“But why should they bother Lois?”
“Delia mentioned the name, before she died. They’re not going to overlook anything and they’re not going to be polite.”
“All right, Pat. I had a feeling, when you knocked, something had happened. I’ve had a feeling about Delia, for years. You can go now; I’ll be all right. I’ll want to be alone.”
She was under control, now, this woman who’d met many a tragedy, who’d just met her biggest one. The fortitude born of the countless minor tragedies was carrying her through this one.
Pat went from there to Sycamore. He was off duty, and driving his own car. On Sycamore, near Seventh, he parked in front of an old, red brick apartment building.
In the small lobby, he pressed the button next to the card which read: Miss Lois Weldon.
Her voice sounded metallic through the wall speaker. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Pat, Lois. Something has happened.”
He was at the door when it buzzed.
She was waiting in her lighted doorway when he got off the self-service elevator on the fourth floor. She was wearing a maroon flannel robe piped in white, and no make-up. Her dark, soft hair was piled high on her head.
Her voice was quiet. “What’s happened?”
“Delia’s been murdered.”
She flinched and put one hand on the door frame for support. “Pat, when — how—?”
“Tonight. In the alley next to the Dreamland ballroom. Slugged to death. She didn’t die right away. She mentioned your name before she died.”
“My name? Come in, Pat.” Her voice was shaky.
There wasn’t much that could be done about the apartment’s arrangement, but color and taste had done their best with its appearance. Pat sat on a love seat, near the pseudo-fireplace.
Lois stood. “Now, what did she say?”
Pat frowned. “She said, ‘Tell Pat I’m sorry. Tell Pat Lois will know.’ She told that to Lieutenant Callender of Homicide, before she died. He asked me who Lois was, and I told him I didn’t know.”
“Why?”
“I was trying to protect you. It might have been dumb. But they’re going to be rough in this case.”
She sat down in a chair close by, staring at him. “I saw Delia two days ago, Thursday afternoon. She told me then that she was sorry she’d left you. Could it have been that, Pat?”
“It could have been. Yes, that’s probably what she meant. What else did she tell you?”
“N-nothing. She was very vague. She’d — been drinking, Pat.”
“Drinking? That’s a new one for her. Was she working?”
“I didn’t get that impression. She didn’t tell me where she was living, either. Do you know?”
Pat shook his head, staring at the floor. The three of them had grown up in the same block on Vine, though they weren’t of an age. Delia had been twenty-three, and Lois was — let’s see, she was thirty and the fairly well paid secretary to a vice president of a text publishing firm. When Pat was twenty-two and freshly in uniform, he’d been Lois’ hero, who’d been fifteen. At thirty-three, in another kind of uniform, U. S. Army, he’d been Delia’s hero, and she’d been nineteen.
At the moment, he was an old man, and nobody’s hero.
Lois said, “I guess you need a drink.” She rose. “Don’t try to think tonight, Pat. It won’t be any good.”
“I was without her for four months,” he said, mostly to himself. “I got through that. I don’t know about this. I don’t seem to have any feelings at all. It’s like I’m dead.”
Her back was to him. “I know. That the way I felt four years ago.” She poured a stiff jolt of rye in the bottom of a tumbler.
“Four years ago?” He was only half listening.
“When you married her.” She had no expression on her face as she walked over to him. Her hand was steady, holding out the drink.
He looked up to meet her gaze. “Lois, what are you—?”
“I just wanted you to know,” she said, “and now. I’m glad you didn’t tell that officer you knew me. That’s a gesture I can hang on to. It will warm me, this winter.”
“Lois—” he protested.
“Drink your drink,” she said quietly. “Bottoms up.”
He stared at her, and at the glass. He lifted it high and drained it. He could feel its warmth, and then he started to tremble.
“You’re one of those black Irishman,” Lois said softly, “who can go all to hell over something like this. And wind up in the gutter. Or examine yourself a little better and decide she was a girl headed for doom from the day of her birth and all you really loved was her beauty.”
“Stop talking, Lois. You’re all worked up. I’d kill anybody else who talked like that, but I know you loved her, too?”
“Who didn’t love her? She was the most beautiful thing alive. But she was a kid, and she’d never be anything else. Even now you can see that, can’t you?”
Pat stared at his empty glass, and rose.
“Thanks for the drink,” he said, and walked to the door. There he paused, faced her. “It was probably a silly gesture, covering you. There’ll be a million people who can tell them who Lois is. I’m sorry I got you up.”
“Pat,” she said, but he was through the door.
He caught a glimpse of her as he stepped into the elevator. She was like a statue, both hands on the door frame, watching him wordlessly...
The Chief called him in, next morning. He was a big man and a blunt one. He said, “Callender tells me you want a transfer to Homicide for the time being.”
Pat nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“How is it you didn’t tell Callender about this Lois Weldon last night? A half dozen people have told him about her since.”
“I wasn’t thinking last night, sir.”
The Chief nodded. “You’re too close to it, Sergeant. For anybody else, that would be withholding evidence. I’m overlooking it. But I’m denying your request for a temporary transfer to Homicide.”
Pat stared at him, saying nothing.
The Chief stared back at him. “You’ll want a few days leave.”
“Maybe more.” He omitted the “sir.”
The Chief frowned and looked at his desk top. His eyes came up, again. “I don’t like to hammer at you at a time like this. But why more? Were you planning to work on this outside of the department?”
Pat nodded.
“If I gave you a direct order not to, that would be insubordination, Sergeant.”
Pat said nothing.
The Chief said, “Those are my orders.”
Pat took out his wallet and unpinned the badge. He laid it on the Chief’s desk. “This isn’t easy, sir, after fifteen years.” He stood up, momentarily realizing what a damn fool speech that had been.
“You’re being dramatic,” the Chief said evenly. “The thing that makes a good officer is impartiality. Last night you tried to cover a friend. In your present mood, you might go gunning on a half-baked lead and do a lot of damage. This department isn’t run that way. But it’s your decision, Sergeant.” He picked up the badge.
Pat started for the door, and the Chief’s voice stopped him. “It would be smart to stay out of Lieutenant Callender’s way.”
Pat went out without answering. He stood there, in the main hall of Headquarters, feeling like a stranger for the first time in fifteen years. It was then he remembered Lois saying, You’re one of those black Irishmen who can go all to hell...
He wasn’t that complicated, whether she knew it or not. His wife had been killed and it was a personal business with him. His job for fifteen years had been to protect the soft from violence and fraud and chicanery, and this time it was closer to home. Only a fool would expect him to continue checking pawn shops; he hadn’t thought the Chief was a fool. But then, it wasn’t the Chief’s wife.