“I suppose one place is as good as another,” I said, cutting across town. “But if I find them I won't take it easy. The lousy punks!”
“A punk is a punk. Some kill for a dime, others for a million.”
“But why kill the child at all? They got what they wanted, down the line.”
“It follows the usual pattern. They had to kill little Joanie. A four-year-old is big enough to identify a man, or a woman.”
“Woman? No woman would kill a child.”
Doc gave me a tired grin. “You're a sentimentalist, Bucky. All toughs are. A woman can want a bundle of folding money as badly as any man.”
“Even so, a kid, practically a baby—how could her identification stand up in court?”
“Why not? Joanie would have been with somebody, say this tall man, for over three days—why wouldn't she be able to pick his picture out of the rogues' gallery? So she's a kid, can't be sure; she picks a dozen or two mug shots. We start investigating every one she picks out, and sooner or later we're going to come across something that doesn't check, then everything falls like a house of cards. Smith was right about this gang being clever—they're safe as long as we haven't any idea who they might be.”
“But to kill a child in cold blood... I couldn't do it.”
“And if the killing had been done in hot blood, say an over-hard slap to stop the kid's crying, done by a mother—is that any different, any better? Don't forget the penalty for a snatch—death. They had nothing to lose.”
“The devil with the penalty; I still couldn't do it,” I said, thinking: An adopted child, too.
We had coffee in a dump. The place Doc wanted was closed. In fact, by the middle of the afternoon I was soggy from the coffee and beers we were having on the cuff—Doc always insisted we lay off any hard stuff while we were working. The papers carried screaming headlines and the picture of the dead kid. Poppa had suffered a heart attack and was on the critical list. The whole town was raging mad. We asked and asked, looked and looked. Doc put the screws on his stoolies, but we didn't come up with a thing.
The effects of the kayo had disappeared, but I was keyed up, in a bad mood. Even Doc's chattering got on my nerves. Around noon he insisted on visiting the zoo and gave me a lecture in front of the gorilla cage. Then while we were eating he went off on what a cruel animal man is—that in many slaughterhouses hogs are hung on hooks while conscious, cut, and left to bleed slowly to death. How it would be more humane and cheaper to kill the animals with drugs or by mechanical means, since thousands of the beasts were so badly bruised they had to be thrown away and...
I finally cut him off with, “Doc, some other time. I'm too restless for the education pitch! Let's get back to work.”
“Let's. There's one guy in all this they haven't looked into—poppa.”
“You mean he strangled his own kid? That's loony talk!”
“Is it? Suppose he's in a tight financial hole—and remember when these big boys lose they drop a big chip. Let's say he needs a million to cover up. So he arranges a 'kidnapping' and —”
“And kills his own kid?”
“It would explain his not wanting the police around. As for the kid, she's adopted, and he could have been faced with doing time or...”
I got up from the table. “That's stupid talk. Don't you know folks love adopted kids better than their own flesh and blood? Let's get out of here.”
Late in the afternoon Doc said, “I'm bushed, and so are you. We'll knock off for a few hours and see Betty. Maybe she can make us a decent meal.”
“This isn't the time for goofing off.”
“Bucky, we're like a dog chasing his tail. I've seen my stoolies. They'd be glad to help, but they don't know a thing. A change of pace might help our thinking.”
“No.”
“Don't be a glory-hound, son. What more can we do? You think these slobs are going to be living it up at a bar, buying drinks on the house? I'm pooped and you're on edge; remember what happened at the station house this morning. We—”
“That runt Sunday-punched me. I didn't hit him.”
“That's what I mean. You tried to but didn't. Proves you're stale. Let me get some Canadian bacon, duck eggs, and cook a fine chow while you and Betty watch TV.” Doc let me have a corny wink.
“Stop it.”
“Bucky, I'm tired. I have to rest. My legs are killing me. Besides, we haven't seen her for days. Betty may need us.”
“I've been phoning. Spoke to her yesterday. She's okay.”
“Have it your way. You keep looking for them under a beer glass. I'll go up and see Betty.”
Doc did look peaked and it wouldn't hurt to see Betty for a few minutes. I said okay and Doc drove downtown to a fancy delicatessen to buy the damn duck eggs. When we reached Betty's house, Doc double-parked and we went in. Ringing for the self-service elevator, I told him, “You must be bushed. You shouldn't have double-parked. No sense in explaining things to the beat bull.”
“He ought to recognize a squad car.”
“That makes it better?”
Doc sighed. “You have a point. I'll hunt a parking space.” He handed me the bag of groceries along with a mock grin. “But don't you two get comfortable up there. I can't cook out in the hallway.”
“That's the last thing on my mind.”
Opening the outside door, Doc called back, “Tell Betty to leave the food alone. Cooking isn't one of her talents.”
Betty took so long opening the door I used my key. And the second I saw her I knew something was wrong. She looked upset. As I put the bag down and took her in my arms, she jerked her head toward the closed bedroom door. I asked, “Somebody in there?”
She nodded. “A queer oscar. He's been here since last night. Not doing anything—had me sleeping on the couch. Doesn't even talk much. I'm afraid of him.”
“Why didn't you phone me?”
“Phone you where? Guess I shouldn't complain; he gave me two hundred dollars and said to leave him alone. But looks like he's moved in. He has his bags with him.”
“Bags? What does he look like?” I asked, a strong hunch making me tremble. “Tall and skinny?”
“Tall, but not too thin.”
I saw the bedroom door open a crack. I pushed Betty aside, loosened my gun in its holster as I made for the door. I kicked it open to see this tall man with a head as bald as an egg. He was dressed in a dark, conservative suit, and there was a big mole on one cheek. He was leaning against the dresser, three big suitcases beside him. He had his hands at his sides—long, thin hands that twitched a little. His face was pale and his features almost delicate, except for a nose that must have been busted long ago. But his eyes were hard and shifty. I asked, “What are you doing here, Mac?”
He gave me a sickly smile. “What a man usually does here. I... eh... hired the young lady. Who are you?” He spoke in a soft, smooth voice.
“A police officer. Open those bags! Do it slowly and keep your mitts in sight.” I was so keyed up I could hardly get the words out.