Cabot looked longingly at the stairs leading to the Division. He wanted with all his soul to be there with the phones, the radio, and detectives who could keep him informed. Mark knew that so he patted him on the arm and said: “You can cover for both of us, Rich. Go ahead.”
“Well, all right then,” Cabot said. He looked up the stairs and straightened his hat with a defiant gesture. “I won’t stay up there though, damn it.”
Lieutenant Ramussen came down the stairs as Cabot was going up. He nodded to Mark. “I’d like to talk to you. Got a few minutes?”
“Sure.”
Ramussen looked into the street sergeant’s office and saw that it was empty. “Let’s step in here; okay?”
Mark went in and the lieutenant closed the door. They both lit cigarettes and Ramussen put his foot on a chair and glanced at Mark with his strange pale eyes. “Now, if it’s not something personal, I’d like to know about the trouble between you and Nolan. I didn’t ask you upstairs, Mark, because, as you’ll understand, I had to presume that Nolan was in the right. But I’d like to have your version of the story.”
Mark wondered how much he could tell the lieutenant and decided not very much. “Nolan’s quick-tempered, and I seem to rub him the wrong way. That seems to be it.”
“I see.” Ramussen drew on his cigarette for a few seconds, his expression thoughtful. Then he said: “You and I have been friends for quite some time, Mark. Why aren’t you leveling with me now?”
“You wouldn’t like it if I did, Lieutenant.”
“Supposing you let me decide that.”
Mark hesitated a moment and then, with the feeling that he was making a mistake, said: “Okay, I’ll tell you the truth. I think Nolan’s a murderer. I think he murdered Dave Fiest. Nolan’s guessed that, I believe.”
Ramussen looked at Mark, and his eyes were cold and angry. “Has it occurred to you it’s none of your business?” he said.
“Unfortunately, I don’t see it that way.”
“Since you’re taking over our work, Mark, suppose you tell me why you think Nolan’s a murderer?”
“He didn’t need to shoot Dave Fiest.”
“That’s the department’s decision,” Ramussen said, and now there was no mistaking the anger in his eyes. “Every time a cop uses his gun there’s a certain element that yells for his scalp and calls him a blood-thirsty fascist. If that group had their way, the police would have to catch criminals with a butterfly net.”
“You know that isn’t my attitude.”
“I’ll be damned if I know what your attitude is.”
Mark shrugged. “I said you weren’t going to like this. I’m going ahead at your insistence, remember. There’s talk about money, Lieutenant. Twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of it that was on Dave Fiest when he got shot.”
“That’s just talk so far. Have you seen the money?”
Mark had known from the start that he’d be on his own attempting to prove anything against Nolan. The police would act on evidence, all right, concrete evidence, without a loop-hole in it, but because they were drilled to work as a unit and think of themselves as a tight-knit pack against the world, they weren’t likely to dig up the evidence against one of their own men. That was the flaw in most cops’ minds; and that was what protected a bad cop.
And so he stared at Ramussen and said: “No, I haven’t seen any money, Lieutenant.”
Ramussen put a hand on his shoulder and shook him gently. “We shouldn’t be yapping at each other, Mark. We’ve been together too long for that. But I’ve got to say this much more: Leave the police work to us. Nolan won’t get away with anything because he’s a cop. But neither is he, or any other man of mine, going to be crucified because he is a cop. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Fine. So lay off him, understand? Let him go his own way and you go yours. Do you want me to have a talk with him, and tell him the same thing? I’ll do that if you like.”
“No, I think it would be better to let it ride.”
“All right.” Ramussen smiled at him and opened the door and went back upstairs.
Mark stared at his cigarette for a moment or so and then dropped it on the dusty floor and ground it out slowly with the heel of his shoe.
11
Nolan left the District after a seemingly interminable night. He had only two jobs, both larcenies in South Philly, but despite the inaction and the flare-up with the reporter and Odell, he was in a pretty fair mood.
Outside on the sidewalk he met Danny Shuster, a bondsman who also peddled jewelry around the districts.
“You’re the guy I want to see,” he said, and was surprised at his own words. But seeing Danny had made him think of Linda.
“Yeah, what is it?”
“You got a good lady’s watch, something a little extra?”
“Sure, sure,” Danny said. “Come on over to my car.”
They walked down the block to Shuster’s car and climbed into the rear seat. Danny picked up a leather brief case and unzipped it. He lifted out a suede watch case and glanced at Nolan.
“How much do you want to spend?”
“That don’t matter too much.”
Danny looked pleased. “Okay then, my friend, I’m going to show you a bargain you won’t ever see again. It retails for four bills, not a penny less. But you look at it before I tell you what I’ve got to let it go for.”
Nolan opened the case and examined the watch. It was gracefully delicate; tiny stones gleamed about the face. He thought of watching Linda put it on, imagined her smile of excitement.
“How much?” he said.
“Two hundred and thirty-five bucks,” Danny said, watching Nolan’s face carefully. “Honest to God, it’s practically larceny for you to take it at the price.”
“Okay, okay,” Nolan said. He had three hundred dollars of Dave Fiest’s money with him, so he paid off Danny and put the sixty-five dollars change back in his pocket.
“Maybe you’ll be needing a ring one of these days,” Danny said, smiling at him cheerfully.
“Hell, I’m not looking for trouble,” Nolan said, but the idea made him expansive. “When I do I’ll check with you.”
“Okay, kid.”
Nolan walked two blocks to a drugstore and called Linda.
“How about a little celebration tonight?” he said. He was remembering their drive the night before and how right everything had seemed.
“Barny, I’ve got a terrific headache. I’m going right home after the next show.” She spoke quickly, almost, he thought, as if she were reading the words from a script.
His good humor faded. “Well, that’s too bad. How about a drive? That might help your headache?”
“No, I’m just not up to it, Barny.” Again the words tumbled out in an automatic manner.
He got a little angry. “Well, how about letting me drive you home,” he said. “I won’t make the headache worse, I guess.”
She paused for a moment, then said more cheerfully: “That’s nice of you, Barny. I’ll meet you after the next show. All right?”
“Sure, that’s fine.” He was smiling again. “And by the way, I fixed our snooping friend tonight. I don’t think he’ll bother you any more.”
“Mark Brewster? What did you do to him?” Her voice sounded high, breathless.
“Well, what do you care?” he said. “I told him off, but good. Look, kid, don’t worry about it any more. Here’s something to make you happy: I got a surprise for you.”
“For me?”
“Yeah, and you can just stew about it till I get there.” He laughed. “I’ve been told women love surprises.”
“Barny, I’ve got to go now. I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah. Goodbye.”
He sat in the booth for a moment, frowning at his cigar. For some reason the conversation hadn’t been satisfactory, but he was at a loss to understand why. Shrugging, he left the drugstore and walked over to a bar on Locust Street to kill the next two hours.