"Hey, Sal."
"I heard about Swannie," Adamano said, leaning across the desk.
Adamano was working as the station house officer, who was basically to assist the sergeant or the lieutenant on the desk. Today, the desk officer was Sgt. Phil Greco. At the moment, Greco was listening to a woman who was complaining about someone doing something to someone named Rosa Mundi.
"Damned shame," Adamano went on.
"I know."
"Guy works as a clerical, for Chrissake, and somebody breaks into his house and kills him. How are his wife and kids?"
"His wife's strong, Sal," Keough said. "The kids'll lean on her."
"I'm gonna be going to the service," Adamano said. "See you there?"
Keough hadn't even thought about a service. It probably wouldn't be for a while, though, since Swann was the victim of a homicide.
"Yeah, I'll be there."
"Lady," Phil Greco was saying, "I can't have someone stake out your garden, for Chrissake."
"Don't curse at me, young man," the old woman said. "I watch Law and Order, and I used to watch Hill Street Blues and Police Story. I know all about stakeouts. Baretta used to do them all the time. Sometimes he'd take that bird along…"
Keough didn't want to hear any more. He waved at Adamano and then left to go make a statement to Det. Keith Clapton.
***
He hadn't expected Clapton to have anything new yet, and he wasn't disappointed.
"I did some interviews in the neighborhood while some of the uniforms canvassed. Nobody saw nothing, and ain't that a surprise."
"Keith, I don't know if you heard, but Marcia Swann wants me to work on this."
"Are you going to?"
"How can I? It's not my case."
"Did you tell her that?"
"I did."
"Well, she was upset. She's a cop's wife; she'll understand."
Clapton was assuming that Keough had no intentions of working the case. Keough decided to allow the man to continue thinking that. After all, he wasn't sure what he was going to do himself.
He made his statement to Clapton, answered some more questions warily, and then decided to take a shot at something.
"Keith, since Len was on the Lover Task Force, do you think his murder is connected with that?"
"I don't know, Joe," Clapton said. "At this point, I don't have many theories. I'm gonna talk to the other detectives on the task force, though."
"Did he have any files or anything in his office?" Keough asked, trying to make it sound like nothing but natural curiosity.
"I went through the place, Joe, including his file cabinets and desk, and I didn't find anything. Did you think he was taking files home?"
"Not really," Keough said carefully, "but he was always talking, you know, about doing real detective work. It wouldn't have surprised me if he had."
"Well, we didn't find anything."
Keough nodded and rose to leave. Apparently, whoever had killed Swann had taken his Lover file. Keough didn't like the implications of that.
He was just about to leave when the phone on Clapton's desk rang.
"Clapton, squad," the man said. "No, he's still here. Wait a minute." He held the phone out to Keough and said, "It's for you."
"For me?"
Clapton nodded and Keough took the proffered phone.
"Keough."
"Joe, it's Pete."
"What's up, Pete? We catch a case?"
"Oh, no, Joe, that's not what I'm calling about," Huff said. "Uh, I think you better get back here."
"I thought you were going to sign me out," Keough said, momentarily annoyed.
"Something came up, Joe."
"What?"
"I think you better"
"Can't you just tell me?"
Huff fell silent, then Keough heard an intake of breath before his partner spoke again.
"It just came in a few minutes ago on the Teletype, Joe," Huff said. "You've been transferred."
Transferred! After months of trying, what a time for it to come through.
"Joe, did you hear me?"
"I heard, Pete," Keough said, "I just am not sure how to react."
"Well, you should be glad, I guess."
"I guess. I'm on my way back."
"Okay."
"Thanks for calling."
"Sure."
"Oh, by the way, where was I transferred to?"
Another moment of silence and then Huff said, "Joe, you got transferred to the Lover Task Force."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Driving back to the station house, Keough's mind was reeling. First he was thinking about Swann's death and what it meant that his Lover file had been taken, and then he thought about his transfer to the Lover Task Force. How did that come about? Were they moving this fast to replace Swann?
By the time he reached the station house, the next tour of detectives had already come on. Lieutenant Carson was still there, though, and Keough decided he'd rather discuss his transfer with his squad CO than with the precinct CO.
"Sorry to see you go, Joe," Carson said as Keough entered his office.
"Can you tell me what this is about, Loo?"
Carson shrugged helplessly. "All I know is what came across the Teletype. You're to take a two-day swing and report to the Lover Task Force Monday morning."
"But how did this happen? Was I requested?"
"You'll have to ask your new CO that."
Keough left Carson's office. Obviously, there was little the man could tell him. His new CO was going to be Lt. Dan Slovecky, and at the moment Keough wasn't so sure he wanted to talk to the man. If Swann's murder was connected with the Lover Task Force, then that made Slovecky a damned good suspect. Keough didn't like thinking about cops killing cops, but it had happened before and it would happen again. Also, if Slovecky was guilty, what was his motive for having Keough transferred? It was clear he was going to have to watch his back very carefully.
It was good news that he had two days before reporting to Slovecky. He was going to try to put those days to good use. For one thing, he was going to investigate Slovecky and see what kind of man he was. Swann had already said Slovecky was concerned with making himself look good when he finally caught the Lover. What Keough had to determine was just how badly Slovecky wanted to look good. Bad enough to kill Swann when he thought the detective was going over his head with his own investigation? If word got out Slovecky was padding the Lover's dance card to make himself look better, it would-or should-have exactly the opposite effect.
Keough paused at his desk and wondered if he should take the time now to clean it out. Suddenly, he became aware of someone standing next to him.
"Heard the news, Joe," Det. Les Roberts said.
Roberts was a handsome white-haired man in his fifties who had been a detective for more than fifteen years, and on the job for over twenty-five.
"Yeah," Keough said, "I'm out of here."
"You don't sound happy about it."
"It's a surprise, is all."
"Well, if you want to trade places, just let me know. I've been trying to get out of this place since they first dumped me here."
"I'll let you know, Les."
"Good luck, huh?" Roberts said, sticking out his hand.
"Yeah, you, too." Keough shook Roberts's hand, and then the other man walked out. After a couple more detectives shook his hand and wished him luck, he decided to clean the desk out now and get it over with so he wouldn't have to come back.
He went in search of a box.
***
When Joe Keough entered his apartment building, he was carrying a cardboard box with the contents of his desk in it. Keough had always been ready to leave the Six-Seven Squad at a moment's notice, and to that end, he had not kept a lot of personal belongings in his desk. Now, however, as he carried the box to the elevator, he thought how surprised he was that, now he'd finally gotten the transfer, he had mixed feelings about it.
"Hold the el
evator, please?" he heard a voice call as the doors started to close. He stopped them by using the DOOR OPEN button, and Nancy Valentine got into the elevator with him.
"Oh, hi, Joe."
"Hello, Nancy."
Her face was flushed from running for the elevator, and she looked very pretty. She was wearing her nurse's uniform under her coat, but he noticed she had removed the white hose that usually went with it. She had once told him that her theory about why men were turned on by nurses was not that it was because of the uniform, but the stockings.
"You're not moving out, I hope," she said kiddingly, eyeing the box in his arms.
"Um…" he said, because he hadn't thought about that. Would his transfer to the task force make it necessary for him to move?
"Joe?"
"I was transferred today."
"Really? That's… well, that's wonderful," she said, although she didn't sound like she thought so.
Actually, she did think it was wonderful for him, because she knew how much he'd wanted a transfer, but she did not like the thought of losing him as a neighbor, and as a friend, or as what he could possibly have become…
"Back to Manhattan?" she asked.
"As a matter of fact, yes."
The elevator stopped at their floor and the doors opened.
"You'll be moving, won't you?" she asked as they stepped out and walked down the hall together.
"I really don't know yet, Nancy," he said. "It only happened a little while ago, and I've got mixed feelings about it."
"Oh? But… I thought this was what you really wanted."
"It was… that is, it is, but…"
They stopped, he in front of his door and she by hers, and faced each other across the hall. There were about twenty apartments per floor, but no one else was in the hall at the time.
"But what?"
"It's… complicated."
"Complicated is my specialty," she said. "You want to come over and talk about it?"
He hesitated and thought about it a moment. He didn't feel he could talk to anyone in the department-especially after what happened with Swann. Maybe he needed to talk about it to someone outside the department, even if it was just to hear himself say it all out loud.
"Cindy won't be home until late," she added. "She's having dinner at a friend's house. That's why I'm late getting back. I'll make us a small dinner."
"I do need to talk to someone, Nancy, but…"
"I know," she said, holding up her hands, "a lot of it is official. Maybe you can just talk about the unofficial stuff?"
"All right," he said finally. "I appreciate it, Nance, I really do."
"Dinner at seven? And then we can talk?"
"Seven's fine." It gave him time to shower and change.
"Good." She seemed delighted as she opened her door. She stepped inside, turned to close the door, and said to him, "See you then."
Keough held the box beneath one arm while he worked his key in the lock. Inside, he set the box down on the floor by the door and went directly to the kitchen. He took a bottle of John Courage from the refrigerator and drank it standing right there, mulling things over in his mind.
By the time he got to the bottom of the bottle, he was convinced that trying to work all of it out in his head would only drive him crazy. Talking it out with someone would be the best thing for him, but preferably someone who was not in the department. He needed someone who would listen, make intelligent comments, and not try to tell him what his duty was.
Nancy Valentine had already proven herself, time and again, a good listener.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Over a hastily put together but delicious dinner of chili over white rice, corn bread, and a salad, Keough explained his dilemma to Nancy Valentine, who listened intently. She seemed to realize that he had more of a need to speak aloud to someone than to have that someone make comments.
"So your big problem, about the serial killer, has been solved by you being transferred to the task force?" she asked when he was done.
"No," he said, "and I'm not sure that's my biggest problem."
"Okay, wait a minute," she said, holding her hands up. "If that's not the big problem, what is?"
"I'm not sure," he said, "maybe the murder of Len Swann."
"Because he was your friend?"
"That, and because he was a cop, and because his wife seems to think I'm to blame for his death."
"All you said was that she wanted you to work on the case," Nancy interjected. "Why does that mean she blames you?"
"She's convinced that he's dead because of whatever it was he and I were working on."
"The serial killer?"
He nodded, then added, "Although she doesn't know that's what we were meeting about."
"And what do you think?"
Here was the tricky part, admitting to someone outside the department that he thought a cop might have killed Len Swann. That was sort of like airing your dirty laundry on Fifth Avenue, and the department would have frowned on it if they knew.
"Joe?"
He poured himself another glass of wine and then held the bottle out, silently asking if she wanted more. She didn't. That suited him. He had designs on finishing the rest of the bottle himself, anyway.
"Nancy… I think another cop may have killed Len."
"Why do you think that?"
"Well, for one thing, he let the killer into the house. It was someone he knew."
"And?"
"And a memo that he and I had worked on that night and were intending to send to the chief of detectives was missing."
"Who would have taken it?"
"A cop."
She eyed him and asked, "Just a cop?"
"No," he said, "I have a specific cop in mind."
"And you don't want to tell me his name."
"No."
"But if this memo had been sent, it would have hurt him?"
"Yes."
"And there are no other suspects?"
"All he was working on was the task force."
"What about outside the job? Maybe a girlfriend?"
"His wife says no."
"Isn't the wife the last to know when her husband is fooling around?"
"Sometimes the wife-or the husband-is the first to know. A lot of spouses-mostly wives-can tell, and they don't mind when their husbands stray."
She frowned.
"Why?"
"Because then the husband isn't bothering them."
"For sex, you mean."
"Right. In many cases, the wife just wants the husband to provide while she takes care of the children and the house, and they don't mind when their man gets sex from someone else."
"Oh my," she said in an odd tone.
"What is it?"
"Do you believe that?"
"It's not what I believe, Nancy; it's what I've seen," he replied.
"I don't believe my husband ever cheated on me, Joe."
He stared at her for a moment and then said, "He would have been a fool to."
Joe Keough was always aware of how attractive Nancy Valentine was, and he wasn't sure why nothing had ever happened between them. He had never had a lot of luck with women. For one thing, he found it hard to talk to them. The only woman he hadn't had that problem with was Nancy. If he tried to get closer to Nancy, though, to have a "real" relationship-well, then there was Cindy. As much as he liked Cindy, he didn't know how he'd do on an everyday basis with her.
Maybe it was Cindy that scared him the most from having a relationship with Nancy.
"Joe? You went away," Nancy called across the table.
"I'm sorry, Nancy," he said, picking up his wineglass. "I'm tired, and I'm confused."
"Is talking it out helping any?"
"Not yet," he said, but then hastily added, "but it's not hurting any… and dinner was wonderful."
"Let me clear the table and I'll bring out some coffee," she said, standing up.
"I'll help"
"You'll do
no such thing. I don't want you zoning out again and dropping my plates and glasses on the floor. Stay there and… think."
She went into the kitchen, and Keough did just what she suggested: He thought.
From the beginning, he thought there were two different serial killers at work, and he still did. Now, however, he also had to deal with Len Swann's murder. He doubted that one of the serial killers was the culprit, so that meant he was looking at three murderers.
Was the third a cop? Swann's boss, Lieutenant Slovecky? Did he kill Swann to try to preserve the number of murders he'd attributed to the Lover? To answer those questions, he was going to have to find out what kind of man Slovecky was-and he had two days to do it before he had to report to the man at the Lover Task Force.
"Coffee's on," Nancy said, coming back into the room with a tray in her hands.
Keough wanted to leave, to go back to his own place to plan his moves for the next day, but he didn't have the heart to do so now. He stayed for some coffee and some more talk, and when that was done, he stood up to leave.
"Joe?"
"Yeah?"
She smiled. "Did talking to me help?"
"It helped a lot, Nancy."
"I guess since it's police work, I really don't have to know how, huh?"
"I think it's better you don't."
They walked to the door together.
"What about moving?"
"What?"
"Are you going to be moving to Manhattan?"
"I don't think so."
"Why not?"
He opened the door and turned to face her.
"If things work out the way I think they're going to, I think this will be a temporary assignment."
"Well," she said, touching his arm tentatively, "I hope things work out the way you want them to."
He started to leave, hesitated, then took a step to her and kissed her. He meant it to be a short kiss, a gentle thank-you kiss, and he was surprised when she put her arms around his neck and melted into him. The kiss went on for some time, her mouth soft and supple beneath his, and she was breathless when it ended, her eyes shining.
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