Modern Masters of Noir

by Ed Gorman (ed)

  He stood there for a long time, letting the crowd flow around him unnoticed. When he turned away finally, it was with the feeling that those moments, not the funeral, had been his own farewell to Mike.

  They left soon.

  When they got home, he pulled up in front of the house, but didn’t turn the car’s engine off. He jerked the tie from around his neck. “Take this inside for me,” he said, handing it to Kimberly.

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  He shook his head. “Gotta get downtown.”

  “You’re going back to work?”

  “Yeah. Don’t know when I’ll get home.”

  She looked at him in silence, then shrugged and got out of the car. Simon drove away immediately, his mind already centered on the case.

  Chapter 4

  Some cops are plodders. They accomplish their jobs not with muscle or with quixotic undercover escapades, but instead through the patient gathering of facts, the tedious linking up of disparate bits of information, the slow and careful drawing of a conclusion from the collage thus assembled.

  Douglas Campbell was that kind of cop. The stocky, beginning-to-bald inspector spent a lot of time poring over written reports, comparing statements, checking and rechecking old crime records. He usually ate lunch at his desk, chewing thoughtfully on a tuna fish sandwich packed by his wife, his eyes sharp behind the old-fashioned bifocals.

  Campbell was Simon’s new partner.

  When Troy first broke the news, two days after the funeral, Simon just stared at him, his caffeine and tobacco-numbed brain unable to fully assimilate the crisply worded order. “A new partner?” he mumbled thickly, wishing that his mouth didn’t taste like last week’s coffee. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Troy was in the middle of lighting a cigar; he paused and looked up. “What the devil do you mean, what am I talking about? Nobody in this squad is the Lone Ranger. Everybody has a partner. Campbell is yours. As of today.”

  Simon felt a lurching in his stomach; he pressed a hand to his gut to help ease the pain. “God, you could at least wait until the body gets cold,” he said.

  Troy squinted. “That’s uncalled for, Hirsch. And unfair. I’m not asking you to fall in love with Campbell, just to work with him. He’s a good cop.”

  “This is my case.”

  “This is everybody’s case, Inspector.” Troy finally got the cigar lit. “You do want to break this thing, don’t you?”

  Of course he did. So he didn’t argue anymore; he just sighed and got up to leave Troy’s office.

  “And, Hirsch—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Would you for chrissake go home and change out of that damned mourning suit? You’re beginning to smell like an old tennis shoe.”

  Since then, every couple of days, Troy or someone would remind him to go home and change. Sometimes he even slept a little, before showering, shaving, eating a meal served by a silent

  Kimberly, and coming back. In between those trips home, he grabbed catnaps on a cot at headquarters, and lived on coffee and candy bars.

  It was almost time for another pit stop.

  He sat at his desk, feet propped up, glumly watching Campbell. “We should be out on the street,” he said for the hundredth or so time in the last two weeks.

  Campbell didn’t even bother to look up. “We already talked to everybody, Hirsch,” he said patiently. “There isn’t any sense in going over the same territory again and again.”

  “It beats the hell out of sitting around here like some kind of fucking file clerk, reading old reports. We never once made a big bust sitting on our asses.”

  Campbell closed the file he was working on and sighed. “Simon, can I say something to you?”

  Simon shrugged.

  “I know you were partnered with Conroy a long time—”

  “Eight years.”

  “Fine. Eight years. And I know that you were a terrific team. Highest arrest and conviction record in the city. The dynamic duo. That was great.” He toyed with the folder. “But I’m not Mike Conroy. I don’t operate the way he did.”

  “I noticed,” Simon muttered.

  “Probably we won’t ever be friends, but I think we can work together. If we both try. Why not ease up a little? Compromise isn’t a dirty word.”

  Simon was quiet for a time, rubbing his stubbled chin. “Doug,” he said finally, “let me try to explain something to you. I’m not really interested in how you operate versus how Wild Mike used to do the job. I’m not at all interested in cementing our relationship, or in pulling together to win this one for the Gipper. I don’t give a frigging damn about compromising. I only care about one thing. I only want to find out who killed my partner.”

  “Your former partner,” Campbell said mildly. “I’m your partner now.”

  Simon sat very still. Then, slowly, he lowered his feet to the floor and stood. “I’m checking out for a while,” he said quietly. “Going home to change and get a meal. Later, I’m going out on the street. See what I can pick up from some snitches. Rattle a few garbage cans. Break this case.” He walked to the door. “What are you going to do?”

  Campbell looked at him, studied him, and finally seemed to come to a decision. “I’ll be here,” he said wearily. “Still waiting on that follow-up ballistics check from Washington. They’re so damned slow.”

  Simon met the other man’s eyes. Deciding that they now understood one another, he allowed himself a small smile. “Okay, Doug. I’ll be in touch.”

  Campbell nodded, reaching for his tuna fish sandwich with one hand and another file with the other.

  Kimberly fixed him bacon and eggs, then sat at the table with him as he ate. They didn’t talk much. Simon kept his eyes on his plate, concentrating on the meal. Kimberly clasped her hands on top of the table and stared at the wall. “You look like a zombie,” she said finally.

  “I’m okay,” he said around a mouthful of food.

  “You’re never home. Tammy and I almost forget what you look like.”

  “I’m busy. As soon as this case is over . . .”

  “This case.” She sighed, toying absently with an errant blonde strand. “Tammy won the election.”

  He looked blank. “Election?”

  “For the cheerleading squad.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He poured more milk into his glass and gulped it. “That was why she wouldn’t go to the funeral.”

  “She thought you’d be proud.”

  “I am. If that’s what she wants.”

  “She’s thirteen years old, Simon; of course it’s what she wants. Why shouldn’t it be?”

  He ran a piece of toast around the plate, wiping up egg and bacon grease, then swallowed it with the last gulp of milk. “I don’t know. No reason, I guess.”

  She leaned forward suddenly. “When are you going to stop this?”

  Simon shoved the plate away and lit a cigarette. “Stop what?”

  “Working all the time. Not sleeping. Eating once every two days. Ignoring your family.” She flattened her hands against the table.

  He relaxed in the chair, closing his eyes. “I’m just doing what I have to do.”

  “That sounds like a line out of some old movie. You’re not some kind of superhero.”

  “I know that. I’m just a dumb Jew cop, trying to do my job.”

  “Are you? I don’t think you care about the job so much. I think this is some kind of private war you’re waging.”

  He shut out the sound of her voice. Instead of listening, he ran through the killing in his mind again, watching it happen as if the whole thing were a technicolor movie. He could see it all—Papagallos going to answer the door, Mike sitting in the chair drinking coffee, the killer appearing in the doorway. And that was where his dream image always stopped, at the faceless man with the gun. Over the past two weeks, he’d replayed the scene countless times. At first, all he saw was Mike—the bullet smashing into.him, the blood, the expression on his face as he died. But the
vision expanded until now he felt as if he’d actually been there for the whole thing. He could even see the killer approach the door, see the tall, blond, faceless man pull the gun.

  “Simon!”

  The voice cut through his groggy thoughts. He jerked awake, straightening with a grunt. “What?”

  “Why don’t you go to bed?”

  He rubbed a hand over his just-shaved skin. “Can’t.”

  Kimberly stood and began to clear the dishes. “I think you should see a doctor. Or maybe talk to Manny.”

  He pushed himself to his feet, searching in his pockets for the car keys. “I’m not sick, just a little tired. And why the hell should I talk to my brother?”

  She was rinsing the plates. “I just think it might help. You seem so . . . sad all the time.” She glanced toward him, then away. “I called him last night.”

  Simon stared at her. “What the hell gives you two the right to talk about me behind my back?”

  “It wasn’t like that. I was just worried about you. Manny said it was the right thing for me to do.”

  “Yeah? My fucking bigshot psychiatrist brother. Who the hell cares?”

  Her hands sloshed through soapy water. “He said you’re probably suffering from unresolved guilt feelings, because Mike is dead and you’re still alive.” She was obviously quoting a longdistance diagnosis.

  He took his windbreaker from the back of the chair and pulled it on. “Manny is an ass. If you make any more calls to Boston to talk about my private life, I’ll pull the fucking phone out of the wall.” He walked to the door, opened it, then stopped. “I know this isn’t easy, honey. But it’s so important.

  I’m going to see this thing through. I have to find that man. He killed someone. He killed Mike. It’s my duty to find him. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  She shook her head, banging dishes in the sink. “No, not really. I mean, I know you feel bad about Mike. I know he was your friend. But there are other people working on it, too. I don’t know why you have to do it all.”

  Simon opened his mouth to answer her, then realized that he didn’t know what to say. He simply shrugged and left the house, shutting the door carefully.

  Chapter 5

  The wind blowing through Golden Gate Park was unseasonably chilly, and the clouds skittering overhead looked ominous. Simon huddled on a bench, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, watching as a couple of hardy joggers chased one another in a seemingly endless circle.

  At last, he saw Doug Campbell approaching. The stolid figure, clad in a black raincoat, sat down next to him. They were quiet for a moment. “Lieutenant Troy would like to see you,” Campbell said finally.

  Simon gave a hoarse chuckle. “Yeah, I bet he would.”

  Campbell reached into the pocket of his raincoat and pulled out a bag of unshelled peanuts. He began to crack and eat them. “It finally dawned on him that I’ve been at my desk almost every day for the past two weeks, and he hasn’t seen you at all. He asked some rather pointed questions about our working relationship.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “That things were going along fine.”

  “Good.”

  They were quiet again, watching as a well-developed redhead jogged and bounced by. Campbell sighed and cracked another peanut between his teeth. “Simon, he just dumped two new cases on us.”

  Simon straightened. “How the hell can he do that? We’ve got to keep right on top of this thing with Mike. Let him give this other stuff to somebody else.”

  Campbell spread his fingers helplessly. “Life goes on, man. The squad is only so big. Murders keep happening. It’s been over a month now, and we haven’t been able to give him one solid lead. He said we’ve just been spinning our wheels, and it’s time to put Papagallos on the back burner.”

  “I don’t give a fucking damn about Papagallos, but it’s not fair for him to pull us off Mike.”

  “What can I tell you? Besides, he’s not pulling us off; he’s just spreading us out a little. And he has a point, Simon. You know that it’s almost impossible to crack one of these inside pro jobs. How often can we do it? Face it, man, we haven’t come up with shit.” He offered the bag of peanuts to Simon. “So now we’ve got the hooker strangling and the stabbing on the cable car.”

  Simon took a nut, but instead of eating it, began tossing it back and forth in his hands. “I don’t believe this, Doug. A cop got killed. One of our own buys it, and everybody is in such a goddamned hurry to forget it.”

  “Nobody wants to forget it, Simon. It’s just that there are other things that matter, too.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Well, they better start mattering.” Campbell shoved the bag back into his pocket. “Come on, Hirsch. Maybe it’s time you stop feeling so sorry for yourself, and remember that you’re supposed to be a cop. All these other dead people deserve some attention, too. Even the hooker. I located her pimp. Let’s go ask the gentleman a few questions.”

  Simon got to his feet, swearing softly and savagely. He threw the peanut out over the grass as he followed Campbell to the car.

  It wasn’t until they were riding along Geary Street en route to the pimp’s apartment that Campbell spoke again. “Oh, by the way, I found something that might relate to Conroy’s case.”

  Simon blew out the match in his fingers and looked at Campbell through a curtain of smoke. “What?”

  “Three days ago, there was a hit in Denver. Somebody eliminated a smalltime hood named Willy Simpson.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “It was the same M.O. He opened the front door early one morning and took a slug through the head. I haven’t been able to get a ballistics report yet, but it might be worth checking on.” Campbell negotiated a turn carefully. “And about eighteen months ago, there was a killing right here. Remember Lefty Bergen?”

  “Yeah. Numbers, light?”

  “Right. Well, he was the same thing. The bullet there was too damned messed up for a firm check, though. Same caliber.”

  Simon sat back, nodding. “You might have something, Doug. That case in Denver—you have any more on it?”

  “No, but I figured you might want to talk to them.”

  “I sure as hell do. Now.”

  “After we see the man,” Campbell said firmly.

  “Shit.” Simon glanced at him. “Thanks, Doug.”

  “Just part of the job. I don’t have any intention of giving up on this either, Simon.”

  They finished the ride in silence.

  The forty minutes they spent talking to the sullen black man were forty minutes wasted. He told them nothing, and there wasn’t anything they could pull him in on. So they warned him not to leave town—as if he would, with a stable of six women still working the streets for him—and went over to headquarters.

  Troy passed them in the hallway and stopped, looking surprised. “Well, Inspector Hirsch. Nice of you to drop in on us.”

  “Yeah, sure, Lieutenant,” Simon replied hurriedly. “I gotta make a phone call.” But as he began to dial, Simon suddenly changed his mind and replaced the receiver. “Doug?”

  Campbell didn’t glance up from the report he was typing on their talk with the pimp. “Huh?”

  “I’m going to Denver.”

  Now the other man swiveled his chair around to look at him. “What?”

  “I think I should go to Denver myself and see just what the story is. I have a feeling that this is my boy.”

  “You have a feeling, huh? Troy will love that.”

  Simon stood. “Well, whether he does or not, I’m going.” He turned toward Troy’s office, giving Campbell a quick thumbs-up gesture. Campbell shook his head and bent over the typewriter again.

  Campbell was right. Troy loved it. He slammed a desk drawer shut with a bang. “Oh, I love this, Hirsch. We have corpses popping up all over the frigging town and now you want to fly off to Denver to check out some two-bit stiff there. Because it might—might—have something to do wi
th a case here. A case, by the way, that’s supposed to be in pending. You have a feeling?”

  Simon nodded. “This is my boy.”

  “This is your boy. Great. Do you really expect me to authorize travel vouchers because you’re getting psychic vibes halfway across the goddamned country?”

  “This is him, Troy, the same guy who wasted Mike.”

  “You think. You ‘feel.’ ” Troy shook his head. “Sorry, Simon, but I can’t sanction an official trip with no more than that to go on.

  Simon took a deep breath. “I’m going anyway. Sir. I have some sick days corning. I’ll use that time and pay for the trip myself.”

  Troy looked at him curiously. “You’re kidding. Aren’t you?”

  “Are you refusing to grant me the days?” Simon asked flatly.

  After a moment, Troy shook his head. “No, I’m not refusing. Take the days.”

  “Thank you.” Simon got to his feet.

  “Hirsch.”

  “Yes?”

  “I can understand what you’re doing.” He seemed to read skepticism in Simon’s face. “Damn it, man, no one ever gave you a monopoly on caring.”

  “I know that.”

  “Good. But you can’t let this thing screw up your perspective. Make this trip to Denver, and I hope to hell something turns up for you. But if it doesn’t, then you have to be able to live with that. To come back and shape up your life again.”

  “Yeah,” Simon replied. “Sure.”

  The two men looked at one another in strained silence. Neither pair of eyes gave way, until finally Simon simply turned on his heel and walked out of the office.

  Kimberly watched him throw shaving gear, clean underwear and socks, and an extra shirt into the overnight bag. She had both arms wrapped around her body, as if the bedroom were chilly. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, Simon.”

  “Because it might help.”