Part 3 (1/2)
And that was the end of that.
4.
LEADBETTER'S LEGACY.
The rain had turned into a driving storm by the time we got to Dutch Morehead's war room, which was in a small, rundown shopping center in the suburbs, a mile or two from the center of town. Lightning etched in purple monochromes a shabby, flat, one-story building that had once been a supermarket. Its plate-gla.s.s windows were boarded over and the entire building was painted flat black.
”Looks like Gestapo headquarters,” I said.
”Psychological,” Dutch grunted.
A less than imposing sign beside the entrance announced that it was the SPECIAL OPERATIONS BRANCH. Below it, even less imposing letters whispered DUNETOWN POLICE DEPARTMENT. I had to squint to read that line.
”Nice of you to mention the police department,” I said.
”I thought so,” Dutch said.
”What exactly does Special Operations Branch mean?” I asked.
”I'm not real sure myself,” he said. ”I think they just wanted to call us the SOB's.”
A moment later Dutch roared like a lion demanding lunch.
”That sorry, flat-a.s.sed, pea-brained sappenpaw!” he said, curling his lip.
”Who?” I said, thinking maybe I had offended him.
”That six-toed, web-footed, sappenpaw, klommenshois Callahan,” he raved on. ”The mackerel-snapping, redheaded putz stole my d.a.m.n parking place again! If I told him once, I told him- arrgh . . . ” His voice trailed off as he whispered further insults under his breath.
A half dozen cars in various stages of disrepair were angle-parked along the front of the building. Dented fenders, cracked winds.h.i.+elds, globs of orange primer where paint jobs had been started and never finished, hood ornaments and hubcaps gone; it looked like the starting line of a demolition derby.
”Your boys got something against automobiles?” I asked.
He growled something under his breath and wheeled into a spot marked only THE KID.
”I'll take Mufalatta's place,” he said defensively. ”He's never around anyway.”
We were fifty yards from the front door, a long way in the raging storm. He cut the engine and leaned back, offering me a Camel.
”No thanks, I quit,” I said.
”I don't wanna hear about it,” he said, lighting up. He cracked the window and let the smoke stream out into the downpour.
”I can understand about your feelings toward old man Findley, ” he said. ”The old boy had a lotta cla.s.s, I'll give him that. He dealt one last hand before he retired.”
”How's that?”
”His last hurrah. He brought in Ike Leadbetter to head up the force here. Findley was smart enough to know the burg needed some keen people to keep an eye on things when the track was built-the local cops were about as sophisticated as a warthog in a top hat. Leadbetter had been through the mill already. He'd done a turn up in Atlantic City before he came here, so he was savvy. Was Leadbetter brought me in.”
”And Leadbetter is good?”
”Was. ”
”Where'd he go?”
”No place. He's dead. Leadbetter knew what was gonna happen, I mean law-wise. He had learned a lot in Atlantic City. And he was honest.”
”What happened to him?” I asked.
”Three years ago, ran his car into the river, if you can believe that. ”
”You don't?”
”I stopped believin' in accidents an hour after I got here.”
I was beginning to wonder how Tagliani fit into the picture. Killing a police chief was not exactly his way of doing things.
Anger crept back into Dutch's tone. ”The way it was, the case went to the homicide boys. You lump that whole bunch together, what you end up with is a bigger lump. Not a one of 'em can count to eleven without takin' off his shoes. ” Pause. ”It went down as an accident, period, end, of course.”
”Who took Leadbetter's place?”
”Herb Walters.”
”What's the score with him?”
”Old-timer. Up through the ranks. Scared for his job. He don't swim upstream, if that's what you mean. Herb likes calm waters.”
”Is he honest?”
”That's an excellent question. I just don't know. I guess old Herb's okay; he just hasn't had an original thought since the first time he went to the john by himself.” He stopped, then after a moment added: ”Actually he's just a kiss-a.s.s to the people on the green side of town.”
I laughed. ”I gather you don't like him.”
”That's very smart gathering.”
”Why would anybody want to blitz Leadbetter?”
”Why would a lotta people not want to? A smart, tough, no-nonsense cop, honest as the Old Testament, in a town going to h.e.l.l. When Leadbetter was running the show, you couldn't find a pimpmobile anywhere on Front Street. Now every other vehicle you see's either a pink Caddy or a purple Rolls-Royce.”
”How does your outfit fit into all this?”
”It's borderline. We try to monitor the out-of-towners, but local stuff is handled by vice. Don't even ask me about them.”
I slid down in my seat and shook my head.