And the Girl Screamed (Prologue Crime)

by Gil Brewer

  AND THE GIRL

  SCREAMED

  by GIL BREWER

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Ninteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Also Available

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  WE STOOD avoiding each other’s eyes in Chief Harnett’s office at Police Headquarters. Five of them would stand judgment on my shooting arm, but attorney Edward Thayer hadn’t shown up yet. It was ironical as hell that Thayer should be selected to help judge whether or not I had recovered from the arm injury so I could draw a holstered service revolver fast enough to return to active duty on the force. I wasn’t sure he knew about his wife and me. If he did, there was no point in going down cellar to the range; it was all over right now. But Eve had said last night that he still seemed his cool, collected self.

  “Try not to get nervous, Cliff,” Al Calvin said. “He’ll be along. Probably buffing his fingernails.”

  “I’m not nervous.”

  “Well, I’d be nervous,” Calvin said.

  I leaned against the closed door of the office. He could say that again. But what he’d said about Thayer wasn’t as much of a joke as it might have been coming from somebody else. Calvin was a sergeant in uniform who burned and seethed for plain clothes and couldn’t make it. He was also a Nosy Parker, as my grandmother used to say and long-tongued. Always trying to help out. I watched him lounge in front of Doc Maston, pass Harnett’s desk and sit on the window sill. The window was wide open and late morning traffic screeched and honked out there in the Florida sunshine.

  “How’s the arm feel?” Maston said.

  “Perfect,” I told him. “You know that, Doc.”

  He wasn’t even looking at me. They were sure a quiet bunch of guys. Maston kept checking his wrist watch with quick flicks of his cuff. Chief Harnett sat stiffly behind his desk staring at me, now and then grinning a little, his white hair sparkling.

  “I know this means a lot to you, Cliff,” Harnett said. “But take it easy, will you?”

  “Chief,” Doc Maston said abruptly. “You told me this would be over by noon. I haven’t made my house calls yet this morning.”

  “You’ll be through by eleven-thirty,” Harnett said. “Take it easy.”

  “I’ve got to make my house calls.”

  “Relax, Doc.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  Harnett looked at him. Maston checked his wrist watch.

  Andy Leonard hadn’t said a word yet. He stood over behind Harnett’s back, checking a wall map of the city. He was humming softly to himself. He was the one man I could count on. He was in plain clothes and the water he always used to plaster down his brown hair had dried. The hair had aready begun to stick up like fingers.

  “Here comes Thayer,” Calvin said from the window. “Hey, Ed! Shake a leg!” He leaned out of the window, waving, then turned back and grinned at me.

  Chief Harnett stood up behind his desk, smoothed one side of his head of white hair. “Well. Let’s go meet him in the hall. May as well get on down there.”

  • • •

  “No,” Calvin said. “He gets back on the force—I mean duty, of course—he’ll be in plain clothes, so he’ll wear a jacket. He’s got to wear a jacket now.”

  “Now what the hell?” I said. “You wanted to see me draw and fire.”

  “Just a minute,” Harnett said. “Take it easy, men.” It became very quiet again for a moment. The back lights were lit, and down there the lights were on over the targets. There was a musty smell in the range and everybody wanted his say.

  Doc Maston cleared his throat and tapped the chief’s arm. “Listen, Dale,” he said. “I’ve got to get going; I’ve got to make those house calls. Can’t I just state what I think?”

  Chief Harnett’s eyebrows bristled and he spoke to Maston without looking at him.

  “You stick around, Doc. You were appointed to this board and it’s your duty. Quit bellyaching.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Now,” Harnett said to me. “The fact is, Cliff, Sergeant Calvin is right. You’re a plain-clothes homicide detective. It’s conceivable that you might not wear a suit coat at some time or other when you have to draw your gun, but for the most part you’ll be wearing a coat, so wear it now. All right? Does that answer all questions?”

  “All right,” I said.

  I put the damned jacket on. Thayer hadn’t spoken to me and right now I could see his glasses glinting in the shadows by the door. He had his briefcase with him and he looked as impressive as ever. He coughed just then and said, “I’ve got to get over to the County Building myself in fifteen minutes, Chief. I can’t see why you need me here.”

  “You’ll stay here,” Harnett said.

  Andy Leonard caught my eye and winked. All the water had dried off his hair and it stood up like brown spikes now.

  “All right,” Harnett said. “Now, where do you carry your gun, Cliff?”

  “Cross draw,” I said. “Right here.” I took the belly gun out of my pocket, found the holster, threaded the holster on my belt and snapped it tight. I put the gun in the holster, secured it and buttoned my jacket. “Like that.”

  “His arm looks all right to me,” Andy Leonard said.

  “I suppose you’ve got to get home to lunch?” Harnett asked sarcastically the words chewed out like bitten nails.

  “No, Chief,” Andy said. “Just passing a remark.”

  “Now,” Harnett said, turning to me again. “I want to see you draw with your jacket buttoned. With it unbuttoned. Then I want to see you draw and shoot. You can draw here, then we’ll step into the range past the counter when you fire. Go ahead, show us.”

  “As a rule,” I said, “my jacket’s unbuttoned if I expect to use my gun.”

  “Do you have trouble drawing with your jacket buttoned?” Al Calvin asked.

  Everybody looked at him.

  “I was just—” he said. “I just meant—”

  “No,” I said. “How’s this?”

  I drew, flicked the jacket open in the same movement and stood there with the gun leveled at Edward Thayer’s gut. He stared at me and went pale and I moved the gun. I hadn’t meant it to be like that.

  “That was damned good,” Harnett said. “Let’s see it again. You took me by surprise.”

  “That’s the idea,” Andy Leonard said.

  “Let’s see it again,” Harnett said.

  “Buttoned?”

  He nodded, so I stuck the gun back in the holster and buttoned my jacket. The elbow was still stiff, but I had practiced to overcome that. The elbow would always be stiff; that’s what Doc Maston knew and that’s what I was afraid of.

  “Just a moment, please,” Thayer said. He moved across the room from the doorway. He was handsome, a little too handsome and he was dressed very neatly in a gray flannel suit with a white shirt and a regimental-striped tie. His black horn-rimmed glasses were very impressive, but where some men wear them to help see well, Thayer wore them for some other fairly obvious reason; they could be waved with effect, caught
on the forehead while he tiredly rubbed his aching eyes with thumb and forefinger, brandished in clients’ faces. They were far oversized. He held his head cocked a little to one side now and rapped his fingers on his briefcase. “I think I should be briefed,” he said.

  “What?” Harnett said.

  “What I mean is, what seems to be the matter with this man’s arm? I’d like the story.”

  “Didn’t you read it in the papers?” Andy Leonard said.

  “I believe I remember something,” Thayer said without looking at Leonard. “But I’m certainly entitled to the whole story, I believe.”

  Chief Harnett sighed. He spoke rapidly. “Sergeant Reddick was wounded in line of duty, Thayer. Fourteen months ago he and Officer Leonard were sent out together to bring back an escaped convict from Raiford. The entire police force was on it, but these two men had a lead of their own. They captured him in a swamp over by Clearwater. Sergeant Reddick was shot in the arm, the bone was smashed, and it affected the elbow. He spent time in a hospital, and while he’s not off the force, he hasn’t been allowed active duty. He wants active duty and that’s why we’re here—to determine whether or not he can draw a gun. The sergeant is perfectly sound in all other respects. Clear now?”

  Harnett had made it as brief as possible, and that made me happy.

  “Well,” Thayer said. “Of course, I knew why I’m here. It wasn’t that. I just couldn’t exactly understand—you mean to say this man’s arm isn’t quite right?”

  “It’s not that,” Harnett said. “His arm is all right. He simply has to be able to draw a gun with some speed. You see?”

  “But if his arm—if the bone—”

  “I’ll judge whether or not the bone is sound,” Doc Maston said.

  “He drew as fast as ever,” Andy Leonard said. “You just saw him. What’s the matter with you?”

  I looked at them all and felt a little sick. Andy Leonard turned his back and walked to the far side of the room and stood looking over the counter at the targets down there. You could sense things in the room. Conflicts and unspoken questions and hesitations.

  “I thought you had a fishing camp?” Thayer said.

  “I have,” I told him. “That’s what I’ve been doing while I waited for my arm to heal just right.”

  “I see.”

  Nobody said anything for several moments.

  “Well, let’s go right on the range,” Harnett said. “Let’s see you draw and fire, Cliff.”

  We filed through the door onto the open range. It was a little like walking in a dream. I knew I could draw and shoot and hit as well as, or better than, any man on the police force of this city.

  “Say,” Al Calvin said. “I just thought of something.”

  I looked at Calvin. His face was open and friendly.

  “What now?” Harnett asked.

  “Well, Cliff’s not using a service revolver. Look, just suppose—I’m just supposing, now—suppose Cliff sometime or other has to go back into uniform. So he’ll have to handle a straight thirty-eight. From a hip holster.”

  “He can wear a holster on the left side, if that’s the way he does best,” Harnett said. “You know that, Calvin.”

  “Yes. That’s right. But it would have to be regulation. I mean the holster and the gun, too. So shouldn’t he try that, too?” He paused, looked at me doubtfully, then said, “It’s for your own good I’m trying to think of these things, Cliff.”

  “Sure. Thanks, Al.”

  Thayer spoke up. “You surely weren’t going to allow this man just to show what he can do with the gun he owns were you? Calvin has made a point, it seems to me.”

  Harnett looked at me. “Draw and fire,” he said.

  I drew and fired three rounds at the center target. I got one bull.

  “Holster again and try the silhouette,” Harnett said.

  I drew and put two rounds into the silhouette. I could have taken Calvin and Thayer and smashed their skulls together. I reloaded and stood there, waiting.

  “Calvin,” Harnett said. “You and Reddick draw and fire together.”

  Calvin beat me on the draw but I got one off a hair before he did and nailed the heart in the silhouette.

  “Calvin, take off your harness and give it to Reddick.”

  I strapped on Calvin’s gun. The holster was on the right side. This would be a natural bitch, because my arm didn’t bend right for drawing from the right hip. Harnett was mad about the thing and he had a notion I could do it.

  It didn’t come off. I fumbled. I got a shot off, but it was a fumble. Ordinarily this wouldn’t have meant a thing. As it was, it meant everything. Thayer coughed and Calvin cleared his throat, twice. Andy walked back through the doorway, then out again.

  “Give Calvin back his harness,” Harnett said. “Doc, look at his arm and tell us what you think.”

  “I don’t believe we have to go that—” Thayer said.

  “You just remain quiet a minute,” Harnett said.

  “Strip to the waist,” Doc Maston said.

  I stripped and tossed my jacket, shirt and tie over on the counter.

  “Oh,” Thayer said. “He has one of those arms.”

  “What the hell do you mean?” I said.

  “One moment, please,” Doc Maston said. “I’ll get my oar in and then I’m taking off.” He turned to Harnett. “With or without your kind permission, Dale.”

  “We’ll see,” Harnett said.

  “Look at that arm,” Thayer said. “My mind’s made up.”

  “What?” I said.

  “I said, my mind’s already made up. Just look at that arm.”

  I pushed Maston aside and stepped over to Thayer.

  “Tell me what’s the matter with this arm?”

  “It’s bent. It’s bent the wrong way. Look at it—see for yourself!” He faced the others. “It’s bent sideways at the elbow—one of those arms.”

  “Easy, now,” Harnett said to me, touching my shoulder.

  Doc Maston began talking about bones and ligaments. He took my arm and bent it up and down. He had me bend it. He explained that none of the muscle was damaged in any way. “Now, then,” he concluded. “I’ve said what I have to say. I’ve seen him draw his gun and fire, and I thought it was pretty good shooting. If you think—”

  “Doc,” Calvin interrupted, “is Cliff’s arm just as good as a normal arm? I mean, like my arm? An arm that never’s been broke, or anything?”

  “I didn’t pay to come in here,” Doc Maston said. “I didn’t see any ticket window. Is there one? I get to the movies sometimes at night, when I have time. I never have time mornings. I make house calls in the morning.”

  “Answer the question,” Harnett said. “Please, Doc.”

  “All right. Is the arm as good as a normal arm that’s never been broken? No. It’s not—well, yes, it is—It depends. That’s a darned difficult question to answer.

  For this purpose, I’d say his arm is as good as that man’s—Calvin’s.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” Harnett said.

  Doc Maston looked at me a moment. “I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing,” he said to me. He turned quickly and left the range. We listened to him leave the outer room, and his heels smacked loudly down the hall.

  “It doesn’t bend right,” Thayer said.

  I went over and put my shirt on, began buttoning it. I didn’t look at them.

  “Well,” Harnett said. “What do you say?”

  Andy Leonard came over by me and handed me my jacket. He was a tall, thin wretch and his face was absolutely without expression.

  “The question, as I understood it,” Thayer said, “is, can this man return to active duty? Should he be allowed to? Right?”

  “That’s what we’re here to determine.”

  “Well, you have my vote. It’s no. An emphatic no. I’ve seen his arm and that’s all I have to see. It’s pretty obvious. If his arm was perfectly all right, we wouldn’t have been here. Am I right?”

&
nbsp; “Calvin?” Harnett said.

  Andy Leonard spoke up. “You saw him shoot!”

  Al Calvin’s voice was quiet. “I’m sorry as hell,” he said. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to agree with Mr. Thayer. Not in his words, but the sense of it. I mean, for Cliff’s own good, I think he should forget about trying to come back to active duty.”

  “You saw him shoot!” Andy said. “What’s the matter with you? He outshot you, damn it!”

  “We all have to be in agreement,” Harnett said.

  “I’m sorry,” Calvin said. “But that’s what I believe. I can’t lie about what I think, can I?” He walked over to me. “It’s for your own good, Cliff—honest. Tell me truthfully, do you think your arm works as good as it used to? Do you?”

  Harnett shook his head.

  “All right,” I said. “Okay.”

  “It doesn’t mean you’re off the force,” Harnett said.

  “Where you going to put me?” I said. “On the Goddamned switchboard? That what you want?”

  Calvin turned away.

  “There’s nothing I can do,” Harnett said.

  “Well, yes, there is,” I said. “You can accept my resignation.”

  “Cliff. You’d better think this over.”

  There was nothing left to say. You could talk all day and they would talk right back at you. I looked at Thayer and he looked at me, his head cocked a little to one side, his lips pursed. I turned and went out of there. Andy said something to me as I left the room but I didn’t hear what it was.

  Chapter Two

  I BROUGHT the coupe carefully out of the parking lot and drove home through the bright white stinking heat of noon. It was the hottest summer on record, and that’s really hot in Florida.

  I didn’t speak to myself all the way home.

  If I had allowed myself to think, I might have tagged Calvin, or Thayer, or both of them, and showed them that a fist can be as ugly as a gun.

  I came down Sixteenth, taking it real easy, stopping carefully when I misjudged the lights. I turned on Lake-view and down to Fourth, then right and on out past White City to Big Bayou. The closer I got to home, the tighter I felt. It was supposed to be the other way around, but it didn’t work. By the time I took the dirt road down through the jungle toward my stretch of property, my hands were beginning to ache on the wheel. I was dripping with sweat and I tried to relax. I couldn’t. I saw the familiar sign: