Part 66 (2/2)

”The number of your 38-is it 7906549?” I asked Donleavy.

”What .38?” he demanded.

”The one you bought on February third of last year at Odum's Sport Shop on Third Street,” Stick said. ”Mr. Odum remembers it very well. The only thing he had to look up was the exact day and the serial number.”

”This is hard evidence,” I said. ”There's nothing circ.u.mstantial about a murder weapon.”

”That gun was stolen from me months ago,” he squealed.

”Tell it to the judge,” I said.

”Let me see that,” he demanded.

”When we get downtown,” I said. ”You want to book the man, Stick?”

”Delighted,” he said, grinning, ”What's the charge?”

”Murder in the first,” I said. ”Let's go all the way.”

Stick took off his hat and peered into it. He had a list of rights printed on a card taped to the inside of the crown and started reading them to Donleavy.

”You have a right to remain silent-”

Donleavy swatted the hat out of his hands. ”The h.e.l.l with that,” he snarled, reaching for the phone.

I laid a forefinger on the receiver. ”You can make your call from the tank like everybody else does,” I said.

The Stick took out a pair of cuffs and twisted Donleavy rudely around. ”Normally we wouldn't need these,” he said quietly in Donleavy's ear as he snapped on the cuffs. ”That was a mistake, doing that thing with my hat. Your manners are for s.h.i.+t.”

”h.e.l.l,” I said, ”we all make mistakes. Look at poor old Harry, he wrote his own epitaph: 'Here lies Harry Raines. He trusted the wrong man.'”

Donleavy was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. We escorted him downstairs and turned him over to two patrolmen in a blue and white and told them we'd meet them at the station.

”What do we do now?” Stick asked.

”Pray,” I said.

We didn't have to. George Baker came running across the park as we started back toward our cars. He was still in his wet suit, although he had changed his flippers for boots.

”Gotcha a present,” he said, and handed me an S&W .38, black handles, two-inch barrel. It was wrapped in a cloth to protect whatever fingerprints might be on it. I checked the registration. It was Donleavy's gun.

”I a.s.sure you, that's the weapon,” Baker said proudly. ”It has not been underwater long enough to gather rust.”

”Thank you, Mr. Baker,” I said with a smile. ”You just saved my a.s.s.”

”Well now, sir, that's a compliment which I will certainly not liken to forget.”

I gave Stick the Baggie he had given me in Donleavy's office, the one with the other S&W silver-plated .38 in it.

”Where did you get this one?” I asked Stick.

”A friend of mine on Front Street,” he said.

”Beautiful,” I said.

”That was one h.e.l.luva play up there,” he said. ”Remind me never to play poker with you.”

”I don't play poker,” I said.

”Love your style, man,” said the Stick.

70.

MURDER ONE.

I was feeling great when we got to the county courthouse. The stately brick antique stood alone in the center of a city square surrounded by ancient oaks big enough to pa.s.s for California redwoods, and palm trees, which seemed somehow cheap and out of place beside them. The old place seemed to groan under its burden of history. One story had it that b.u.t.ton Gwinnett had drafted his amendments to the Declaration of Independence in one of its second-story offices. Another that, on Christmas Eve, 1864, in a secret meeting in one of the courtrooms, Sean Findley, Chief's grandfather, had turned Dunetown over to General Sherman without a shot, after Sherman agreed to spare the city from the torch. It was a story Teddy loved to tell, although the way he told it, old Sean's role in the surrender came off more selfish than patriotic. Others apparently thought so too. The old man was a.s.sa.s.sinated on the front steps of this same courthouse as he was being inaugurated as Dunetown's first postwar mayor.

So much for history.

The DA's suite was on the first floor, protected by a frost-paneled door and little else. The door to Galavanti's office stood open. The tough little district attorney was poring over a sheaf of legal doc.u.ments as thick as an encyclopedia, her Ben Franklin gla.s.ses perched on the end of her nose. I leaned on the edge of the door and rattled my fingers on the jamb.

”Hi, kiddo,” I said. ”Send anybody to the chair today?”

She glowered at me over the top of her gla.s.ses.

”I'm not your kiddo, Mr. Kilmer,” she said. ”We're not that familiar. How about the Harry Raines tape?”

”A bust,” I said. ”Nothing but a lot of rataratarata.”

She narrowed her eyes as if she didn't believe me and said, ”I should have guessed that would happen.”

”Now that's no way to talk to someone who just laid the biggest case in the county's history right in your lap,” I said.

She leaned back, still staring warily at me.

”And just what case is that?”

I paused a little for effect, then said, ”The State versus Sam Donleavy.”

She leaned forward so quickly that her chair almost rolled out from under her.

”You busted Sam Donleavy?” she said, her tone sounding like I had just accused Billy Graham of indecent exposure.

”He's being booked right now,” I said, as casually as I could make it.

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