"Yeah. Did you say you found a casing from the Borglan crime scene?"
"Sure. Didn't Art tell you? I told him this morning."
Well, in his favor, Art had been a bit distracted by other things.
"No, he must have forgotten. Good news, though. Now, all we have to do," I said, "is match it to one of a million.22s in the world…"
"No problem," said Jake. "It isn't a.22."
"Pardon?"
"Not a.22, although you'd think it was. It's a 5.45 mm PSM cartridge. Very unlikely there'd be more than a handful of 'em in the U.S. "
"What," I asked, "is a 5.45 mm PSM?" Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lamar perk up.
"Same thing we asked," said Jake. "Turns out it's a Soviet handgun, issued to troops of various sorts. Mostly KGB, NVD, and State Security. Very rare. Collector's item, I'd say.
"About a forty grain bullet," he said. "Not much, about two and a half grams. But ballistically about the equivalent of a.22 long rifle. The gun looks a lot like a PPK. Barrel just over three inches."
"Automatic, then?"
"You bet, Carl."
"And you only recovered one casing?"
"I think somebody beat us to the clean-up," said Jake. "They just missed one."
"Any idea how you'd go about getting hold of one of those PSMs?"
"Not a guess, Carl. No help there at all." He thought for a second. "Maybe a gun show? Or a collector's magazine?"
Well. In a stroke, Jake had pretty well eliminated anybody "average" in the area. I'd seen Cletus Borglan's gun cabinet, and nothing having any connection to a handgun had been in there. Not necessarily a complete negative, but another difficulty.
He said to have Art call him. Sure thing.
I hung up the phone, and looked at Lamar. "You know anything about a PSM?"
"It's Russian," he said. "That's about it." He folded a piece of paper, and put it in his pocket. "Notes on the PSM and the cartridge," he said.
"I'm kind of anxious to hear what Art has to say about this," I said. But alas, Art had slipped out, no doubt on the case of finding a warmer winter jacket.
When I got home, Sue and I had a nice, late, no-pressure kind of supper. We cooked together, making spaghetti and fat-free meatballs, toasted garlic bread, a great fresh salad… It was nice. I would have had some wine, but opted for soda instead. Legally, we were always subject to being called out, and if somebody got in real trouble, I didn't want to let them down.
We ate in our dining room, as opposed to TV trays in front of the tube while watching the news. Nice. No conversation about work. For either of us. For about two minutes.
"How are things going with Art?" she finally asked.
"Fantastic!" Well, as close as you can come with spaghetti in your mouth.
She gave me a look of disbelief.
"Well," I admitted, "it might have something to do with his not being around today."
"Well, just don't let him distract you too much when he gets back," she said. "I know you'll do your best, but he's just not as important as your business."
We cleared the table, and I sat down in my recliner, started to watch the news, saw that the damned warm front was still off to the west, and slept for about an hour and a half. That was unusual, but welcome.
"Still tired from being up for about two days, like a teenager," said Sue. "But you're not…"
"I guess so." I stretched. "No, I'm sure not. The nap helped, though."
Consequently, when the phone rang at about 2115, I was almost ready to go. Full, not too tired, and a bit testy, but nearly ready. It was John Wilis, the new guy. Like I've said, new but sharp. Respectful, as well. Not necessarily respectful of my enormous talent, maybe, but at least respectful of my age.
"Sir?"
"Hey, John. What's up?"
"Uh, could I pick you up… I've got somethin' to show you, I think…"
I went back to the living room, where Sue was reading. "Gotta go for a bit," I said.
"I thought so."
"Sorry… I'll try to get back as soon as I can."
"Something dangerous?"
"I hope not." I grinned. "I'm too full of spaghetti to chase anybody, or to run away, for that matter.''
I went upstairs, and pulled on a uniform. I always kept my utility belt attached to my uniform pants. You do that with little fasteners, called "keepers," that loop over the garrison belt, and secure the utility belt in place. It was much easier with the newer nylon belts than it had been with the old leather ones. Anyway, as I stepped into my uniform pants, the utility belt with its pistol holster, magazine holders, walkie-talkie holder, chemical mace holder and can, and handcuff case was already attached. All you had to do was put on the right underwear for the season, put on and fasten the Velcro straps for your bulletproof vest, put on a shirt, pull on the pants, lace your boots, and fill the various holsters and holders as you were on the way out of the room. Since it was very cold, I had to take the time to put on long underwear. But I was still fully uniformed and equipped in under three minutes. I pulled on my dark green sweater and walked down the stairs.
"Just like a forest green Batman," said Sue, "heading out of the Bat Cave."
I locked the chamber of my S &W 4006 open, slipped a magazine into the butt, snapped the chamber closed with a loud clack, and dropped the hammer. Ready to go. You never knew.
"You better wear more than that down vest."
"I'll grab my parka from my car," I said. "I'm gong to be riding with John for a while."
"Be careful." She looked up. "If you're going to be late, give me a call. Don't call after eleven, though, because I have a faculty meeting at seven. With all the people out with the flu, I really have to be there."
"Okay." I leaned down and gave her a kiss. "Have a good day if I don't get back before eleven."
11
As I walked out the back door, I saw that John's squad car was already at the end of the drive. The porch light caught the reflective five-inch, blue-bordered gold stripe on his white car. Not too good for hiding at night, but great at wrecks. I ducked into the garage, to my unmarked car, and pulled out my Canadian Army parka. The best way to not have to spend time standing outside was to take it. Its pockets were full of neat things, like a stocking cap, thermal gloves, individually wrapped granola bars… I also grabbed my black flashlight.
I opened John's back door, and threw in the parka. I stuffed myself into the front passenger seat. "Hi, John."
"Good evenin', boss."
I reached down and picked up his mike. "Comm, Three's ten-eight for a while with Nine." You had to let them know where you were, and you had to be logged as working if you got hurt. Insurance companies can be a pain in the ass about that stuff.
"Ten-four, Three." In wraparound sound. John had wired the police radio to his stereo speakers.
"Cool," I said. "Sounds better than in real life." Actually, it sounded a lot more bass, and gave her a bedroom-sounding voice. A bit out of character for Eunice, whose voice I recognized.
"You ought to hear Sally," he said, grinning. "Sounds the way you think she would in the morning. So to speak."
"Nice. I'll tell her you said that."
"Wish you wouldn't," he said, backing onto the street. "Things are scary enough…"
"So," I said, as we straightened out and headed out of town. "What brings me out on a night like this?"
It turned out that John had been patrolling in the area fairly close to the Borglan place last night. He had found a level field entrance at the base of a wooded hill, and had backed in about three car lengths, to have coffee and a sandwich. All lights off, but with the engine running, he was eating his midnight meal when he thought he saw something move, out of the corner of his eye. He unrolled his window a way, and listened.