Behind Powder, the hotel room door opened, and a large, smirking, pimply boy bounded in, saw the naked woman on the bed, and allowed himself a broad smile.
Crismore re-aimed the gun and shot the leering child.
He fell back, in shock, against the wall.
Powder moved to get between the boy and the gun.
But he didn’t have the speed.
Crismore shot the sitting figure twice more.
Powder turned, instead, toward the bed.
As he approached Crismore stuck the short pistol barrel in her own mouth.
But involuntarily she jerked it out.
“Hot,” she said. “Smelly.”
By the tune she realized Powder was close, and moved to overcome her fastidiousness, he had grabbed the weapon and pulled it from her.
In his fury. Powder hurled the weapon through the hotel room’s window.
The effort cost him his balance, and he fell beside the bed.
He didn’t even try to get up.
He pulled the room telephone by its wire. It crashed to the floor. He told the desk clerk to get the police and an ambulance.
Near him, Sarah Crismore lay on the bed, holding herself.
Chapter Thirty Three
The operation was done in the early evening and the bullet near Powder’s spine was removed without apparent complications.
Powder was unconscious for several hours and then drowsy for several more. He remembered only snatches of thoughts when he surfaced late the next morning.
He remembered a vision of his garden, overgrown, jungly with large fruits. And of walking around his apartment looking for his mother.
Powder woke up with the sun shining through net curtains.
He decided he felt good.
He tried to sit up; he decided he felt bad.
He dozed again. He dreamed, or thought, about William G. Weaver, Jr. He woke up saying, “Dig. Dig!”
“What?”
“Who’s that?” Powder asked.
“Open your eyes and look,” Fleetwood said.
Powder blinked his eyes a few times. Then closed them. “Too much trouble,” he said.
Fleetwood watched him for a moment.
Then she locked the wheels of her chair and swung her legs to the floor between chair and bed. She raised herself and balanced on her feet. Using one hand on the chair and one hand on the bed frame above Powder’s head, she stooped and kissed him lightly on the forehead.
Powder said,“I felt that.And don’t think I can’t tell the difference between lips and two wet fingers.”
He looked at her. Tears welled in his eyes. He held them back.
He thought of Sarah Crismore and he turned away. “It all went too fast for me.”
“You feel as bad as you look?” Fleetwood asked.
After a moment, Powder said, “What day is it? How long have I been out? When did I talk to you last?”
“It’s tomorrow. I talked to you yesterday.”
He turned to her. “Do something for me, will you?”
“What’s that?”
“Go bust William Weaver.”
“Come on, give it a rest. Powder.”
He struggled to sit The movement hurt again. He groaned.
“In my notebook, there’s a number for the sheriff of Owen County. He’ll explain. Then go bust the bastard.”
Fleetwood said nothing.
Powder said, “What’s your problem?”
Fleetwood said, “I already spoke to the sheriff. He called you.”
“And?”
“There was nothing in the cement.”
“What?”
“They grappled the lump out and the coroner cracked it open with hammer and chisel. Local photographer standing by. There was nothing inside, and the sheriff is hot enough to cook an egg on.”
“Nothing,” Powder repeated, absorbing.
“Look,” Fleetwood said, now irritated. “Just how alert are you?”
“I’m fine,” Powder said.
“Your head is clear?”
“Spit it out,” he said.
“I also talked to the private detective, Samson.”
“Oh?”
“And he told me you’ve had him tailing your son.”
“Did he now? And did he give you a typed report in triplicate too?”
“He said you are looking for evidence that the kid is doing illegal things and that there are plenty of indications the evidence is there.”
“I see,” Powder said coldly.
“I just want to say to you. Powder, leave it alone.”
Powder said nothing.
“Be guided by me on this,” Fleetwood said feelingly. “You can’t replace family. Warn the kid off again. Threaten him. But don’t push it.”
“I only have one thing to say on this subject.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s for you to tell your new chum that he’s off the job. Tell him to send me his bill.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything. You aren’t up to it.” She rolled to the door.
“Wait a minute. Sergeant,” Powder said.
She turned.
“What you going to do about William G. Weaver, Junior?”
Fleetwood looked at him.
“Be guided by me on this,” he said. “Number one. The hole in McCormick’s Creek State Park.”
“What about it?”
“People don’t pour cement into holes in the ground for nothing. It’s not that kind of fun.”
Fleetwood blinked.
“If there’s nothing in the cement, there must be something under it. Tell the sheriff to get his photographer and a shovel.”
Fleetwood remained silent.
“Number two.”
“Yeah?”
“People don’t move roses this time of year.”
“What?”
“Plant them if they are in containers, fine. But not established bushes.”
“What the hell are you saying?”
“I remembered this morning. When I saw the bastard last, he was transplanting roses. So, get yourself a warrant, and your own shovel, and go out to his garden . . .”
“No photographer?” Fleetwood asked.
About noon a nurse came to offer Powder something to drink.
“How about some eats?” he asked.
“We don’t feed people who have been under general anesthesia for twenty-four hours. In case of complications.”
“No complications with me,” Powder said. “I’m very, very simple.”
Around one, Albert Samson arrived.
“Do me a favor, will you, Samson?”
“What’s that?”
“Ask the nurses out there if they like fresh fruit and vegetables.”
Samson jumped up. “Sure, Leroy. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.”
But instead of going to the door he approached Powder’s bedside and dropped an envelope on the patient’s stomach. “Have a look at that while I’m gone.”
Samson was out of the room for a quarter of an hour and Powder read through the surveillance report on Ricky.
The most damning direct observations confirmed what Powder felt he already knew. Part of this confirmation came from Ricky’s visits to a number of sites at which he could well have been servicing long-standing telephone tap equipment. Samson provided locations and photographs, so finding the recording apparatus, if it was there, would be easy.
In addition, Samson established Ricky’s direct association with Commercial Investigations. At the end of the site visits, Ricky had gone into CI with a package. The speculation was that he was delivering tapes.
What Powder hadn’t already known was Commercial Investigations’ history and reputation. Samson spelled this out, describing CI’s origins as a legitimate investigative company nearly felled by a lawsuit in 1975. This had precipitated a change in the controlling hands and philosophy of the company. “Their reputation now,” Samson wrote, “is wr
ong-side-of-the-fence. They concentrate on the backdoor and pressure trading of commercial information that straight outfits won’t touch. With a hint of rough and tumble. They’ve grown fast in the last few years and they’ve picked up a lot of ex-cops, because they’re easy to get licenses for. Doesn’t matter if they left the force because of violence problems or other flaws. As a detective agency they do some legit work, but their big ‘strength’ is all the contacts they have with people looking for a few fast bucks, like your kid. Even among private detectives they’re considered a blot on the landscape. It’s felt they’ve been lucky that your esteemed trade hasn’t caught up with them already.”
A final observation was that Ricky had met two people briefly in public places. “To me, they looked like meets to pass goods. Too open to be drugs. But given the rep of CI, I’d have to surmise they were passing information or objects for CI to sell or use.” Samson included photographs of the two people Ricky had met. They were Dwayne Grove and Lila Lee.
Powder read the report a second tune.
Then he set it on his bedside table and rubbed his face.
For raising enough serious suspicion to open a case, it was more than sufficient.
Samson came back carrying a cup of vending machine coffee.
“How’d you get on?” he asked. “Or are your lips still moving and your fingers still running over the pages line by line?”
“It’s not all there,” Powder said.
“What do you mean?”
“No bill.”
“Forget it.”
“Like hell I’ll forget it.”
“I’ll send it to you.”
“You’ll work it out for me here and now,” Powder said.
The surgeon who had operated on Powder came around in the midafternoon. He did a phony double take as he walked into the room.
“With your recent history,” the doctor said, “I’m surprised to find that you haven’t checked out to go for a drive around the Five Hundred track before dinner.”
Powder heard about the “pit murder” on the television at six o’clock. The news report showed the sheriff of Owen County speaking enthusiastically about his department’s efficient persistence in following up “information received” to recover a woman’s body buried in a “pit” in the nearby state park.
Fifteen minutes later Fleetwood called.
“I see you learned how to use the telephone,” Powder said.
Sounding puzzled, Fleetwood said, “I have some news.”
“They found the body; I know.”
“You know?”
“Sure.”
“How?”
“I saw it on the news.”
Fleetwood sounded confused. “The news? You mean TV?”
“Of course I mean TV.”
“I didn’t see any cameras or reporters around.”
Powder hesitated. “You didn’t see . . .? What do you mean?”
“I’ve been here all afternoon, and I didn’t see any TV people at all. I’m surprised they knew about it. Much less got a report out.”
“Where are you?” Powder asked.
“At Weaver’s house,” Fleetwood said. “Where else?”
“And what body are you talking about?”
“Annie Weaver’s, under the goddamn rosebushes, of course.”
Chapter Thirty Four
Fleetwood appeared at the hospital at quarter to nine that evening. She entered Powder’s room and rolled to the edge of his bed without saying anything. He watched as she pulled a collection of papers from a bag.
“I’ve come from the office,” she said. “Thought you might want the messages in your box, since I was coining anyway.”
“You look terrible. Have you ever considered getting yourself shot? It’s a great rest cure.”
She was too tired to respond.
“What’s the matter? No sense of humor? Well, better get on with it. As briefly as you can manage.”
“There’s not a lot to say.”
“So, tell me about the bodies.”
“Mrs. Weaver, and a lady friend.”
Powder looked at her, puzzled, “Friend?”
“Friend, as in ‘lover.’”
Powder shook his head in disbelief. “Sergeant Fleetwood strikes again,” he said.
Fleetwood rubbed her face with both hands.
Of many questions he might have asked, Powder chose “Why did he bury them in different places?”
“He was going to put them both at McCormick’s Creek. But in the end, he only put the friend there.”
Powder waited.
“What he said to me was that he had gotten used to having
Annie around the house.”
* * * * *
Before she left. Powder asked Fleetwood to stop back at eleven in the morning. “And sleep late,” he told her. It was by way of an order.
After she left, he read through the papers she had brought him. The messages that Lorimer had said weren’t on his desk. Not on the desk but in his pigeonhole. Powder fumed at the incompetence.
There was a memo from Sergeant Bull. It said that Clive Burrus had been interrogated, eliminated, and released. The presumption now about the burned body was that it was that of a prostitute who had died unexpectedly but naturally among people whose concern for their own convenience far surpassed any worry about the niceties of law or respect for the dead. Bull was working with Vice Branch. There were no hard leads.
With Bull’s memo there was a copy of the arrest report on Sarah Crismore. She was being confined for observation.
There was also a note from Tidmarsh in Computers to say that a more detailed and complete effort to establish a statistically significant relationship between the disappearances from centers of travel showed that no connection between the events was indicated. Agnes was, however, being retained on assignment with the central computer section. A replacement part-time secretary would be appointed.
Then Powder read through the resignation documents Gaulden had left for him to sign. He did not reread Samson’s report on Ricky.
When a nurse brought him sleeping pills, Powder cajoled her into going for an envelope and stamps. But when she brought them, he put off his decision and took the pills.
Once he had eaten breakfast. Powder delayed no longer. He picked up the telephone and called Lieutenant Gaulden.
Gaulden said, “Ahhh, Lieutenant Powder.”
“I’ve read through the resignation documents you left,” Powder said.
“Yes?”
“If I go, will Fleetwood take over in Missing Persons?”
Gaulden measured his words. “You know I am not in a position to promise anything on my own, but I’m sure that the appointments board would look most carefully at any recommendations you might make.”
“Thanks a lot,” Powder said.
“Oh. Is that all?”
“I would appreciate it if you could come to my room here at eleven.”
“Well, I’m not sure . . .”
“I want to settle my future formally.”
“Certainly. Of course. I’ll be there.”
“Be on time,” Powder said.
“Naturally,” Gaulden said with the cool politeness of a generous victor.
When he was off the phone. Powder lay back on his bed feeling the will to fight back pulse painfully through his body. The audacity of the likes of Gaulden trying to pass him off with bureaucratic mush.
Powder found that he could not contain himself. He sat up, tore the resignation papers in half, and dropped them in the wastebasket. Only then did he begin to feel calm.
He took the envelope he’d obtained the previous night and addressed it to Sergeant Bull. Into it he put Samson’s report on Ricky. He rang for a nurse. When she came he asked her to mail it. It’s what a cop had to do. And he couldn’t stop being a cop.
It turned out to be the only line he knew how to take.
Finally, Powder called Ben Brown, the Star’s police r
eporter.
“What can I do for you. Lieutenant Powder?” Brown asked cautiously.
“I hope I can do something for you,” Powder said genially.
“Oh yes?”
“You know all about the astonishing successes the Missing Persons Department has had since Carollee Fleetwood was assigned to us.”
“Yeah ...”
“Well, what’s happened only shows what Missing Persons could do if we got more quality officers and if our help for the distressed public was made a higher priority.”
“Yeah ...”
“So I’m holding a press conference. At eleven in my hospital room. Sergeant Fleetwood will be here and available for interview. And a representative from the manpower side of the department’s administration will be here to comment on my plans. I think it will make you a good story.”
“You may be right,” Brown said.
“And bring a photographer,” Powder said. “Fleetwood always takes a nice picture and the more good PR we can get, the better.”
About the Author
MICHAEL Z. LEWIN is the award-winning author of many mystery novels and short stories. Most have been set in and around Indianapolis, Indiana, where he grew up. Albert Samson is a low-key private eye and the stories focus on humane understanding of the cases and problems Samson encounters. Leroy Powder is an irascible Indy police lieutenant who truly wants his colleagues to become better cops. They’re bound to be grateful, right? Both central characters have an abiding wish to see justice done. One of the features of the series novels, and some stand-alones, is that that main characters from one book often appear in lesser roles in other books.
Since 1971 Mike has lived in the West of England, currently in Bath where his city-centre flat overlooks the nearby hills. Both his children have made careers in the arts. Masses more information and silly stuff is available on www.MichaelZLewin.com.
Bello
hidden talent rediscovered
Bello is a digital-only imprint of Pan Macmillan,
established to breathe new life into previously published,
classic books.
At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination,
of a good story, narrative and entertainment, and we want to
use digital technology to ensure that many more readers
can enjoy these books into the future.
Hard Line Page 20