I did so, with my hands outstretched on the wall, and Giant spread my legs a little wider. He looked one foot inside my right one and gave me a rough upper-body patdown.
When I was in army officer training, a military-police major always said to be sure to check a man's crotch for a weapon. When I was actually in the field, a military-police sergeant showed me how to bring the frisking hand up just right to ring the friskee's chimes without any abrupt motion being apparent to an onlooker. I looked down as Giant started his hand up the inside of my right calf, saw the telltale turning of his wrist, and shifted my weight to the left just in time to catch most of his goose on my inner right thigh. Nevertheless, I heard a gentle tinkle of bells.
Giant snickered and moved back from me as I straightened up.
"He's clean, Your Honor," he said-"and smart."
"Please be seated, Mr. Cuddy."
No surprise there. Giant had probably read my plates when I pulled out of the judge's driveway yesterday. One call to the Registry of Motor Vehicles, one call to the Boston police, and one call by them to the Copley Square rent-a-car would have produced the information. Still, I had a feeling that Mrs. Kinnington would be disappointed in me. I also didn't like being roughhoused, even a little, by Giant. But I liked the judge's style sufficiently less that I maintained my composure and dignity. Which is a roundabout way of saying that I sat.
"Why were you visiting my mother yesterday?"
"Does Baby Huey have to hear all this?" I asked. I heard Giant suck in his breath behind me, as though he'd been waiting thirty years for somebody to call him that.
"Officer Blakey will stay." Well, one question answered. I must have missed the nameplate on the blue pup tent with sleeves that Blakey wore.
The judge continued, "By the way, I am sorry about the search, but no security system, even ours, is foolproof. I'm sure you understand." He smiled and gestured to a box on his desk. "Would you care for a cigar?"
"No."
The smile evaporated and was replaced by the case-dismissed look. "Why were you visiting my mother?"
"If you must know, we had a date for racquetball."
The judge's eyes glanced up and then down. The ham applied itself to my shoulder again and, this time, started to squeeze. The initial pain was welcomely replaced by a spreading numbness.
"By the way," I said through reasonably unclenched teeth, "did you hear the one about the Long Island judge who couldn't stand lousy coffee?" I was referring to a judge in New York who some years earlier had had his bailiffs handcuff a guy selling coffee outside his courthouse and drag him in to explain why the coffee was, in the opinion of the judge, so rotten. I couldn't remember what had happened to that judge, but apparently Kinnington did, because he waved Blakey off. My happy blood sang on its way back to my shoulder.
"Mr. Cuddy, I do not wish to see you around my property or my family again. Ever. Do I make myself clear?"
"I've understood every word you've said, Judge," I said as I stood and, not having been knocked down, turned and walked to the door. Blakey backed up, keeping two paces away from me, and opened the door for me.
"See ya around the quad, Cuddly Bear," I said softly to Blakey as I exited past him.
"Remember," said Blakey, just as softly. In the court lobby I stopped at an enclosed pay phone. I called information, got the number I wanted, and dialed it.
"Sturney and Perkins, good morning."
"Good morning. This is John Francis calling from Judge Kinnington's court." I never like to tell a lie. "The judge and I were just speaking about a confidential matter that one of your people is handling, but frankly, the investigator's name has slipped my mind."
"Just a moment, please." There was a click, then dead space, then another click.
"That would be Ms. DeMarco, but I'm afraid she won't be in until two. Can I give her a message?"
"Gee," I said in my best Andy Hardy voice, "that's inconvenient for telephoning. The judge is in the next room. Hold on." I drummed my fingers through one verse of "Eleanor Rigby" so the no-doubt harried receptionist, when I got her back on, would not want to talk very long. I resumed. "Okay, I can be there at two-thirty. Just leave a message that I'll see her then."
"Fine. Thank you," said the receptionist crisply, and hung up.
I left the courthouse, retrieved my. 38 from the trunk, and got into the Mercury. It was only 10:10. The cat being out of the bag, I decided to rattle some more local cages before driving in to see Ms. DeMarco. I crisscrossed the downtown area of Meade until I spotted the police station. I parked (no meters) and went inside.
SIXTH
– ¦ The desk sergeant blinked twice at me. "What did you say, buddy'?" he asked.
I decided against raising my voice. "I said, could I please see whoever's in charge of Judge Kinnington's son's case."
"Sit down over there." I sat down on a bench seat across the small anteroom. The desk sergeant made an internal call while I gave him one of my best Gaelic smiles.
The desk sergeant clamped his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. I hoped he wasn't going to yell anything confidential to me, since you have to cover both ends of the receiver to be sure the other party on the line can't hear what you're saying.
"What's your name?"
"John Francis Cuddy, Sergeant."
He repeated the words into the phone. The sergeant said, "Right" and hung up. "The Chief will be back to me in a few minutes."
"Thank you, Sergeant," I said, and waited. Sergeants in every hierarchy love it when you call them by their title.
Five minutes later, the sergeant's phone rang. He picked it up and said, "Yes, Chief." Just then a young, short, and squat uniformed officer came through the front door. The sergeant hung up.
"Hey, Dexter, show Mr. Cuddy here to the chief's 0ffice."
The short, squat one stopped, nearly came to attention, and motioned to me. "Follow me, sir."
"Thank you, Sergeant," I repeated as I moved into the corridor.
"This is it, sir," said my guide as he gestured to a newly painted door.
"Thank you, Dexter."
"Yes, sir," he beamed, pushing out his chest. I was certain that he was somebody's nephew.
I knocked and heard a near-human growl from behind the door. I entered the office.
There was a nameplate on the desk that said SMOLLETT. No rank or title, just Smollett. The plate was old and worn-looking. I got the impression the chief had bought it when he first came on the force, because he was old and worn-looking too. He had a voice that sounded like a '47 Nash without the mufflers.
"What do you want?" he said. I decided to sit down anyway.
"I want to speak with whoever's looking into Stephen Kinnington's disappearance."
"It's a missing-person case," he said, folding his hands, gnarled by arthritis, in front of him on the desk. "It's been looked into."
"Then can I look at the reports and talk to the investigating officer?"
"Why?" he asked, quite reasonably.
"Because I've been retained to find him," I replied.
"I wanna know who retained you."
"Why?" I asked, quite reasonably.
"Get out," he said, his eyes bulging a bit.
"Look, Chief," I said with some heat, "I've talked with the boy's grandmother, father, and now the chief of police of the town he skipped from. And so far all I'm getting told is to butt out. Now, if this were a criminal case, I could see it. The too-many-cooks theory. But with a missing person, the more knowledgeable people looking, the more likely it is somebody'll find something?
"Get out," he said again, his folded hands trembling a little.