"She should be home this weekend," Sigrid said at last. "I'll tell her you were-"
The pencil snapped. I
"What did she say about me Friday night?" he asked, not meeting her eyes.
"That you and my father were once partners."
"That's all?"
"And that you were with him when he was killed. She blames you for Dad's death, doesn't she?"
"Is that what she said?" Suddenly he looked more tired than she had ever seen him, and sad.
"No, but why else would she-?" Sigrid took a deep breath and began again. "She's heard me speak your name, yet she never once asked if you were Dad's partner. And you! You've known all along who I was, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"Then why, Captain? Is Mother right? I always thought he was killed in the line of duty."
"He was." McKinnon looked up from the broken pencil ends he'd been fitting back together and his brown eyes met hers squarely. "Pull the report and read it yourself."
"Who wrote it?"
He gave a short bitter laugh. "Right." Sigrid flushed. "If I'm wrong-"
"No, don't apologize for your instinct. Anyhow, you're right. I wrote most of it. But not all. And every word's the truth. Leif got careless. The guy that did it-a penny-ante small-timer messed up in something bigger than he could handle-he was holed up in a hotel room off Times Square and scared out of his skull. Your dad knew him. From the days when he was walking the beat.
He figured he could just walk in the guy's room and waltz him down to the station. He laughed at me because I had my gun out."
His voice trailed off as he remembered.; Sigrid waited quietly.
"He was a Viking. Do you remember him? Big and blond and so sure of himself." There was pain in his voice.
Sigrid shook her head. "Not very clearly. There are pictures, of course. And I remember standing at a high window once and waving good-bye to him down in the street. A few things like that. Not much more."
"You were so young." He looked at her and his smile was almost wistful. "I don't suppose you remember the trot-a-horse rides you took on my knee?"
"No. What happened to the man who shot him, your penny-ante small-timer?"
"I saved the state the cost of a trial," McKinnon answered flatly. "It's all in the report."
"If that's the way it happened, why did Mother react the way she did?"
"You'll have to ask her." He'd gone back to twisting the pencil ends. "Maybes he thought I should have shot sooner or maybe she thought I should have been the one to go into that room first. She wouldn't talk to me or see me after the funeral. I tried. God knows I tried. She called me a murderer and said she hoped to heaven she'd never see me again. I don't know. Maybe she was right. Maybe there was something I could have done. I couldn't bring Leif back, but I could get out of her life and I did."
"Why didn't you tell me when I was first assigned to work here?"
He shrugged and threw the broken pencil aside. "What was the point? At first I thought you knew and chose not to speak of it. Later I realized you probably didn't know and then it seemed best not to rake up the past. You're a good officer. I didn't want you to transfer out."
"I wouldn't do that! I fought for this job. It's all I ever wanted to do."
"So maybe I should let you get out of here and do it," McKinnon growled, reverting to the gruff superior she'd always known.
She rose and crossed to the door. "Keep me posted on these Maintenonk illings," he said as she stepped throught he doorway. "And, Harald?"
"Sir?"
"Would you let me know when Annec omes back?"
Returning to her office, Sigrid passed Peters and Eberstadt in the hallway, Peters knotting his tie as he hurried on short legs to keep up with his partner.
"We thought we'd catch the Wolferman funeral," said Eberstadt. "It's at eleven up at St. John's."
That explained the somber suits, Sigrid realized. Usually the two men wore casual sports jackets and went tieless as much as possible.
She turned the corner and almost bumped into Elaine Albee.
They did those ridiculous mirror movements of two people trying to dodge each other until Sigrid grasped what was happening and stood still, a good strategy except that the other officer adopted it at the same moment and now they stood motionless, face to face.
Elaine Albee stared at her, embarrassed, and then began to giggle. "Sorry."
As Sigrid stepped around her, Albee said, "Lieutenant?"
"Yes?"
"I was wondering. About Lieutenant Knight."
"Yes?"
"He's married, isn't he? I mean, I'm sort of getting mixed signals. You know? And I don't waste time on married men."
Sigrid looked at the younger officer. There was a gun strapped under her arm and she was a good cop, but at the same time her blonde curls were stylishly clipped, a bright blue cotton sweater echoed her eyes, and there were pretty gold studs in her ears. Albee was feminine, forthright, and unafraid of emotional entanglements; and for a moment Sigrid felt a pang of sympathy for Jim Lowry.
"There hasn't been a legal divorce," she said carefully, "but I don't think they're living together."
"Thanks, Lieutenant," said Albee and darted on.
Alan Knight was just typing a final paragraph as Sigrid entered her office. She took one of the side chairs and began to read through the notes, trying to make an orderly pattern in her mind. This was where she missed Tillie the most. Careful and methodical, he was excellent at spotting minute details that slipped past her. There were times when she could skim across mountain tops, but not without Tillie building careful bridges beneath her, shoring up intuition with concrete specifics.
But if the killer's identity were anywhere revealed in this sheaf of notes, Sigrid couldn't see it. She sighed and set the pages aside. "Who do you like for it?" she asked Knight.
"Seems to me that it's a toss-up between Baldwin and Flythe, with Baldwin winning on points."
"How?"
"Well, they both had opportunity, I think; but Baldwin 's got the motive. She probably goofed and put the board at the wrong place. She's not the most efficient
person I've ever met."
"No, but is she the most coldblooded?"
"Why not?" Look how she's more worried about losing her job than about her cousin losing her arm. Or so she'd have us believe. I think she's ashamed to look Dixon in the eye myself," he said indignantly, frowning down at the typewriter.
"That's just immaturity," Sigrid argued. "Think about it, Alan. Whoever booby-trapped that cribbage board had to know he would be killing at least two people. He knew there would be even more wounded, seriously wounded-eyes, limbs-and he didn't care. To kill one person, he was willing to kill or maim a dozen others. We're not talking about schoolgirl self-centeredness. This is a compete disregard for human life."
"Like Red Snow when they bombed that draft board in Chicago?"
"And didn't notice-or care-that there were children on the other side of that partition." Sigrid nodded. "There has to be a link. Flythe has to be connected somehow."
She handed back the sheaf of notes. "There's a Xerox machine at the end of the hall. Would you copy these? And where's that sketch you made of the Maintenon's floor plan? We'll need a duplicate of that, too."
"What are you going to do?" Knight asked, smoothing out his crumpled drawing.
"When I called the hospital this morning, they said Tillie was conscious and able to talk and watch television. If he can watch television, he can read. Maybe he'll see something we've missed. After all, he was there Friday night."
25
TILLIE'S hospital room was painted a cheerful melon, several vases of flowers sat on the dresser, get-well cards were taped to the wall beside his bed, and a cluster of silvery helium balloons bobbled near the ceiling with colorful ribbons streaming down.