, and the big guy probably wouldn’t have lied to his little companion.
Stinky then asked out of the blue, “You’re going with Amanda, aren’t you?”
That was a pretty adult question. “It seems that way,” Lockwood uneasily confessed. “Why?”
“It’s okay. Better than her going with that idiot mechanic.”
Lockwood was taken aback. “What idiot mechanic?”
“You know. Fat stupid Kepper.”
The revelation came as a blow. Amanda had been hanging around with that chain-smoking mechanic, Rodney Kepper! But the kid
might not know the difference between a friendship and an affair. Lockwood didn’t like the feel of being in the same league
that what you’re telling me or hinting at?”
Lockwood answered, “Call it foul play.”
“Good God.” She took another swig.
“Did you do it?” he asked.
“Do what? Kill him? Get out, get out,” she screamed.
He left. She slammed the door behind him. He wanted to see Stinky again. According to Cynthia Jones, even Stinky had handled
the missing thermos.
He drove by the Catholic cemetery and into Flushing, to see the kid again.
Thermos, thermos, who had the thermos?
CHAPTER
13
The kid wasn’t easy to find. Lockwood tracked Stinky down to a malt shop a half mile from the field reading an Army Air Corps
pilot’s manual and sipping a malt.
“Make mine chocolate,” Lockwood told the counterman and slipped into the booth across from Stinky.
“Hi.” The kid smiled. “How’s the case? Did you get the killer?”
Lockwood told the kid he was onto Lorenzo Jones’ murderer and that the kid had to help him.
Stinky went for it.
“Gosh, just like Dick Tracy. Or Terry and the Pirates.”
The kid was making disturbing noises in the bottom of the malt with his straw. Lockwood wondered if that semipermanent smear
of grease on the kid’s nose was there as some sort of badge of aviation know-how.
First, Hook went over the design of the P-16 craft that Jones was flying when he went down. Stinky agreed that there was nothing
wrong with the plane.
Then Lockwood dropped his bomb. “How come you didn’t tell me you had handled the thermos?”
A cloud passed over the speckled moon of the kid’s face. “I didn’t touch the thermos. Who told you that?”
“Cynthia Jones,” Lockwood said, staring him right in the eye.
“It’s a lie, Hook. I didn’t tell the FAA guys, but just before Lorenzo took off, Mrs. Jones told me to go buy some cigarettes.
She gave me money. I shouldn’t have gone. But all those adults were saying good bye to Lorenzo, and they didn’t want me around.
So I got on my bike and—I shouldn’t have left. Not for some lousy cigs.” A tear formed in his right eye. “When I heard the
crash, I pedaled back as fast as I could. Now Mrs. Jones says I did it? She probably got rid of me so she could do it herself.”
Both eyes filled with tears.
“You couldn’t have known, Stinky. Here’s my handkerchief.”
The kid wiped, blew hard, and handed back the results, as Lockwood cringed.
“Thanks,” said Stinky.
Lockwood gingerly repocketed the kid’s present and continued his questioning.
“Did anyone else try to get rid of you?”
“No.”
“Whatever made Jones crash, Stinky, happened in those few minutes you weren’t there. I don’t believe you had anything to do
with it. I know you liked Lorenzo. You’re going to grow up and be an aviator like Lorenzo, I’ll bet.”
“I
am
grown up.”
“I mean, when you reach legal age. You could even join the Air Corps.”
“You bet, Hook.”
“He must have been a great man, a great pitcher, too. By the way, how was his arm? Did he talk to you about hurting it?”
“He kinda hurt it the last game of the season. He worried about it ‘cause it still hurt. But he told me the doctor told him
not to worry.”
“Jones told you the doctor said that?”
“Yup!”
Jones seemed to have confided in Stinky, and the big guy probably wouldn’t have lied to his little companion.
Stinky then asked out of the blue, “You’re going with Amanda, aren’t you?”
That was a pretty adult question. “It seems that way,” Lockwood uneasily confessed. “Why?”
“It’s okay. Better than her going with that idiot mechanic.”
Lockwood was taken aback. “What idiot mechanic?”
“You know. Fat stupid Kepper.”
The revelation came as a blow. Amanda had been hanging around with that chain-smoking mechanic, Rodney Kepper! But the kid
might not know the difference between a friendship and an affair. Lockwood didn’t like the feel of being in the same league
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