"No," Keough said, "but I was called in."
"Go ahead, then."
"Thanks. Do you know where they have the wife?"
"I think she's upstairs with the kids. She scared the shit out of them when she screamed."
Keough flinched, imagining that he could hear Marcia Swann's scream when she found her husband.
"Who's here from your squad?"
"Clapton and Hancock," the cop said. "Clapton's catchin' the case."
Keough didn't know Hancock, but he knew Clapton slightly from working a night watch with him a few times.
He entered the house and looked around. The door to Swann's little office was open and Forensics was working inside. The ME was standing outside, and Keough walked over to him. As he got closer, he could see Swann's head and knew that the man was still in his chair.
Dr. Mahbee saw Keough approaching and looked surprised.
"Did you get transferred?"
"No," Keough answered, "the wife called me."
Mahbee indicated the body and asked, "Friend of yours?"
"Yes."
"Want to take a look?"
Keough nodded and entered. He walked around so he could see Swann's body. The hilt of the little sword was sticking out of his chest, approximately where his heart would be. For just a moment, he imagined a pain in his chest-sympathy pain.
"I don't know how sharp that thing was," Mahbee said behind him, "but it would have taken a lot of force to do that with a weapon that small."
Keough didn't know how sharp it had been, either. He'd seen it on the desk but hadn't paid it much mind.
"Ho, what've we got here?" a voice said.
Keough looked up and saw Det. Keith Clapton standing in the doorway. He was in his late forties, average height, slim to the point of emaciation. He wore wire-framed glasses and sported a pretty ragged beard and mustache.
"Hey, you're Keough," the man said. "The wife told me she called you."
Mahbee backed out of the room so Clapton could enter and shake hands with Keough.
"Too many people in the room," the Forensics man said.
"That's okay," Keough said, "I was just stepping outside."
Clapton exited the room with Keough right behind him, wishing he'd had a chance to look at Swann's desk and see if the memo they'd drafted the night before was there.
"Okay," Clapton said, opening a small spiral notebook, "the wife says you were the last one to see him."
"No."
"No?"
"The killer was the last one to see him."
Clapton surpressed a grin. "Okay, you're the last one we know of."
"Right."
"When did you leave here last night?"
"Around ten."
"How long were you with him?"
"Hours… probably, oh, five or six hours."
"Why were you here?"
"We're… we were friends. Went through the Academy together."
"You make a habit of coming here?"
Keough studied the man for a moment before answering.
"You already asked his wife that."
"Yeah, I did," Clapton said, "and now I'm askin' you."
"We ran into each other recently and renewed acquaintances. Last night was the first time I'd ever been here. He didn't live here when we were in the Academy."
"You still workin' the Six-Seven Squad?"
"That's right."
"And he was working the Lover Task Force."
"Right."
"Any connection?"
"Between what?"
"Do me a favor, Keough," Clapton said, "don't make me pry everything out of you?"
"The task force was just one of the things we talked about."
"Like what?"
"Like he was upset that they were only using him as a clerical."
"Was that unusual?"
"No, he was a good clerical."
"Then why was he upset?"
"Because he said he wanted to be a real detective."
"Like you and me, huh?" Clapton asked.
"Yeah, like you and me."
Clapton jerked his thumb toward the little office and said, "You got any ideas about this?"
"Not right now." Keough shook his head. "I'm still a little bit in shock. Does she want to see me?"
"Yeah," Clapton said, "she does. Why don't you stay here and I'll get her. She's upstairs with the kids and my partner."
"How are they?"
"She scared them when she screamed."
"Have they been told?"
"Yeah, they have. It was rough."
"Does she have someone to stay with them?"
"Her mother's up there, too. I'll bring her down. Why don't you wait in the living room."
"Okay. Who's got the duty?"
"Captain Dulfer."
"I don't know him."
"He's the exec over at the Seven-One. They call him Candy, 'cause he's always sucking on something-cough drops, a lollipop-hey, like Kojak. I never thought of that before."
"He's not here yet?"
"No," Clapton said. "I'm thinkin' about callin' him again."
"What about a sergeant?"
"Here and gone." Clapton laid his finger alongside his nose and said, "He had to go and get some breath mints."
That meant the sergeant on duty was a boozer and might or might not be back.
"Detective?" Mahbee said.
"Yeah?" Clapton replied.
"Can I move him?"
"Not until the captain shows up, Maybe," Clapton said, "you know that."
"Yes, I know that," Mahbee said, "and don't call me Maybe."
"Sure."
Clapton went upstairs to get Marcia Swann, and Mahbee gave Keough a look.
"This department is going to the dogs," he said. "The sergeant was drunk; the duty captain's not here…"
"Clapton's a good man," Keough said.
"Well," the medical examiner said, "I guess we'll have to settle for one out of three, huh?"
"When was he killed, Doc?"
"Near as I can figure," Mahbee said, "between ten and midnight."
"I left here at ten."
"That puts me right on the money, then, doesn't it?"
"I guess it does."
Keough took one last look at the office. From where he stood, he could only see part of the desk, and he didn't see anything that looked like a memo.
"Looking for something?" Mahbee asked.
"No," Keough lied, "just looking."
Keough turned and went into the living room. The last bottle of beer he'd had was still there on the coffee table, half-full.
He turned as he heard someone approaching and saw Marcia Swann enter with Detective Clapton. He wasn't sure how to react. Should he embrace her? Give her a sympathetic shoulder? She made the decision for him by keeping her distance, not crying, but hugging herself as if she was cold. Maybe it was her own icy calm that was chilling her.
"Marcia, I'm… so sorry." It sounded lame to him.
"Don't be sorry, Joe," she said. "Just find who killed him."
"Marcia," Keough said, "Detective Clapton will do everything he can"
"No," she said, interrupting him, "I don't want Clapton; I want you."
Keough looked at Clapton, who shrugged.
"Keith, could I talk to Marcia alone?"
"Sure," Clapton said, giving a wave. "I'll be in the other room."
Clapton left and Keough looked at Marcia.
"Marcia, are you all right?"
Another lame question.
"No, I'm not all right." She looked at him angrily. "I'm so fucking mad, Joe. How could someone do this? In our own house?"
"That's what Clapton will find out…"
"I told you," she snapped, "I want you!"
"I don't understand, Marcia. Why do you insist that I work on the case?"
"Because you were his friend."
Some friend, he thought. They hadn't seen each other since the Academy until this week.
"Because I know my husband, Joe," she went on. "He was excited about something, and nervous, and it had something to do with you."
"Marcia"
"You and he were working on something together, Joe," she said accusingly. "Did it get him killed?"
"No," Keough said right away, "of course not."
"Are you sure?"
He opened his mouth to answer, then closed it abruptly. Was he sure? But how could the murders have had anything to do with it? It had to be a coincidence.
"Joe?"
"Marcia, I don't think…"
"There was no forced entry, Joe," she said quickly. "I'm a cop's wife. No forced entry means nobody broke in. This wasn't done during the course of a burglary."
He didn't know how to respond. He still couldn't see how the murders could have anything to do with Swann's murder. Where would he even start? There weren't any suspects.
"He was killed by someone who knew him, Joe."
"Marcia…"
"Somebody he let in the house after you left."
"I was the last one to see him, Marcia," Keough said. "Why not suspect me?"
"Maybe I do, Joe."
That stung him.
"Then why ask me to investigate?"
Suddenly, she lost her icy calm and her eyes darted about before they finally settled on him again.
"All right," she said miserably, "I thought about you because you were the last to see him, but I don't really think you did it, Joe."
"Thank you, Marcia." His tone was stiff.
"But I think you can find out who did."
"I won't be assigned to the case, Marcia."
"You will if I insist on it, Joe. If I make a big-enough fuss."
If she made a fuss, then he was going to have to explain to someone what he was working on with Swann, and he wasn't quite ready to do that-not until he had some time to think things over.
"I'm working on something else."
"Something you were working on with Len."
He hesitated before answering.
"Something Len was helping me with, yes, Marcia, but I don't think"
"There's a connection, Joe."
"There can't be," he said, but his denial was too forceful, even for him.
"I want you to work on this, Joe… please?"
They stared at each other for a few moments, and then he said, "Don't make a fuss yet, Marcia. Let me see what I can do."
"I'll go along with you, Joe," she said, "but don't disappoint me, you hear?"
"I'll try not to, Marcia," he said. "Now tell me, do you know any reason why someone would want to kill Len?"
***
Marcia returned upstairs to be with her children. Keough went to the little office, where Clapton was still waiting for the duty captain.
"Keith, I think I'm going to get going." He tried to get a surreptitious look at the desk. "You want me to come by your precinct later today and make a statement?"
"Sure," Clapton said, "I'd appreciate it."
He started away, then stopped and turned around again. His eyes raked the desk one more time, but he didn't see the memo.
"You going to get in trouble for letting me go before the duty captain gets here?"
"I'll handle it," Clapton said with a smirk. "It's my case, not his."
Keough looked over at the body again, and Clapton shook his head.
"This is bad, Joe. Every cop in the city is going to be up in arms."
"I know."
Clapton looked at Keough. "Is there anything else I should know before you go, Joe?"
Keough looked at Clapton and thoughts ran through his mind quickly. What could he tell him? That he and Swann were preparing to go over the head of the CO of the Lover Task Force? Would that make that very same CO-Lieutenant Slovecky-a suspect? The way Clapton was looking at him, the man figured there was more to Keough's presence than what he was telling, but the other detective was not pressing him-not yet, anyway.
No, Keough still had to get away to put some thought into his next move.
"Nothing right now, Keith," he said. "If I think of something, I'll give you a call."
"Okay," Clapton said, "then shove off before the captain gets here, or you'll never get out of here."
"Appreciate it, Keith."
Clapton waved Keough's gratitude away and stepped back into the little office. Keough wished he had time to look around the office alone. He wondered what Clapton would do when he found the memo he and Swann were going to send to the C of D.
He also wondered what it would mean if Clapton didn't find the memo at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Keough was on the day tour that day, so he went home, showered and dressed, and went directly to work. On the way, he went over Swann's death in his mind. Coincidence or connection? How could there be a connection? he wondered. Could the Lover have found out the names of the task force detectives? Was he going after them? If so, he was acting like no serial killer Keough had ever heard of. He'd never heard of a killer turning around and going after the cops.
Was Swann cheating on his wife? Had he been killed by a jealous lover? Or a lover's husband or boyfriend?
Marcia had given him no potential reason for the murder.
"Len wasn't like the rest of you, Joe," she'd said, which he assumed was supposed to sting. "He didn't stop off on the way home; he didn't cheat; he was a good family man. No, I don't know why anyone would have wanted to kill him. I think you'd know more about that than I do."
Marcia Swann was convinced that her husband had been killed as a direct result of his working on something with Keough-only as far as Keough was concerned, they had barely even gotten started.
Could it be that Swann had told his two-killer theory to someone who wanted it covered up? The only person Swann had even mentioned in connection with a cover-up was the lieutenant, Slovecky.
Now with Swann dead, Keough thought, he was the only one with the two-killer theory.
Did he have to watch his back now?
***
"You look like shit," Pete Huff said as Keough entered the squad room.
"Thanks."
Det. Jim Diver came over to the desk and said, "We heard about Len Swann, Joe."
Keough looked at Huff.
"You went through the Academy with him, didn't you?" Huff asked.
"That's right."
Huff shrugged and said, "I remembered."
That surprised Keough. Maybe Huff wasn't such a complete asshole after all.
"You heard, right?" Diver asked, as if suddenly afraid he'd been the one to deliver the bad news.
"I heard, Jimmy."
"Were you friends?" Diver asked.
"We knew each other, Jimmy," Keough said. "We knew each other."
"Well… I'm sorry."
"Thanks," Keough said. "Are we catching?"
"Third in line," Huff said happily.
That satisfied Keough, too. He didn't know how he was going to juggle his own cases-of which there were plenty-and also spend time on the Lover and his copycat, as well as Len Swann's murder.
Keough felt bad about Swann. You were a cop, you felt bad when another cop was killed. He would have felt bad even if he still hadn't seen him since the Academy. Renewing acquaintances with him-for whatever reason-just made it worse, and having met his family was the capper. Still, he didn't want to drop the other thing because of it, and yet if it came out what he was doing-messing in a case that wasn't his-he'd be called on the carpet. Now he had two cases that weren't his-the Lover case and Swann-and he needed the time to work on both.
He stood up, walked to the coffeepot, poured himself a cup, and carried it back to his desk. He took a deep breath and decided what his next move had to be.
Swann was to have sent their memo that morning. Now it was going to be up to him. He'd read the memo; now he was going to have to try and duplicate it from memory and send it to the C of D. After he'd gotten that done, he'd think about Len Swann's
murder.
He pulled a sheet of letterhead from his desk, rolled it into his typewriter, and started hunting and pecking.
"Whataya writing, a book?" Huff asked after a while.
"Just a memo."
"I'm gonna go get something to eat," Huff said. "Want something?"
"No thanks."
"Suit yourself."
Huff got up and left, then came back, and Keough was still hard at work on the memo. He didn't know how Swann had managed to do stuff like this so fast.
It was almost three by the time he finished his third and final draft and pulled it out of the typewriter.
The original was to have been from both him and Swann, but with Swann dead, Keough's name went at the bottom all by itself. He stared at his name for a few moments, then took a deep breath and signed the thing. It wasn't word for word what Swann had written, but it was close enough.
"Pete," he said, "I've got to go out for a while. Are we next up?"
"Naw," Huff said, "only one case came in so far. We're second. Where you headed? Want me to come?"
"I've got to mail this," he said, holding the envelope in his right hand, "and then I've got to go make a statement to the squad about Len Swann's murder."
"Why you?"
"I was with him last night," Keough said. "Apparently, I was the last one to see him alive."
"Jeez, I didn't know that. They called you?"
Keough nodded.
"Early this morning."
"Jeez," Huff said again, "no wonder you looked like shit-aw, jeez, I'm sorry I said that this morning…"
"Forget it, Pete, just forget it. I should be back pretty soon."
"Don't worry about it," Huff said. "You don't make it back by end of tour, I'll sign you out. Don't even come back here."
"Thanks, partner," Keough said. "I owe you one."
Keough left, wondering if he and Huff had made a breakthrough in their partnership.
***
He went down to the front desk to drop the envelope in the mail. The precinct had a special basket there for mail that was going out to other commands. He knew that the mail was picked up twice a day, and he wanted to make the second pickup. He trusted the department mail better than the post office-although just barely.
"Hey, Keough."
He turned and saw the cop behind the desk who had called him. His name was Sal Adamano, and he had gone through the Academy with Keough and Swann.
Alone with the Dead Page 10
