Bradley said, “They turn over the files?”
Willows nodded.
“Read ’em yet?”
Parker said, “We’re working on it. We didn’t get out of the morgue until almost three in the morning.”
“Any surprises there?”
A copy of the report lay on top of the heap of papers in Bradley’s IN tray, but he apparently hadn’t had time to catch up on his reading either.
Willows said, “If somebody hadn’t shot him, he’d have died anyway.”
“Sooner than later?”
“Cancer of the prostate. The disease had progressed to the point where it was inoperable. Kirkpatrick gave him six months at the outside.”
Bradley shrugged. “Even so, it looks like a second-degree murder rap to me.”
Parker said, “You still want us to catch him, is that it?”
“If you can. What’s next?”
“We’re waiting for CPIC to run his prints. We’ll show his picture around, see if anybody local knows him.”
“You don’t sound particularly optimistic.”
“Kirkpatrick thinks he’s from out of town,” Parker explained.
“The dental work?”
Parker smiled, nodded. Bradley was old, but he was wise. “You talk to the cablevision people?”
“We’ve already circulated photographs within the company. Nobody’s recognized him yet. It’d be a lot easier if we had a positive identification.”
Bradley drummed his fingers on his cherry wood desk, leaned far back in his ancient oak and leather swivel chair. He stretched his arms wide, spun the chair away from the desk and stared out the window. “What a beautiful day. Ain’t nature grand?”
“Red in tooth and claw,” said Parker. “Or maybe it depends what part of the woods yon live in”
Bradley rotated the leather chair ninety degrees, rested his heels on his desk. His shoes were black and shiny. The laces hung loose. He said, “What about the shooter?”
Willows said, “Fireplug and Windy’ve been after him for over two years. They see him for eight banks, three credit unions and a trust company. They want him bad.”
“Sure they do. But they’ve got a big problem — they don’t have any way of tying him into the other stuff. Not that you can blame them for trying — it’d bump their batting average about fifty points, clear a lot of files. But they haven’t got enough physical evidence to fill a thimble.” Bradley kicked off a shoe, massaged his foot. “You want to know what they do have?”
Parker said, “What’ve they got, Inspector?”
“A hunch and a bellyache,” said Bradley, “and that’s about it.”
“We’re going to go over the security film from all twelve previous robberies,” said Parker. “We might get lucky, catch something they missed.”
“Got follow-ups scheduled for the witnesses?”
“This afternoon.”
“The bank finish its audit?”
Willows said, “The shooter walked away with eleven hundred and sixty-eight dollars.”
“And a black briefcase.” Bradley’s shoes came off the desk, hit the carpet with a dull thud. “The manager, Martin Ross. His name pop up anywhere?”
“He’s clean, so far.”
“So far?”
Willows said, “A couple of things are kind of nagging at us. The fact that he risked his life fighting for the briefcase when he claims he doesn’t know what was in it. Also, nothing specific, but the way he handled himself when we questioned him struck us both as a little weird.”
Bradley glanced at Parker for confirmation.
Willows said, “And another thing, he had no appointments after four-thirty.”
Bradley said, “The reason he gave was plausible.”
“Sure it was, but during that time frame the guy who got shot is hanging around, he’s carrying the briefcase, packing an unregistered concealed weapon and a nice shiny badge, which he flashes before he pulls his piece and tries to blow the boxer away, gets popped.”
Parker said, “He got popped, but he might’ve been a better shot than we first thought.”
“Yeah?”
“We couldn’t find the bullet, and in the film it looks as if the shooter flinches, a split second before he fires.”
“He was hit?”
“It’s possible, but we don’t know. There was no trace of blood, body tissue … ”
“He was probably wearing a full suit of body armour.” Bradley leaned forward, flipped open the lid of a Haida-carved cedar cigar box. “I know I would, if I were in that line of work.” He selected a cigar, shut the lid. “You mention Ross’s name to Bernie and Pat?”
Willows nodded. “Fraud’s never heard of him. If they had, he wouldn’t be a bank manager, would he?”
Bradley kicked off a shoe, leaned down and massaged his foot. It was the rheumatism again — his toes ached and that meant the weather was going to turn ugly. “You going to take another look at Marty?”
Willows said, “We’ll be talking to him.”
“There’s one thing that bothers me … ”
Willows said, “Thirteen in a row, that’s a pretty long string.”
Bradley nodded, rolled the cigar lovingly between his thumb and index finger.
Continuing, Willows said, “But not much money. He’s been coming away with fifteen hundred, maybe two grand a hit. The guy could make more money mugging paperboys. So I have to ask myself-if he’s so smart, why does he rob banks?”
“Figure it out yet?”
“When we do, you’ll be the first to know.”
Bradley said, “That reminds me — Bob Conroy get in touch with you?”
“Nope.”
“Claire?”
“Not recently.”
Bradley said, “A bank robbery is a bank robbery is a bank robbery. But a shoot-out, a shiny black briefcase, and a dead Mexican — or whatever — is pretty hot stuff. Bob’d like something juicy to feed the blow-dried mob, a piece of meat they can regurgitate on the eleven o’clock news. Got anything for him?”
“How about a finger,” suggested Willows.
“That’s very helpful, Jack. Did you have a particular finger in mind?”
“He’ll know the one,” said Willows. He was halfway out the door — and then he was gone.
Farley Spears looked up from his desk as Willows and Parker came out of Bradley’s office. He nodded to Parker and Parker nodded back. Spears looked awful. Three months ago, his doctor had told him quit smoking or die. Spears had cut his tar and nicotine intake to a pack a day and gained fifty pounds. He had an appointment with his quack at the end of the month and knew exactly what the guy was going to tell him — quit eating or die.
Spears said, “Bob Conroy was here a minute ago, said he needs something on yesterday’s shoot-out, the vultures are pecking his eyes out. I told him I’d pass on the message, next time I saw you.”
Willows said, “You do that, Farley.” He and Parker made their way through the squadroom, past grey-painted metal filing cabinets sandwiched between rows of grey-painted metal desks. Willows unlocked the squadroom’s door. One of the civilian secretaries at the front desk smiled at him, but he didn’t seem to notice. He pushed the door open, strode towards the elevator, punched a button.
Parker said, “What about Conroy?”
Willows said, “You want to talk to him, go ahead. I haven’t got the time.”
*
Martin Ross seemed to have fully recovered from his ordeal. The carefully brushed silver hair, imported tan and confident smile, his sparkling white shirt, heavy gold cufflinks and the immaculately tailored suit that had cost two thousand dollars if it had cost a dime; everything about him looked brand spanking new and eager to do business.
Willows unbuttoned his three-year-old sports jacket, which had been ticketed at two hundred but discounted at an end-of-lease sale to half price.
Ross said, “I talked to Inspector Bradley. He gave me his personal assurance t
hat you would not require more than a few minutes of my time.”
My precious time, thought Parker. She glanced at Willows and saw that he’d been thinking along the same lines.
Willows said, “Your current address is 1980 Ogden, is that right?”
“I’ve been living there since the house was built, Detective.”
“When was that?”
“Eight years ago this spring.”
Willows nodded. “Tell me. How long does it take you to get to work?”
“Half an hour, give or take a few minutes.”
“You’re still driving a dark blue Chrysler Imperial, tagged NST four-nine-nine?”
Ross nodded.
Willows said, “You bought the vehicle quite recently, is that correct?”
Ross’s eyes dropped for a split second to Willows’ clamshell holster, the blued steel of his 38 Special.
Willows said, “A bank manager, I guess you have to drive a car like that, don’t have any choice, really.”
“You don’t like Chryslers?”
“No,” said Willows. “What I meant is I suppose you always have to consider your image what your customers expect from you.” He smiled. “We’re all in the same situation, really. You lease, or buy?”
“I’d never recommend a lease. I just don’t see any advantage. The monthly’s far too high and the buy out’s ridiculous.” Ross toyed with a desk drawer. Willows wondered if he had a bottle tucked away in there, along with a shotglass and lifetime supply of breathmints.
Ross said, “Tell me, what kind of car do you drive, Detective?”
“Whatever’s available from the car pool.” Willows adjusted the weight of the pistol on his belt. “Now that you’ve had some time to think it over, can you tell us anything else about the man who was killed?”
In a fraction of a second, Ross was transformed from unjustly aggrieved banker to sympathetic, grieving fellow human being. He said, “I understand the victim was an officer of the law.”
“Not our law,” said Willows. “But we’re looking into the possibility.”
Ross nodded solemnly. He said, “I wish I could be of more help. But I’ve given it a great deal of thought and I’m afraid I can’t add to what I told you yesterday. The man dropped by my office once or twice in the past year or so. I can’t remember what we discussed, but it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.”
“Nothing memorable?”
“Exactly.”
Parker, trying to keep Ross off balance, said, “What’s a car like that cost, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Ross removed his glasses, held them up to the light, obviously didn’t much care for what he saw. He plucked a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit, scrubbed at a lens, tossed the handkerchief on his desk and put his glasses back on. “You want to know how much I paid for my car?”
Smiling, Parker said, “Just curious.”
“I believe the exact figure was thirty-two thousand five hundred and eighty dollars and sixty-seven cents.”
Parker said, “They wouldn’t round it off for you?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You paid cash?”
“If memory serves, I wrote a check.”
Willows said, “There’s a park across the street from your house, and then the beach?”
“You know the neighbourhood, Detective?”
“Happened to drive by last night,” said Willows. He shut his notebook. “How’s your wife taking this, she holding up okay?”
“My wife passed away some time ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Willows glanced at Parker. “Did you have any more questions, Claire?”
“Not at the moment,” said Parker.
*
Pale October light slanted down through the bank’s plate glass windows. A tiny red light blinked on each of the bank’s four security cameras. The fluorescents high up on the ceiling glowed with a faint tinge of pale blue. Light flashed on the dial of a watch, a pair of glasses, a teller’s gold chain.
The plate glass window didn’t have any bullet holes in it any more — the location of the holes had been measured and the angles of impact gauged, and then the window had been photographed from all angles, inside and out, while the glaziers smoked cigarettes and watched and made small jokes. The thick white chalk a detective had used to draw the dead man’s sprawled outline on the black granite floor had been wiped clean by a janitorial team working double overtime. The blood had been mopped, squeezed into a grey plastic bucket and poured down a drain. The grout had been scrubbed clean. The bright yellow plastic crime scene tape was now crisscrossed across the bedroom door of a patrolman’s thirteen-year-old son. The heavy black extension cords were gone and the lights were down. The revolver, spent brass and other physical evidence was locked away in a vault at 312 Main.
Money was still money, it seemed.
Thick grey velveteen ropes on brass stands formed a mazelike corridor to help keep the customers in line. According to the testimony of Hilary, the teller who’d been held up, the shooter had stood exactly where Willows was standing now.
Willows tried to see the bank through the killer’s eyes. If Fireplug and Windy were right, and the guy had burned a baker’s dozen worth of banks — he was either very lucky or very smart.
Or maybe a whole lot of both.
Willows turned to Parker. “You keep track of the number of questions we asked Ross about his car?”
“I think it was seven. I kept waiting for him to blow his stack.”
Willows smiled. “Me and you both.”
“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it.”
Willows said, “Want to get something to eat?”
“Not particularly.”
*
Willows kept backing the unmarked beige Chevrolet into the parking spot until the rear bumper nudged the tall, green-painted wooden fence at the rear of the parking lot.
A carhop balancing five four-foot-long green plastic trays on his shoulder hurried past. A napkin fluttered in his wake.
Parker said, “The carhop won’t take your order unless you signal him with your lights, Jack.”
Willows hit a switch and the red light hidden behind the car’s grill whirled and flashed. The carhop grinned at Parker, kept going.
“Headlights,” said Parker, “but I think he got the message.
Willows studied the menu painted on huge sheets of plywood attached to the side of the restaurant. “What’re you going to have?”
“Diet Coke, half a Caesar.”
The carhop came towards them, order pad at the ready.
His blond hair was cut in the style of a new-mowed lawn, and he had too many freckles to count. He crouched and peered into the car, smiled at Parker and asked her if she was ready to order.
Parker ordered her soft drink and salad, Willows a cheeseburger platter and coffee.
The carhop said, “Was that a large Coke, ma’am?”
“Small,” said Parker.
The kid nodded, wrote it down, snuck another look at Parker. “Be right back.”
Parker smiled, looked out the window.
Willows held his fire until the carhop was out of earshot and then said, “Another broken heart”
“That probably depends on the tip.”
Willows checked his watch. He said, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”
“How d’you mean?”
“The guy’s pulled thirteen armed robberies and we’ve got absolutely nothing to go on. You’ve been over the files. It’s like, when the guy isn’t out there working, he ceases to exist.”
“He keeps busy,” said Parker. “Sooner or later, we’ll nail him.”
“He’s in and out and gone in less than two minutes, on average. That isn’t much of a window. Fireplug and Windy did good work — flogged their snitches to death, asked their witnesses all the right questions … ”
“Okay,” said Parker, “let’s look at it this way — what can we l
earn about the guy from what we can’t find out about him?” Willows was still thinking it over when she said, “In the past two years the guy’s hit thirteen banks and left more than a hundred witnesses in his wake. But so far, none of those witnesses has been able to pick him out of a photo lineup. We don’t even have a tentative ID. No picture, no prints … If the guy was local, you’d think somebody’d have rolled him over by now. The thing is, we’ve got all that film but no idea what he really looks like. We probably know what he doesn’t look like, but how does that help?” She unbuckled her safety belt and reached behind her to massage her lower back. “I’m starting to ramble, aren’t I?”
Willows said, “He might be from out of town — it’s possible. Or maybe he’s a loner, knows how to keep his mouth shut … ” Or maybe Windfelt and Fireplug’s snitches travelled in the wrong circles. Now that he and Parker had the files, their snitches had a chance to show what they could do. Willows would put out the word — anyone who dropped a dime on their shooter could expect to walk on anything this side of child abuse.
A green plastic tray slid past Willows’ nose. The carhop had blind-sided him. The bill was pinned to the tray by his coffee cup. Eleven dollars and forty-three cents. Willows paid with a twenty, watched as his change was counted out on to the tray.
The carhop, smiling at Parker, said, “If you need anything, just flash your smile.”
Willows scooped up his change, every last nickel of it, and dropped it in his pocket.
Parker said, “Ruth Urquhart, did I mention she said that after the shooter’d blasted Mendez and cold-cocked Ross, he made a joke about it to her kids on his way out?”
“So?” Willows took another bite of his cheeseburger. A perky brown sparrow scrabbled across the slippery slope of the Chevrolet’s hood.
“So the guy stayed pretty cool — maybe it wasn’t his first shoot-out. Maybe we should alter the profile, toss in the shooting and run him through the computer again.”
Willows said, “It’s worth a shot, if we can get the time.” He added cream to his coffee. The sparrow pogo-sticked across the hood. Willows tore a small piece of meat from his hamburger.
Parker said, “It isn’t going to eat that.”
Willows tossed the meat out the window, on to the hood.
The sparrow pounced, wolfed the meat down.
Fall Down Easy Page 8
