The Midnight Man by Loren D. Estleman Page A

pushed me away and paced to the center of the room, where he turned and faced me again. I worked on the fresh wrinkles in my suit, which wasn’t looking so new anymore. By the time he spoke again he had himself in check.
    “Feed it to me.”
    I touched my handkerchief to my lip, but the blood was all inside. I used it instead on my forehead, neck, and the backs of my hands. It was close in the room. “I came here last night to see if I could get a line on Smith. A little girl stuck a baby shotgun in my face and I took it away from her. She was on something at the time; for all I know she never came off. We were talking when five or six of her friends showed up. We had words.”
    “Hard words, from the looks of you.”
    “I’m learning to adjust,” I said. “When I get so I look forward to getting the crap beat out of me, this job will be one long free ride. Anyway, I went away from here for a while, and when I came back I was stretched out in the alley next to the building with the rest of the refuse. A fellow named Bassett collected me and I spent the rest of the night and half of today in his trailer in Warren.”
    “Bassett?” John repeated. “Munnis Bassett? Bum?”
    “The world hardly seems big enough for two. He left to get a doctor and to follow some lead he had, and I caught a cab back here for my car. The keys must have dropped out of my pocket during last night’s dance, so I got out an extra set. That’s when I found the little shotgun rider in the trunk.”
    “Know who she is?”
    “She called herself Puddin’ ’n’ Tame, if that’s any help.” The reply came without hesitation. I’d been rehearsing it ever since I got off the telephone with Hornet.
    “Who’s your client?”
    “We’ve had this conversation before, John. Play back my answer from the last time.”
    He sucked in a long draft of stale air.
    “You’ve never been involved in a cop-killing. The rules aren’t the same. Do a fan dance with the facts and you’ll have so many badges up your ass you’ll clank when you sit down.”
    He didn’t sound as if he disapproved of the idea entirely.
    “It’s got nothing to do with the official investigation,” I said. “How long do you think I’d last in this business if I went around violating confidences? My whole reason for existing is an unusual ability to take my mouth out of gear when it counts.”
    “You could use practice.” His scowl lightened. “I won’t press it. I’ve got a pretty good idea who did the hiring, and shame on her. A police officer’s wife should know better. What’d the girl tell you before the lights went out?”
    Among cops there are two styles of interrogation. Some try to dazzle you with footwork and trip you up by rambling on about something innocuous like baseball or their sex lives, then firing hard questions out of nowhere. It’s pretty effective, especially when you’re tired, which you’ll be because there’s nothing in the police manual about giving a suspect breathing space. Others, like Alderdyce, just plod along, one question after another, slugging away until they find a soft spot. If they’re not satisfied with an answer they just go on to the next question and return to that one later to see if you’ve changed your mind. If you have, God help you, because they’ll grin and lick their lips and go back to the beginning and start all over again. The success level is about the same, unless you’re a cagey P.I. with something to hide.
    “Mostly she giggled,” I said. “She might as well have been in Cleveland for all the good she did me.”
    He studied me a long time before speaking. “I hope you’re not holding back. Your license won’t take the heat.”
    I let that one die on its own.
    The door opened and Hornet poked his head inside. “White coats here, John.”
    “Okay. Step in here a minute. Once again, Walker. For the sergeant.”
    Actually it was twice, once to determine if the details varied too much and again to