The newspaperman listened, frowned. The frown became a scowl.
“Okay, Bryant, thanks.” He put the phone together, looked up at Shayne. “McKeever traded out days off this week so he could have Monday and Tuesday. I don’t like this, Shayne. Not one goddamn little bit, but McKeever could have been in Florida. Monday night and back here sometime Tuesday. What’s it mean?”
“McKeever is at headquarters?”
“Yes, of course.”
“See you.”
“See, hell. This is my bailiwick.”
McKeever was alone in an office cubicle off the squad-room. There was a desk and two straightback chairs in front of the desk. Nothing on the walls. McKeever sat behind the desk, munching half of a sandwich. The other half remained in an open wax wrapper on the desk. Beside it was a small carton of milk. His face showed nothing, but his eyes were wary as he looked up at Shayne and Wallace. He looked like he didn’t want to be disturbed.
Shayne plunged. “You want to take me to the half million or do we play cat and mouse games, McKeever?”
The cop sat like stone for a second, the sandwich halfway to his mouth. Then he put down the sandwich slowly and sat back in his chair. Shayne watched where he kept his hands. He wanted the drop if McKeever decided to go for a weapon.
McKeever said finally, “Painter told me you could be a wild man.”
“But he didn’t tell you about the Bastone brothers, Renfro Bastone in particular. He didn’t know about them until this afternoon. So how the hell did you know Renfro was in Miami Beach earlier this week?”
McKeever took a few seconds, eyes narrowed. “Shayne, it’s my business to know about guys like Bastone, where they are at all times.”
It was possible; McKeever could be that kind of cop. But Shayne refused to accept that possibility. Somebody in Las Vegas had killed Flora Ann Perkins, somebody with a strong motive.
McKeever said. “Lay it out for me, Shayne,” in a voice that had ice on the edges. “Just how you think it is.”
Smart, Shayne thought. Lay it out, expose his thinking, his theories, his speculations. McKeever was smart, a man who had listened to thousands of explanations. You listen to the explanations and then you have its holes and you rip it apart at the seams.
“I will, pal,” Shayne said in a hard voice, “to your chief. Wallace, get Amster in here. If he isn’t in the building, find him.”
“Hold it, Max,” McKeever said sharply. He stood behind the desk, looked straight at Shayne. “Let me see if I have this straight. We’ve all heard the rumors that Melody Deans was carrying a half million dollars in skim money. Shayne, are you saying that I now have that half million?”
“I’m saying.”
“I see.” He came around the desk. Shayne was alert, waiting for a fast move. But McKeever remained at a distance. “All right, Mr. Shayne, where do I have it?”
“Wherever you live.”
McKeever lifted an eyebrow slightly. His eyes were brittle. “Not buried in the desert and not put away in a safety deposit box?”
“It’s possible to get a court order to look in a bank box,” Shayne said, “and I don’t think you’d take that chance with a half million. You aren’t going to bury it in the desert, either. A half mill is too much. You’d be going out to the burial grounds every five minutes, checking. Winds play tricks with sand. But more important, I figure you’re planning to fly, McKeever. I figure you’ve got it mapped out to sit around for a few weeks, maybe a couple of months or so, then resign for one concocted reason or another and vanish with the bread.”
McKeever nodded. “As Painter said, you are wild, Mr. Shayne. I live in a duplex. Shall we go? You may look all night, if you wish.”
“I’ve got all kinds of time, pal.”
“You drive, Max,” McKeever said.
Outside, McKeever got into the front seat beside Wallace. Shayne sat in back. McKeever looked straight ahead, didn’t twist a muscle. Shayne frowned. Was he wrong about this dude? He’d expected McKeever to make a break once the were outside the station. McKeever had stopped Wallace before the newspaperman could summon Chief Amster.
The duplex was in a quiet neighborhood. Both sides of the squat house-looked empty. The doors were closed, drapes were drawn, and there was nobody in the yard.
“I live on the right side, Wallace,” McKeever said.
Wallace braked at the curbing out front. Shayne saw a two-year blue convertible in the drive next to the right unit of the duplex. McKeever used a key to open the front door. “My landlord lives next door, but he’s gone down to Mexico.”
McKeever entered, and Shayne saw the movement of the cop-detective’s right arm. He slammed Wallace out of his path and shot his palms against McKeever’s spine, sending him stumbling across the room.
McKeever crashed against a table, knocking a lamp: to the carpeting, but he spun as he went down and there was a gun in his hand. Shayne lashed out with his foot, the toe of his shoe driving the gun hand up. He caught the gun in both hands and twisted savagely, wrenching the weapon from McKeever’s hand.
McKeever sagged against the carpeting. He lay breathing hard for a long time, staring at nothing. Finally, Wallace whispered, “Hey, what the hell...”
“The money is here,” Shayne said. “We were next to being dead men, Wallace. All he had to do was get away from the station, lure us here, kill us and vanish in that car outside. Do I kick it out of you, McKeever, or do you talk?”
It all had started with Melody Deans, who was planning to leave the country. She had needed a passport, and to get the passport, she had needed a birth certificate. But Melody had wanted to leave the country under another name. So she had gone to her friend, Flora Ann Perkins, told Flora Ann she was running from some man from Detroit. She wanted to disappear for awhile, but she had to go under another name so the man couldn’t follow her. She even had laid out travel plans: purchase an air ticket to Philadelphia, then switch flights enroute, fly to Miami, then to Copenhagen, the maneuvering to throw off the man in case he should try to follow her.
Flora Ann had bought it. Confiding women understood those kind of things. But Flora Ann also could not keep a secret. She had to tell someone. She had told Harold Wilson McKeever, clandestine cop-lover, who, being a cop, was immediately suspicious. It did not seem to Harold Wilson McKeever that a woman needed to lay such elaborate plans to rid herself of an unwanted suitor.
Melody Deans always had been a suspected carrier of skim money. Could it be that this time out she wanted to obtain a passport under another name so that she could journey to Copenhagen with a bagful of stolen loot?
McKeever arranged his days off duty so he could be inside Miami’s International air terminal when Melody Deans arrived. Surprise! Inside the terminal, McKeever spots a Vegas creep he recognizes — and who would recognize him.
McKeever stays out of sight but keeps Renfro Bastone in range. Then, second surprise. When Melody Deans arrives and marches out of the terminal, Bastone is moving along behind her. Bastone is a shadow, maybe a second shadow. There’s a kid up front who seems to be trailing Melody Deans too.
It’s all screwy as hell, and it almost forces McKeever to pull in his horns, turn back, but at this splashy hotel in Miami Beach, the shadows go one way while Melody Deans goes another. McKeever takes off after Melody Deans’ luggage. Bellboy makes his deposit, comes out of suite, checking door to be sure it is locked, disappears.
McKeever slithers to door. It’s no sweat. He’s got keys to open almost any door. But inside he’s frustrated. He can’t find money. Only two suitcases that produce clothing, a passport and an airline ticket to Madrid, Spain. Madrid? Not Copenhagen? But it could figure. A confiding woman might have lied if she didn’t want her friend to know her true destination.