"As I told you on the phone, the lab sent over whole batch of letters and bills and whatnot, Father Michael's stuff, you know, which I finished going through. The point is, the lab some very good latents on them, and we...”
"Latents?”
"Father Michael's, of course, but also some wild prints that may have been left by the killer. In case he'd been in the office looking through the files for something, which is still a possibility because of that open file drawer and the papers on the floor. Okay, so far?”
“Yes,” Krissie said, and smiled.
"So what we're trying to do is track down the wild prints the ones we know for sure weren't left by Father Michael and eliminate whoever might have had a legitimate reason to be handling the papers. One of the logical...”
“Yes, his secretary," Krissie said, and smiled.
"Yes, would be a logical choice. Typing them, filing them, and so on.”
"Yes.”
"You look very pretty this morning," he said.
The words startled her. They startled him, too. He hadn't expected to say them out loud. A second earlier, he'd only been thinking them.
"Well, thank you," Krissie said.
"Sorry," he said.
"No, no.”
"But you do.”
"Well, thanks.”
There was an awkward silence. They stood side .-by side in a shaft of sunlight streaming through the Window. The squadroom was unusually silent this morning. Somewhere down the hall, a tele rang. Outside on the street, a horn honked.
"The thing is," he said, and cleared his throat, the killer did touch any of the papers ... and chance are he at least had his hands on that stuff he threw over the floor then by eliminating as many latents as we can, we might have a shot identification later on. If we come up with Which so far we haven't. But if we do.”
"Yes.”
“Which is why I asked you to stop by to have prints taken, if it's no bother.”
“No bother at all," she said.
"It'll take ten, fifteen minutes at the most.”
"I've always wondered what it'd be like to my fingerprints taken.”
"Really? Well, here's your chance to find out.”
“Yes," she said.
"Yes," he said, and cleared his throat again.
"Are you catching a cold?" she asked.
"No, I don't think so.”
"Because you keep clearing your throat, know...”
"No, that's...”
"So I thought maybe...”
"No, that's a nervous reaction," Hawes said.
"Oh," she said.
"Yes.”
"Oh.”
They looked at each other.
"Well, how do we do this?" she asked.
"Well... if you'll step over to this table...”
"Just like in the movies, huh?”
"Sort of.”
"I've never had my fingerprints taken before," she said.
"Yes, I know.”
"Did I tell yout”
"Yes.”
“Oh. Then it must be true," she said.
"Yes.”
"The first thing I have to do," he said, "is lock my pistol in the desk drawer there because what happened once I don't know how long ago this was - a police officer somewhere in the city was fingerprinting a felon and the guy grabbed the gun and shot him dead.”
“Oh my!" Krissie said.
"Yeah," Hawes said. "So now it's a rule that whenever we're fingerprinting anyone, we have to take off the gun.”
He walked over to his desk, dropped his pistol into one of the deep drawers on the right-hand side, locked the drawer, and then came back to the fingerprinting table. Krissie watched apprehensively as he began squirting black ink from a tube onto a pane of glass.
"This stuff washes right off with soap and water," he said.
"Thank God," she said.
"Oh sure, nothing to worry about.”
"You must be an expert at this," she said.
"Well, it becomes second nature. Although we rarely do it anymore. This is all done at Central Booking now. Downtown. At Headquarters.”
“Mugging and printing," she said. "Is that what you call it?”
"Yes.”
"Mugging and printing," she said again.
"Yes." He was rolling the ink onto the glass now spreading it evenly.
She watched him with interest.
"You have to spread it, huh?" she said.
"Yes.”
"Like blackberry jam," she said.
"I never thought of it that way," he said, and down the roller. "There we go. Now I'll just take of these cards...”
He took a fingerprint card from the rack at back of the table.
"And if you'll let me have your right first...”
She extended her hand to him.
"I have to... uh... sort of... uh... if you'll just your hand hang sort of... uh... Loose... I have to them on the glass first, you see, each finger...”
"I hope this stuff really washes off," she said.
"Oh, yes, with soap and water, I promise. that's better.”
She was sort of standing with her right hip sort against him somewhat, his arms sort of cradling her arm, sort of holding her hand in both his hands as he rolled her fingers one at a time on the glass, and then rolled them in turn on the fingerprint card... "Now the thumb," he said.
"Am I doing this right?" she asked.
"Just let me do it," he said, "just relax, that's the “
way... sort of standing very close to each other in the silent sunwashed squadroom, he could smell the scent of her flowery perfume...
"Now the other hand," he said... sort of guiding each finger onto the glass, rolling it there, lifting it, rolling it onto the card, sort of moving together with a special rhythm now, her hand in his, her hip sort of molded in against him... "This is sort of fun," she said.
"Yes," he said, "can you have dinner with me tonight?”
“I'd love to,” she said.
She'd finally chosen the Walther PPK, a neat little .32 caliber automatic with an eight-shot capacity.
Shad Russell had showed her some guns that had five, six-shot capacities, but she figured if push came to shove she might need those few extra cartridges.
Seven in the magazine, he'd told her, another in the breech. He'd also showed her some .22 caliber pistols, but she insisted on the heavier firepower.
Shad told her the caliber didn't mean a thing. You could sometimes do more damage with a .22 th with a .45. She didn't believe him. If you had bring down a giant, you didn't go after him with pea shooter.
She wasn't even sure this gun would do the job, But all of his bigger caliber guns seemed either too bulky or too heavy. The Walther had a three-inch barrel, with an overall length of only and a half inches, and the lightweight model chose weighed only a bit more than twelve ounces.
fit snugly in her handbag, alongside of and very much bulkier than her wallet. Shad charged her six hundred dollars for the gun. figured that his profit on this deal alone would for a vacation at Lake Como.
She had discovered that a person did not " when she was carrying an unlicensed pistol. suspected that not many such gun-toters the speed limit, either. Or spit on the sidewalk. even raised their voices in public places. She breaking the law. And would break it further if had to. Break it to the limit if she had to. Her bag heavier with the gun in it. The weight reassuring.
She had spent this Saturday morning shopping" the midtown area, and had boarded a uptown-bound, graffiti-covered subway train twenty past two.
She was not in the habit of expensive taxi rides all over the city, and she did plan on changing her habits now. Moreover, she sensed that there would be safety in crowded places; they had spooked yesterday when she'd led them directly to a cop.
The train rattled along in the underground dark.
Marilyn wondered if there were such things as passionate, poetic men who looked like lions and made their homes in subway caves. She wondered if there were alligators in the city's sewers. She wondered if there was such a thing as happily ever after.