“Sit down,” Monoghan had said.
“Cool your heels a little,” Monroe added.
“The lieutenant is dictating a memo. He’ll be with you in a little while.”
Whatever the good lieutenant was dictating, Kling decided after waiting an hour, it was not a memo. It was probably volume two of his autobiography, The Patrolman Years. He had long ago given up the possibility of being on time for his date with Claire. It was now 6:45, and tempus was fugiting along at a merry clip. With luck, though, he might still catch her at the school, assuming she’d give him the benefit of the doubt and wait around a while. Which, considering her reluctance to make the date in the first place, was a hell of a lot to assume.
Impatiently, Kling bided his time.
At 8:20, he stopped a man in the corridor and asked if he could use a phone. The man studied him sourly and said, “Better wait until after the lieutenant sees you. He’s dictating a memo.”
“On what?” Kling cracked. “How to dismantle a radio motor patrol car?”
“What?” the man said. “Oh, I get it. Pretty funny.” He left Kling and went to the water cooler. “You want some water?”
“I haven’t eaten since noon,” Kling said.
“Take a little water. Settle your stomach.”
“No bread to go with it?” Kling asked.
“What?” the man said. “Oh, I get it. Pretty funny.”
“How much longer do you think he’ll be?”
“Depends. He dictates slow.”
“How long has he been with Homicide North?”
“Five, ten years. I don’t know.”
“Where’d he work before this? Dachau?”
“What?” the man said. “Oh, I get it.”
“Pretty funny,” Kling said dryly. “Where are Monoghan and Monroe?”
“They went home. They’re hard workers, those two. Put in a big day.”
“Listen,” Kling said, “I’m hungry. Can’t you kind of goose him a little?”
“The lieutenant?” the man said. “Me goose the lieutenant? That’s the funniest thing you said yet.” He shook his head and walked off down the corridor, turning once to look back at Kling incredulously.
At 10:33, a detective with a .38 tucked into his waistband came into the corridor.
“Bert Kling?” he asked.
“Yes,” Kling said wearily.
“Lieutenant Hawthorne will see you now,” he said.
“Glory hall—”
“Don’t make wisecracks with the lieutenant,” the detective advised. “He ain’t eaten since suppertime.”
He led Kling to a frosted door appropriately marked LIEUTENANT HENRY HAWTHORNE, threw it open, said, “Kling, Lieutenant,” and then ushered Kling into the room. The detective left, closing the door behind him.
Hawthorne sat behind a desk at the far end of the room. He was a small man with a bald head and bright blue eyes. The sleeves on his white shirt were rolled up past the elbows. The collar was unbuttoned, the tie knot yanked down. He wore a shoulder holster from which protruded the walnut stock of a.45 automatic. His desk was clean and bare. Green file cabinets formed a fortress wall behind the desk and on the side of it. The blinds on the window to the left of the desk were pulled tightly closed. A wooden plaque on the desk read: LT. HAWTHORNE.
“Kling?” he said. His voice was high and brassy, like a double C forced from the bell of a broken trumpet.
“Yes, sir,” Kling said.
“Sit down,” Hawthorne said, indicating the straight-backed chair alongside the desk.
“Thank you, sir,” Kling said. He walked to the chair and sat. He was nervous, very nervous. He certainly didn’t want to lose his job, and Hawthorne seemed like a tough customer. He wondered if a lieutenant in Homicide could ask the commissioner to fire a patrolman, and he decided a lieutenant in Homicide definitely could. He swallowed. He wasn’t thinking of Claire any longer, nor was he thinking of food.
“So you’re Mr. Sherlock Holmes, eh?” Hawthorne said.
Kling didn’t know what to answer. He didn’t know whether to smile or cast his eyes downward. He didn’t know whether to sit or go blind.
Hawthorne watched him. Emphatically, he repeated, “So you’re Mr. Sherlock Holmes, eh?”
“Sir?” Kling said politely.
“Diddling around with a murder case, eh?”
“I didn’t realize, sir, that—”
“Listen to me, Sherlock,” Hawthorne said, slamming his open palm on to the desk. “We got a phone call here this afternoon.” He opened the top drawer. “Clocked in at” — he consulted a pad — “sixteen thirty-seven. Said you were messing around with this Jeannie Paige thing.” Hawthorne crashed the desk drawer shut. “I’ve been very kind to you, Sherlock. I could have gone straight to Captain Frick at the 87th. The 87th happens to be your precinct, and Captain Frick happens to be an old and dear friend of mine, and Captain Frick doesn’t take nonsense from runny-nosed patrolmen who happen to be walking beats. Lieutenant Byrnes of your precinct likes to stick his nose in murder cases, too, and I can’t do a hell of a lot about that, except occasionally show him I don’t too much appreciate his goddamn Aunt Suzianna help! But if the 87th think it’s going to run in a patrolman on me, if the 87th thinks—”
“Sir, the precinct didn’t know anything about my—”
“AND THEY STILL DON’T KNOW!” Hawthorne shouted. “And they don’t know because I was kind enough not to mention this to Captain Frick. I’m being good to you, Sherlock, remember that. I’m being goddamn good and kind to you, so don’t give me any lip!”
“Sir, I wasn’t—”
“All right, listen to me, Sherlock. If I hear again that you’re even thinking about Jeannie Paige, your tail is going to be in one big sling. I’m not talking about a transfer to a beat in Bethtown, either. I’m talking about OUT! You are going to be out in the street. You are going to be out and cold. And don’t think I can’t do it.”
“Sir, I didn’t think—”
“I know the commissioner the way I know the back of my own hand. The commissioner would sell his wife if I asked him to; that’s the way I know the commissioner. So don’t for one second think the commissioner wouldn’t toss a snot-nosed patrolman right out on his ear if I asked him to. Don’t for a minute think that, Sherlock.”
“Sir—”
“And don’t for a minute think I’m kidding, Sherlock, because I never kid around where it concerns murder. You’re fooling with murder, do you realize that? You’ve been barging around asking questions, and God alone knows who you’ve scared into hiding, and God alone knows how much of our careful work you’ve fouled up! SO LAY OFF! Go walk your goddamn beat! If I get another squeal about you—”
“Sir?”
“WHAT IS IT?”
“Who called you, sir?”
“That’s none of your goddamn business!” Hawthorne shouted.
“Yes, sir.”
“Get out of my office. You make me sick. Get out of my office.”
“Yes, sir,” Kling said. He turned and went to the door.
“AND DON’T FOOL WITH MURDER!” Hawthorne shouted after him.
He called Claire at 11:10. The phone rang six times, and he was ready to hang up, afraid he’d caught her asleep, when the receiver was lifted.
“Hello?” she said. Her voice was sleepy.
“Claire?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“Did I wake you?”
“Yes.” There was a pause, and then her voice became a bit more lively. “Bert? Is that you?”