Tag: Detectives continue their investigation into the death of a prominent attorney.

Part 2

Chapter 5

When Nik arrived at headquarters the next morning, Detective McDaniel was already at his desk, reviewing the security video from the lawyer’s condo building.  “You’re hitting the ground running,” Nik said drowsily as he yawned and took off his overcoat.

Tyrone spun his swivel chair in Nik’s direction and looked up at his partner, smiling. “Yeah, well, I got little sleep and was up with the chickens, as my grandma used to say.  The figure we saw in the traffic light video kept running through my mind.  Was it the killer or just a hurried, late-night rambler?  And if it were the perp, was it a man or a woman?” he asked, moving a shoulder, a hint of a shrug.  Turning and pointing at his computer screen, the junior detective continued, “But I found something interesting while looking at the condo recordings this morning.  Or I should probably say I didn’t find something which proved fascinating.”

“The figure we saw in the traffic light video kept running through my mind.  Was it the killer or just a hurried, late-night rambler?”

Nik leaned his bulk over the desk toward the monitor.  “Yeah?  What’s that?  Don’t tell me we can’t corroborate his statement of his movements.”  Tyrone kept himself from checking for a hint of alcohol.  The big man thought he detected his partner sniffing the air.  It aggravated him, but he remained silent because he wasn’t certain.

McDaniel moved forward.  “Well, yes and no.  He came in from the racquetball game and left for dinner, as he said.  But, unless I dozed off and missed something, Ken Mosley didn’t come home from wherever on the night of the murder until three hours before I contacted him.”

“What?  Are you sure?”  Tyrone nodded sharply.  “Are you certain he didn’t just go out later, then return when you saw him?”  Again, the younger man stated his certainty.  Nik stood erect and breathed, “Well, the counselor has some explaining to do!”  He moved around the desks and dropped into his chair.  “But first I need to speak with Ballard in case he has something to add which we might want to broach with Kenneth.”

“That’s what I was thinking, too.  But we should bring Mosley here to our turf this time.”

“Good idea, Tyrone.”  Nik had another notion, rose and walked around to his partner’s desk.  “In the meantime, show me the point in the video where our friend comes back into the building.”  The two detectives reviewed the DVD, then moved on to other matters.

Midmorning, Nik received a telephone call from Jimmy Ballard.  The private investigator advised the detective he’d be happy to get together whenever and wherever was convenient for them.  They agreed to meet at police headquarters in an hour.  Ballard offered to bring his files relating to Steven’s cases with him but admitted they were somewhat voluminous.  He further told Dederscheck they’d open to the detectives if they felt something in them could prove helpful.   Nik told Jimmy to leave the files in his office for the meeting.

Meanwhile, the telephone records from Prescott’s business, home, and cellular phones hit Detective McDaniel’s desk.  A review showed nothing unusual except an inordinate frequency of recent calls coming in to the lawyer’s office and cell phone from one number.  Tyrone ran a reverse trace on the number, which came back to Covar Transport Company.  When McDaniel mentioned the company’s name to his partner, Nik contemplated their next move before suggesting he contact Detective David Mealing in the department’s Organized Crime Unit.  Tyrone’s brow furrowed at the unexpected turn.  But, recognizing the advantage of being paired with someone who had lengthy experience on the job, he called the O.C. offices and spoke with him.  The two men set up a meeting there.  The young detective hurried to the other side of the headquarters building so he’d return in time for the get-together with Ballard.

Nik contemplated their next move before suggesting he contact Detective David Mealing in the department’s Organized Crime Unit. 

When Tyrone returned, his partner asked what he had found out. 

The junior gumshoe chuckled low, moved around and sat on a corner of Nik’s desk. “You know darn well what I learned.”  Dederscheck’s face split in an enormous grin, but he said nothing. 

“Okay,” McDaniel continued, “the Covar Transport Company is a front for an organization headed by a sleek but brutal individual named Leopold Czapala.  Mealing told me Leopold, while mostly keeping a low profile, runs the syndicate in this city. But he’s slick enough to stay out of harm’s way in any provable involvement with criminal activity.” 

Tyrone looked at his notes and shrugged faintly.  “That’s all he had for me, except Attorney Prescott may have had a lot to do with the miscreant avoiding conflicts with the law.  The Organized Crime Unit could never come up with anything to hang on him.  The difference between knowing someone’s guilty and proving it.”

“Exactly.”  Nik paused and rubbed his chin.  “We’ll pay Mr. Czapala a visit this afternoon.  I’m curious to learn why he made so many recent calls to the late Steven Prescott.  If he’ll talk to us.  Maybe he had a reason to want the attorney dead.  Anyway, for now—”

His phone interrupted Nik’s thought.  The call was from the front desk sergeant, who told him Mr. Ballard was there to see him.  Nik cradled the receiver and told Tyrone that the private investigator was in the lobby.  Before the detective sergeant could rise from his chair, his partner held up a restraining hand and said he’d get the man and bring him back to the bullpen.  Nik suggested talking to him in an interrogation room.  Tyrone nodded as he turned toward the bullpen door.

A few minutes later, Nik stood beside an interrogation room entrance as Tyrone and a middle-aged Jimmy Ballard made their way along the hall.  Dederscheck greeted the man and opened the door.  Nik followed the two men inside.  “I felt we’d have more privacy in here if there’s something you need or want to say in relation to Prescott’s cases, which have sensitive info.”

The private investigator agreed as he took a chair at the metal table in the center of the room.  “Never thought I’d be sitting on this side of an interrogation in a murder inquiry,” he said wryly when the detectives had taken their seats.

Tyrone leaned on the table.  “I don’t get your meaning, Mr. Ballard.”

“Please call me Jimmy.  I was on the job north of here in Greenville for twelve years, before I called it quits and moved into what Bogart termed ‘shamus work’.” 

Nik beamed at the reference to an old movie star.  “Any particular reason to turn in the badge after that length of service?”

Ballard’s friendly brown eyes saddened and studied his gnarled hands folded on the table.  For a moment, his face was taut and still.   “Nothing I care to talk about.”  Tyrone and Nik traded lowered glances before Ballard suddenly looked up at Nik.  His gaze was intent; his voice grave.  “Just so you understand, it wasn’t anything related to misconduct on my part!  I don’t want you thinking something negative,” he asserted.

“Nah, we’re good.  It’s not important,” Nik lied.  He moved on, “How long were you employed by Steven Prescott?  What type of work did you do for him?”

“Well,” the man searched his memory, “I started with him a little over ten years ago.  A lot of it involved domestic situations.  You know, divorce, cheating spouses, child support, one spouse hiding assets from the other, and so on.”  Ballard’s face took on an expression of renewed vigor.  “Every so often I caught a case with Prescott I could really sink my teeth into, such as an extortion scheme where the victim couldn’t go to the police.  Or tracking down perps who stole money from someone whose business interests weren’t exactly legit.  Crap like that.”

“How’d the two of you get along?”

“The old man and me got pretty close.  I don’t think he trusted many folks the way he did me, if I may say so.  And Phyllis, of course.  That’s Phyllis LeMaistre, his secretary.  But you’ve already determined that, right?”

Tyrone was wagging his head as he asked, “Did Prescott have any problems with any people you came in contact with on his behalf?”

“Well, Prescott had a reputation for dealing very tough with the other side on his cases.”  Nik chuckled knowingly.  “As a result, he rubbed more than a few influential folks the wrong way.  Some weren’t so powerful–only mean–but were just as pissed off, nonetheless.  He dealt with some pretty ruthless people over the years.  There are a few of them I’d be looking at for this.  I can provide you with names and files if it’ll help.  A lot of my investigations didn’t involve work product intended for litigation, especially the unreportable criminal matters I mentioned.  And in many of the others, the boss didn’t give me clear and specific instructions defining the purpose of my investigation.”

“He dealt with some pretty ruthless people over the years.  There are a few of them I’d be looking at for this.” 

Nik leaned in and threw the private investigator a hard, questioning glance.  “Prescott,” a smiling Ballard responded, “was one smart son of a bitch.  He knew what the court rulings on attorney-client privilege issues had been.  And he was aware of exactly what he was doing if anything broke bad. Something such as what you’re investigating.”

Dederscheck understood the intent.  He sat back in his chair.  “Did the two of you ever have problems with one another?”  Ballard answered no with a sharp shake of his head. 

The detective sergeant glanced at Tyrone, who put in a question, “Did you do any work for Prescott’s partner, Kenneth Mosley?”  Another head shake.  “Were you aware of any disputes between the two lawyers or Prescott and his wife?”

Jimmy blanched faintly and looked at his hands.  “The partners were extremely close in the early years of their practice together, from what I understand.  But they’d drifted apart in recent times.  They were civil to each other for a while, but that was it.  The breach became a sharp divide in the past year.  Their rapport went downhill even faster in the last several months, though.”  The private detective made a vague hand gesture.  “Let me back up a second.  In the manner of full disclosure, I have to tell you about an incident which put a little stress on the relationship Steven and I had.  The difficulty between us was only subtle, mind you, and mostly on my part, but it was a strain, nonetheless.”  The detectives waited.

After a quick pause, Ballard continued, “When we were in his office late one night, Steven told me in confidence of his concerns about his marriage.  I just figured it was feelings of guilt for spending so much time building his practice.  Then, last summer, I was doing a job for Prescott, looking for someone who had skipped to Sundown Beach on the coast.  I sat up on this fancy beachfront hotel for several nights waiting for the guy in question to show.  While I’m sittin’ in my car on the fourth night drinkin’ my umpteenth cup of coffee, a couple came out of the place arm in arm, all lovey-dovey.  I’m watching them as they walked in my direction toward the parking lot when suddenly I realize it’s Mosley and Katherine Prescott. 

“I nearly dove into the floorboard so they couldn’t see me sitting there.  Spilled coffee everywhere,” he chuckled.  “My shock caused me to follow them discreetly to an upscale restaurant.  After they strolled inside, still hanging all over each other, I regained my senses and drove back to my stakeout at the hotel.  An hour or so later, they walked right past my car when they returned. The way they hung on to each other didn’t give me the impression it was a one-off occasion.”

“Did you tell Prescott what you’d seen?”

The private detective moaned and shook his head in despair.  “We were working late the following week. During a casual conversation, Steven told me Katherine had gone to some sort of Ya-Ya Sisterhood get-together with her old sorority sisters that long weekend.  He said she’d come back looking happy and refreshed.  He was pleased.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him what I’d witnessed.  It would have killed him.”

“Maybe it did anyway,” Tyrone chimed in with a cynical, grim voice.

The three men sat in silence for a time.  “I don’t know whether Steven ever learned of the affair.  He certainly never heard it from me.  At the risk of sounding maudlin, the guilt of carrying that information around inside me drove a sort of wedge between us.  Anyway, the law partners’ relationship soured.”

“We’re looking at every angle, trying to find who might have had a motive for this murder.  To your knowledge, was Prescott romantically involved with any women?  A married woman, perhaps?” McDaniel asked.

“No!  No way!” the private investigator protested.  “The poor sap’s devotion to and love for Katherine ran too deep, for all the good it did him.  From what I saw, she was as cold as a fish to him.  But he never seemed to see it.  Or maybe he didn’t care as long as they were together.  I dunno, detective.  But no.  No women.”

“In your line of work, I’m sure you own at least one handgun.”  Jimmy nodded.  “How many and in what calibers?”

“Well, I’ve got two thirty-eights, a three-fifty-seven, and two forty calibers.  Every one registered.  I usually carry a forty concealed.”  Tyrone gave Jimmy a quick once-over.  Ballard laughed, “I’m not a brain surgeon by any means, but I’m smart enough not to walk into a police station carrying a gun.”

“Mind if we look at them at some point?”

“Not at all.  It’s a step in your investigation.  Whenever you say, I’ll bring them to you.  I’ve got nothing to hide.  But keep in mind, on the night somebody murdered Steven, I was eight hundred miles away, working a job for him.  Prescott sent me to talk with several people who were potential witnesses in a civil case.  I had to do the interviews after normal business hours and didn’t finish the ones I could get done the first day until 11:30 p.m.  Then I drove back to my hotel. After trying and failing to reach Steven to bring him up to speed on what I’d learned, I fell asleep. 

“The next day, I finished the last of the meetings late in the afternoon.  That’s when I got your voicemail on my cell.  Before I could call you, you phoned again, and we spoke.  I flew back this morning and here I am.”  The private detective gave Tyrone the name of the hotel where he stayed. He added the name and phone number of the final person he’d spoken to the night Prescott was murdered.

Tyrone followed with a question.  “Did you ever hear Prescott mention Leo Czapala or pursue any case for Steven involving the man?”

A slight smile quirked at the corners of Ballard’s mouth.  “No.  I’m aware of who he is, of course.  Face like an artichoke and a heart like a brick.  And I know what he’s about, but the old man never had me do any work concerning him.”  He looked at the detective sergeant.  “Were they connected somehow?”

“I’m aware of who he is, of course.  Face like an artichoke and a heart like a brick.”

Dederscheck ignored the question and stood, pushing the chair out from under himself with his legs.  He glanced at his partner, who gave him a slight nod.  “Well, that’s everything we have for now, but there may be more questions later.  We appreciate you meeting with us.  I–”

“Look, whatever I can do to help you find Prescott’s killer, you just need to say!  He was an honorable man!  I’m dyin’ to ask about any leads or suspects or evidence, but I know better at this stage.”

The detectives dismissed the idea with smiles.  “Thanks again, Jimmy,” Nik added as they shook hands. “Listen, because you were on the job for so long, I’ll trust you to bring in any files which might bear on our investigation.  And if you think of anything else, please contact us immediately.”  He handed the visitor his card.  “We’ll get back to you later to have a look at your firearms.”  The private investigator nodded and followed Tyrone out of the interrogation room.

While McDaniel escorted Ballard to the lobby, Dederscheck returned to the bullpen to make a quick phone call.  As Tyrone was making his way along the hallway to his desk, Lieutenant Wood stopped him.  “How’s it going, Detective?  Any problems with the two of you?” he asked in a quiet voice.

McDaniel’s eyes widened.  “Why?  Did the sergeant say something to you?”

“Good Lord, no.  It’s just a question.”  Wood surveyed the corridor in both directions, then whispered firmly, “Lighten up, Tyrone.”  The older man looked into McDaniel’s face intently.  “More people are for you than you think.  And that includes your partner.  Let me give you a piece of fatherly advice.  A chip on your shoulder is a helluva weight to tote around when you’re also carrying a badge and a gun.”

“A chip on your shoulder is a helluva weight to tote around when you’re also carrying a badge and a gun.”

The somewhat embarrassed junior detective grinned nervously, “No, no problems.  Everything’s kosher, Lieutenant.  Just fine.”

“My question actually referred to any issues with booze?”  Tyrone shook his head.  “Good.  Keep me in the loop in that regard,” he finished, putting a supportive hand on his young officer’s shoulder before turning and walking away.

Seated at his desk and still on his call, Nik looked up as McDaniel approached.  He had Brewer following in his wake.  Dederscheck feigned a grimace where she could see it.  “I love you, too, big guy,” she snickered.

Nik smiled acknowledgment back to Dell.  He reached across and tapped a piece of paper on his partner’s desk.  Tyrone saw it was the note containing the information Ballard had given them regarding his alibi.  The junior detective nodded his understanding and telephoned the hotel.  He followed that by contacting the individual the private investigator had spoken with last on the night of Prescott’s homicide.  Meanwhile, Nik continued his call, listening intently.  Brewer watched the detective sergeant’s facial expressions and noticed the man’s eyes water.  She wondered to whom he was speaking.  He was still on the telephone when McDaniel finished the confirmations.  The big cop’s brow furrowed deeply at what he was hearing.  This caught the others’ attention until he rolled his eyes and shook his head.  With that, Dell leaned against Tyrone’s desk and addressed herself to him.  “So, how’s it going on the Prescott murder?  Have–”

The sergeant’s hanging up the phone and mumbling, “Dear God,” interrupted her thought.  Dederscheck remained silent for a long minute, staring off at nothing in particular.  The other two detectives decided it was best not to disturb this reverie.   After a bit, Nik looked at Tyrone and shook his head sorrowfully.  “My call was to the Greenville PD.  I figured we needed to check up on Ballard’s background and his sudden departure from the job.  I called a guy I know there.”  Brewer’s eyebrows knotted with her lack of understanding.  The senior detective read her thoughts through her expression and added, “Jimmy Ballard’s a PI Prescott used.  A while back he was on the police force in Greenville.”

Concerned over what might be forthcoming, Detective McDaniel leaned across his desk, resting on his elbows.

“Ballard,” Nik began slowly, “was on the Greenville police force for twelve years.  Excellent cop, they said.  In his next-to-last year, they partnered him with an old-timer who was getting ready to retire.   Everybody on the job really loved the old man.  The department tried to put the guy at a desk for his remaining time, but he insisted on being in uniform on the streets.  This officer and Jimmy grew close while they worked together.  The two answered a burglary call one evening.  Ballard wasn’t expecting any rough stuff. But, out of an abundance of caution, he left his partner outside the apartment house while he went inside to check things. 

“The best they could figure is the intruder heard the officer coming in, climbed out a window, and shimmied down a drainpipe into the alley behind the building.  As the burglar hurried out of the backstreet, he ran headlong into the short-timer.   In a panic, he pulled a weapon and shot the officer three times before running away.  The old man never even got his service weapon’s holster unsnapped.  He died the next day without ever regaining consciousness.

“As the burglar hurried out of the backstreet, he ran headlong into the short-timer.   In a panic, he pulled a weapon and shot the officer three times before running away.”

“Ballard was devastated and blamed himself.  He never got over it.  Eight months later he resigned from the force,” Nik finished with a moving sigh.  With Dederscheck’s circumstances in mind, Dell and Tyrone understood why the story cut him deeper than it might have otherwise.  The woman knew the big guy rarely showed his emotions, but now he seemed to cave in on himself.  As with every policeman, the sergeant took it hard when a fellow officer died in the line of duty.

She walked to Dederscheck and placed an understanding hand on his big shoulder.  She felt an almost imperceptible shudder.  Brewer leaned against the edge of his desk.  After a bit, the woman brought things back to ground with a soft-voiced question, “Have you arrested the coldhearted wife or the slimy partner yet?  That’s where my money is.”  Nik looked up at her and smiled thinly, his eyes still swimming.

Tyrone casually tossed his notepad onto the desk and stretched in his chair.  “You may be right, Dell, but there’s not enough evidence yet.  Against anyone.  By the way, Sarge, Ballard’s alibi checks out.”  He turned to Dell and snorted.  “Say, we’re going back to reinterview Mosley regarding some interesting information we’ve uncovered he conveniently forgot to mention to us.  Care to come along?”

The woman stood.  “No, thanks.  I’ll pass.  I showered this morning and don’t necessarily want to have to take another one this afternoon.  Wouldn’t mind being there if you arrest him, though,” she added, with a mischievous grin.  Gazing at the junior detective, she asked, “What have you dug up?”

“Just that he didn’t get home on the night of the murder until around three hours before Tyrone first called him,” Nik put in.  Returning to his normal self, he pushed away in his swivel chair and clasped his hands together behind his head.  “And it appears he and the widow Prescott were doing the Serta Samba behind Prescott’s back.”

“No, shit?”  At her slip of the tongue, Dell cut her eyes quickly to the black detective, who didn’t seem to notice.  “Well, that’s a motive if ever I’ve heard one,” she reasoned.

Tyrone breathed, “‘Like a gold ring in a pig’s snout is a beautiful woman who shows no discretion.’”

Brewer turned his way.  “Fortune cookie?”

“Proverbs,” the junior man smiled uneasily.  He was uncertain how the verbalization of his Biblical thoughts was being taken by his associates.

“Well, we need to follow up with our lothario lawyer, after which I want a sit-down with Leo Czapala.”

“Czapala?  Wow!  Going after some big fish!  How’s he fit into this, Nik?”

“That’s what we intend to determine.  He placed several calls to Prescott’s office and cell phones in the couple of days and hours leading up to the man’s murder.  Then they stopped abruptly.”

While Nik explained their findings to Dell, his partner called Ken Mosley’s cell phone.  The lawyer agreed to speak with the detectives but steadfastly refused to come to police headquarters, claiming an unspecified minor illness.  He insisted they meet him at his condominium.  The detective felt the lawyer’s voice betrayed a hint of apprehension.  On hanging up, McDaniel told Nik of the problem with Mosley.  The senior man gave a slight shrug.  “Fine.  He can play his little game for now.  But, by God, we’ll get him in here when the time comes!”

“The lawyer agreed to speak with the detectives but steadfastly refused to come to police headquarters ….”

Tyrone nodded and pushed back from his desk and stood.  “Well, there’s no time like the present, partner.  Mealing said Czapala’s at the Covar offices every morning at seven thirty and usually stays until six p.m. You can set your watch by him.  He’ll be there when we’re ready for him.  I think this should be a surprise visit to him.  So, no call ahead.”

“Agreed!  Let’s roll!  Do you have the address for the Covar Transport Company?  I know it’s in the warehouse district, but I’ve never laid eyes on it, that I’m aware of.”

Gathering his small flip notebook and an extra pen, the junior detective told his partner the location.  Nik shrugged into his overcoat.  As the pair started for the bullpen door, Dell called after them, “Be careful, boys!”

Dederscheck stopped brusquely and turned back to her.  “Boys?” he exclaimed, feigning offense.  “Just how damn big do they grow the men where you come from, Missy?”

Brewer folded her arms across her chest, looked the pair up and down, and chuckled.  “Okay.  You’ll do.”  She leaned against the sergeant’s desk.  “No fooling.  Watch yourselves.  From what I hear, Czapala and his boys play rough.”

Nik glanced at his partner, then winked at her.  “No problem, Dell.  We’re not exactly debutantes ourselves.”  The two men disappeared into the hall.

Chapter 6

Before going to meet Mosley, the detectives served search warrants for the murdered man’s office and home computers, including Katherine Prescott’s laptop.  The widow was not at home.  Nik thought Ms. Eddins was curiously aloof when she had to give up her mistress’ computer, especially considering how protective she’d been of Mrs. Prescott on their first visit.   On their way back to the condominium building, they dropped them off at the police forensics lab.  Jorel Smart, the department’s aptly named electronics geek, declared his workload was at a standstill and promised Dederscheck he’d get right on the search of the machines.

*  *  *

A brief time later, McDaniel pulled into a space in the underground parking deck at Mosley’s condominium.  After the pair emerged from their car, the older detective stopped short and heaved a groan.  Tyrone cut his eyes to Dederscheck, then followed his gaze to the garage’s only elevator to the building above.  The lift was closed for repairs.  The younger investigator smiled, shook his head, and moved toward the stairwell.  Nik trailed him grudgingly. 

For what Tyrone assumed were security reasons, this set of stairs emptied into the lobby, as did the elevator from the parking garage.  From that point, one could choose from a second stairwell or the building’s three lifts, any of which would take them to the condos.  Nik didn’t care what the purpose of the split-stairs arrangement was; he was grateful not to have to climb eight more flights of steps.  He pressed the elevator’s call button.  As the two waited, Ms. Aldridge walked past them, moving toward her office.  She gave the detectives a nod and a knowing smile.  The men glanced at each other and grinned.

On the eighth floor, they found Ken’s condo.   Annoyed at the circumstances of meeting the lawyer there, Nik flattened his thumb against the residence’s buzzer for a long moment and more than once.  Eventually, Mosley answered the summons.  His hands held a combination of dirty dishware and crumpled newspapers.  He stepped back, opening the door for the cops, and led them down a short entry hall into a living room.  The place was a total mess.  Detective McDaniel recalled the comment made by Mrs. LeMaistre to Officer Sherman concerning Prescott’s fastidious ways. He wondered how the two attorneys ever got along if this was the norm for Kenneth.  The lawyer caught the detectives’ stunned looks at the state of the place.  He waved his arm around the area and said apologetically, “The cleaning girl called in sick.”

“It must be a long-term illness,” Tyrone shot back sarcastically.

Dederscheck chuckled.  Mosley removed a few items from a sofa and bid the men to have a seat.  “Oh, before I forget it,” he offered, walking to a kitchen counter, “here’s my revolver you asked about yesterday.”  Both detectives keenly watched his movements.  He walked past where McDaniel sat and carefully handed the gun to Nik with a thumb and an index finger on the weapon’s butt.  The lawyer’s actions aroused Tyrone’s feelings of being cast as a bit player in this scenario, but he said nothing.  Dederscheck was more interested in getting the truth out of this jerk than in hurting his sensibilities. He examined the weapon.  No one had discharged the firearm since it was last cleaned.

He … carefully handed the gun to Nik with a thumb and an index finger on the weapon’s butt.

After moving a pile of clothing to a nearby sideboard, the lawyer flopped wearily into a chair opposite them, crossed his legs, and straightened the crease on his trousers.  His sartorial splendor stood in stark contrast to the disarray in which he sat.  “What brings you to my door this morning?”  An irritating self-assurance carried in his voice.

Detective McDaniel’s face grew serious.  He didn’t wait for Nik, who was still checking the gun, to speak.  Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, he spoke in an accusatory tone.  “We’ve come across something requiring an explanation from you.  Is there anything you want to add to or change relating to your previous statement to us?” 

Mosley’s face reddened, but he remained silent.  Tyrone glanced back at his partner and prodded on. “A review of your building’s CCTV tapes shows you didn’t return home the night Steven was killed until three hours before I called you the next morning.  When you referred us to the security video for the returns and departures you mentioned, I guess it never occurred to you we’d check the rest of the evening, too.  Do you care to explain where you were between the time you said you left the Prescott residence and when you showed up here?”

“I–I had car trouble. It forced me to stay the night at the Prescott home.”

“So, you didn’t leave and return to your condo when you finished playing bridge that night?”  Nik set the old thirty-two-caliber revolver aside and joined the dialogue, staring hard-eyed at the object of his inquiry.

“I never said I left.”  Mosley’s suave arrogance had returned.  “If you’ll recall, gentlemen, I told you we played bridge until ten or eleven o’clock.  When I tried to leave, my Boxster wouldn’t start.  Owing to the lateness of the hour, Katherine invited me to stay there.”

“And you didn’t think,” an aggravated senior detective asked, “it was important enough to mention it to us before?”  Kenneth merely shrugged.  Dederscheck hated people playing word games during his investigations, especially self-satisfied lawyers.  His face screwed up like a bulldog chewing on a wasp.  “Where did you sleep, Mosley?”

“It’s an exceedingly large home, Dederscheck,” the attorney replied, returning the favor of abandonment of formalities.

“Where, Mosley?”  The words were an ominous, hoarse demand.  Nik’s patience with this man had been played out.

“I’ll not respond to your question, detective.  The answer is irrelevant to the murder you’re investigating.  Besides, a woman’s reputation might be at stake,” he said, smiling smugly.  A hint of recklessness showed in his narrow blue eyes.

Nik worked to get a hold on his rising rage.  “It’s only irrelevant if it doesn’t give you or the lady a motive for the murder.”

“I assure you that in this circumstance nothing is further from the truth.  And recall there were two women in the home on the night in question.”

Tyrone stepped in and pressed on, “Did you contact a repairman for your car?”

The man gave the detectives the same unctuous smile he’d tossed at Dell Brewer the day before in the coffee shop.  “Oh, it was much too late for a service call. Besides, there was no need.  When I went out early this morning and tried my Porsche, it started with no problem.  Evidently, it was a freakish glitch the night before.”

When he perused the room, McDaniel noticed a trophy on a bookcase at the far end.  Although he couldn’t read the inscription, the pose of the figure atop the award was easily discernible even at a little distance.  When the attorney finished his explanation, the detective launched into his inquiry.  “So, you’ve taken part in competitive shooting, counselor?” The question caught Nik’s attention.

Mosley swung his head around toward the shelves and returned his eyes to Tyrone.  “Um, yes, I did in college.  But I–”

“Any good?”

“Well, I made the team,” Kenneth said, smiling, pleased with himself, “and we almost went to the championship my senior year.”

“Pistol championship?”  The counselor’s vagueness confused Nik, who hadn’t yet spotted the trophy.

“As I started to say, detective, I gave up shooting long ago.  Law school left little occasion for outside activities.  And what free time there was, I didn’t want to waste at a firing range, if you get what I’m saying.”  He finished with his now-familiar, cheesy grin.  Both detectives made a mental note of that tidbit of information.

He finished with his now-familiar, cheesy grin.

Thinking ahead to their next stop, a question occurred to the detective sergeant.  “Are you acquainted with Leo Czapala?” 

The lawyer’s face blanched, but he shook his head.  “I know the name,” came the calculated response.

“Are you aware of any connection between Steven Prescott and Mr. Czapala?”  The answer took a few seconds to come.  It appeared as a brief head-waggle.  Dederscheck’s voice again became hard and annoyed, “You strike me as extremely cold and calculating, Mosley.”

The man’s arrogant smile reappeared.  “Come, come, detective.  I’m a lawyer.  It’s in my nature to be cold and calculating.”

“What about empathy and compassion?  With respect to your clients and their cases, for example?” Tyrone asked earnestly.

“Well,” Mosley chuckled harshly, “I’m calculating enough to fake those when needed.”  The answer left both detectives irritated.

An angry Nik sprang from the sofa.  In a grave tone he said, “I suppose you realize you’ve told us nothing here today which drops you from the suspect list.  In fact, the contrary may be true, Mosley.”

The lawyer stood defiantly.  “I did not murder Steven Prescott!  And I resent the implication!  If it becomes critical, Dederscheck, I will make my alibi witness known to you.  Now, if you don’t have the probable cause or a warrant to arrest me, I’ll ask you to leave.”

McDaniel rose, leaned toward their suspect, and spoke in a hoarse whisper.  “Fine for the time being, Mosley.  But don’t leave town.  I have a feeling we’ll be wanting to talk with you again soon.”  The attorney smiled weakly in response, his confidence draining away like bathwater.

 As the detectives made their way back to the parking deck, both mulled over the facts as they knew them at that point.  Tyrone spoke first.  “That’s our man!  I’m sure of it!”  He paused at the driver’s door and looked across the car at his partner.

“Yeah.  If we just had some concrete proof.  ‘For want of a nail ….’”  Nik broke off the thought and climbed in.

McDaniel sat behind the steering wheel and put the key in the ignition.  Undeterred, he half-turned to Nik.  “I understand what you’re saying about hard evidence, but this reminds me of something I experienced in Iraq.  Sometimes when we’d be out on patrol or in a firefight, we could see the dust rise from the base plates of the enemy’s mortars being fired in the distance.  Once you saw the dust cloud, you realized there would be incoming.  You didn’t have to hear the blast of the mortar.  The dust was enough.”  Nik nodded his understanding.  Tyrone paused in contemplation, then added, “Based on what Ballard told us, I don’t think there’s any question which of the two women he spent the night with?”

“Yeah, no doubt.  But he’d either have to be the victim of incredibly terrible luck or an idiot to sleep with Katherine Prescott while someone murdered her husband.  And it’s especially true if he had something to do with it.”  Nik shook his head in thought.  “Though smarter folks than that jerk have done much stranger, dumber things during my time on the job.  Maybe he and Eddins are an item now.  But why didn’t Katherine or Valerie mention him staying over to us when we were asking them about their evening on the night of the murder?”

“… he’d either have to be the victim of incredibly terrible luck or an idiot to sleep with Katherine Prescott while someone murdered her husband.  And it’s especially true if he had something to do with it.”

“Well, I’m putting the resolution of that question on my to-do list.”

“Yeah, we need to go back out to the Prescott place and speak with both women after we visit Leo Czapala.  Knowing Leo’s pedigree, I don’t think we can rule him out yet, regardless of how it stacks up against Mosley at this point.”

Tyrone nodded and started the car.

*  *  *

As McDaniel drove through a lashing snowstorm, he looked askance at his partner.  “What kind of name is Czapala, anyway?” 

The detective sergeant shrugged.  The question, coming from a man who seemed so preoccupied with concerns over people pigeon-holing him, took Nik aback slightly.  “I dunno for certain.  Polish maybe?  Does it matter?”

“No.  Just curious.  I was stationed with a fella in the service once with a similar name, but he spelled it C-z-a-p-l-a.  Exceptional guy.  Smart.”  The two men traveled on in silence.  The car’s wipers slung the hefty snowflakes aside as they fell.  Snow was accumulating as Tyrone turned onto Waters Street, where a square-block-sized building housed the Covar Transport Company.  The only indication of the company’s location was its name stenciled on a nondescript warehouse door leading from the sidewalk.  “The loading bays must be on the other side,” the junior man opined.  Tyrone drove past the entrance slowly and pulled to the curb behind a sleek, black luxury car.  “Well, Czapala’s here,” he said.

“How do you know?”

Jerking his head toward the vehicle in front of them, the young detective offered, “That’s his car.  Mealing told me Czapala has vanity plates with his nickname on them.”  Nik noted the car’s tag bore the designation “SHU POLSH.”  “According to Mealing, the big boss gave Leo, an up-and-comer in the syndicate at the time, the moniker ‘Shoe Polish’ years ago. He based it on the way the mobster pronounced his name.  Leo didn’t particularly care for the handle to begin with, but who’s going to buck the head honcho? The epithet stuck, and he’s adopted it wholeheartedly now.”

“Huh,” Nik chuckled.  “I thought it was only Italian thugs who gave each other nicknames, such as Vincent ‘The Chin’ Gigante or Tommy ‘Three Fingers’ Lucchese.”

“Well, there was Benjamin ‘Bugsy’ Siegel, ‘Dutch’ Schultz, and Arnold ‘The Brain’ Rothstein.  None of them were Italian.”  McDaniel paused before adding, “Seriously, Nik, what I’ve learned regarding Czapala is what Mealing could cram into a short meeting.  Because you know more about him and his operation than I do, I’ll pass on getting too involved.”

“Nah, Tyrone, we’re partners.  I’ll take the lead, but if you’ve got a question or something to say, jump in.  Besides, I’ve never met Czapala, and have had only minimal dealings with the Organized Crime Unit in the past.  Let’s just watch each other’s six.”  The younger detective smiled his appreciation and nodded a soothing assent.  Nik added, “At this stage, though, this is only a friendly visit.  But keep your eyes open.”  Because they were having a serious, albeit brief, discussion, Nik started to address the rumors about his drinking and their effect on Tyrone’s attitude.  Words came to mind but died unsaid.  Nik decided to save the topic for when they were less preoccupied.  Instead, the big cop pulled his shield from its badge carrier and hooked it over his suit coat’s breast pocket. 

Detective McDaniel did likewise.  “Good idea.  No sense in having some nut do something crazy before he can figure out who we are.”

“Oh, don’t worry.  These bums’ll catch on to who we are as soon as they eyeball us,” the sergeant chuckled.  “This just makes it official.” Before getting out of the car, Nik answered a call on his cell phone.  When he hung up, he looked at Tyrone.  “That was the medical examiner’s office; the autopsy showed Prescott’s time of death between 10:00 p.m. and midnight.  Because of the building’s conditions in this frigid weather, she can’t come any closer.”

As Nik finished speaking, Tyrone’s mobile rang.  After a brief conversation, he disconnected and looked at his partner.  “That was Brewer to say the ballistic testing of the .45-caliber rounds from Prescott’s body matched nothing in our files.”  Diffidently, he added, “She tried your cell but couldn’t get through to you while you were on the call with the ME’s office.”

The pair left the car and trudged through the gathering snow to the door.  Nik found it unlocked and pushed his way into the bustling warehouse.  A beefy man sat on a high stool at a tall table just inside.  He dropped a pen onto the table’s small surface and stood with clenched fists when the two men appeared.  His confrontational manner didn’t ease even when he saw their badges.  The big guy wore a tight-fitting windbreaker against the chill of the place.  Though his shirt collar was unbuttoned, it still strained to contain his massively muscular neck.  He looked at them with cool, steady eyes and a level, unsmiling expression.  “Yeah?  Whaddya want?”  His voice had a harsh rasp.

A beefy man sat on a high stool at a tall table just inside.

“We’re here to see Leo Czapala.”

“Well, Mr. Czapala ain’t here. So–”

“He’s here, all right.  So, you just need to hurry along, sonny, and tell him he’s got visitors.”  Nik’s tone had taken that ominous turn again.

The man in the windbreaker bristled.  “Yeah, you’re a tough guy with a badge in your hand!  If you didn’t have the shield—!”

Nik shot back, “You’d try something stupid, and I’d have to tear you to pieces!  Now shut up and move!”  Though Tyrone was aware of Nik’s reputation as a hard cop, capable of easily handling physical confrontations, this was the first time he’d seen it manifested.  He watched the scene with keen interest.

The two sizable men exchanged glares like body blows.  After a thoughtful moment of rubbing the stubble of his beard, the hood decided the big visitor was not someone to be bluffed or bullied.  He shrugged stiffly and ambled to a staircase.  At the top of the stairs was a door leading to what appeared windowed offices overlooking the warehouse.  As Nik eyed the retreating goon climbing them, he shook his head and glanced sideways at Tyrone.  “Some of these jerks think they can run roughshod over everybody, including law enforcement.”

The two sizable men exchanged glares like body blows.

The detectives watched the routine activity in the storage facility while they waited.  After a minute or so, a shrill whistle sounded over the din.  The lawmen looked up. The big thug signaled them to join him.  They made their way to the office door at the top, where the beefy man stood.  He extended his arms as if to frisk them.  “You’re out of your mind, buster!” Nik said sourly as he squared up to the hoodlum.  He withdrew his hands and diffidently held the door open for the pair. 

They entered a moderately well-appointed office space.  A heavyset brunette sat at a desk, typing cautiously and chewing gum enthusiastically.  Her activity couldn’t hide the bored expression on her face.  The woman looked up at the two detectives as if their appearance was the highlight of her otherwise mundane day.  “Mr. Czapala will see you now, gentlemen.”  The staccato way in which she spoke the words gave Tyrone the impression she’d had little practice in greeting visiting strangers.  She rose stiffly to open the entrance to an inner room.  Her movements reinforced Tyrone’s opinion of her inexperience.  Before she could move from her chair, Mr. No-Neck waved her off and walked to the door.

The space into which he delivered the duo was only slightly better furnished than one might expect in a warehouse setting.  At a large wooden desk sat an average-sized, hawk-nosed, older man with a heavily pockmarked face.  Nik at once saw a hard, sinewy guy standing behind them in a dimly lit corner of the office.  He was smallish but had a definite ominous air.  The younger detective followed his partner’s gaze.  The man’s suit coat sagged on one side and told the detectives what they needed to know.

Nik at once saw a hard, sinewy guy standing behind them in a dimly lit corner of the office.  

From the description Mealing had given him, McDaniel recognized the man behind the desk as Leo Czapala.  Without moving from his seat or offering a handshake, he motioned his visitors to chairs across from him.  Simultaneously, he directed a slight head jerk at the hefty guy who had shown the detectives in.  Cutting a sideways glance at the big fellow, Nik and Tyrone saw him hesitate.  Leo then gave his minion a more definitive movement, with eyebrows raised threateningly.  The hard face of the man morphed into that of a crestfallen child being told to leave the room while adults talked.  Nik made certain the brawny fellow caught his smirk before the door closed.

The detectives sat and directed their attention to Czapala.  “Now, Detective Dederscheck, what can I do for you?” he asked with just a hint of a foreign accent. As he spoke, the man reached up and gently touched the side of his head.  A hideous comb-over attempted to hide his severely receding hairline.  His voice had a silky refinement.  Its smoothness couldn’t disguise a menacing quality. Nik assumed the trait came from years of controlling criminal undertakings of various sorts, including matters involving the lives and deaths of others, with an iron fist.  That this man, whom he’d never encountered, knew his name took him aback somewhat.  Tyrone felt another slight when Leo never looked his way or acknowledged his presence.  The secretary entered the office with cups of coffee for the visitors, placed them on the desk in front of them with a flourish. She left as silently as she’d entered.

The sergeant sliced through the niceties of any greeting.  Sensing Tyrone’s frame of mind, he nodded in his partner’s direction.  “Detective McDaniel and I are investigating the murder of someone known to you.”  Leo’s eyebrows furrowed inquisitively.  “Attorney Steven Prescott.”

“Well, I’m acquainted with many people, Detective.  And yes, I knew Mr. Prescott.  I must say it disturbed me greatly to learn of his death.  He–”

“That’s why we’re asking you the question, Mr. Czapala: what exactly was your relationship with him?”  A lengthy pause followed, during which the two men stared at one another. 

Suddenly, McDaniel’s cell phone started ringing.  He pulled it from his coat pocket and looked at the caller identification.  “Excuse me, but I need to take this.”  With that, he rose and moved to the outer office, closing the door behind him.  Czapala gave him a disapproving look as he left the room. 

Nik pressed on.  “And we’re trying to determine why his phone records show an unusual number of calls from you in the days and hours leading up to his death?”

“As you might assume, ours was a relationship born of my need for legal advice, possibly future representation in court.”

“But then your calls abruptly stopped around the time someone murdered him. Curious, wouldn’t you say?”  Nik smiled vaguely, “You can understand why it aroused our concern.”  Dederscheck leaned back in his chair and waited.

The gangster steepled his fingers across his chest and laid his index fingers gently against his lips.  After a moment’s thought, he asserted, “The answer is basic.  Speaking frankly, Detective, Attorney Prescott—”  Tyrone hurriedly came through the door and returned to his seat.  At Czapala’s perturbed look, the young detective apologized and asked the man to continue.  “As I was saying, the counselor was representing me in a federal criminal matter which may well be forthcoming.  The situation is grave.  I chose for the communication concerning the subject to be directly between Steven and me.” 

Czapala picked up a letter opener from his desk and toyed with it as he spoke.  Dederscheck sensed uneasiness in the man’s actions.  “I was constantly trying to stay in touch with him to learn of any indictment which a federal grand jury might hand down against me.  But I assure you their case is a complete misunderstanding of the circumstances. They seem to have some sort of vendetta against me.  It won’t be the first time they’ve tried to pursue ridiculous charges against me and failed. 

“Truthfully, Mr. Prescott had at least one contact inside the U.S. Attorney’s Office. That person forewarned him of possible indictments, the nature of the allegations, and possibly even the extent of their evidence.  He told me he’d telephone me if he had any information.”  Czapala smiled almost sheepishly.   “I confess to calling him repeatedly.  So, you see, it was never in my best interest to have any harm come to him.”

“… Mr. Prescott had at least one contact inside the U. S. Attorney’s Office, who forewarned him of possible indictments, the nature of the allegations ….”

“Unless, in researching your matter, the lawyer came across proof of your guilt or some other damning circumstances.  Maybe it made him feel compelled to withdraw from representing you.  Or perhaps he then knew too much for you to be comfortable letting him live.”  Czapala smiled and shook his head before Dederscheck continued, “But your phone calls ended at seven-thirty-seven on the evening someone murdered Prescott.  And no calls from you to him after that.  You can recognize the basis for our interest.”  Dederscheck waited for the man’s response.

Leo returned the letter opener to his desktop.  “Of course, detective, I understand your alarm.  But again, Steven was the one person most familiar with my case who knew the truth of my innocence.”  The mobster’s words rang hollow. “And I relied completely on the attorney-client privilege to keep our conversations, his knowledge of my position, confidential.  Prescott was an honorable man.  I did everything possible to protect him from harm.”  It occurred to Dederscheck it was the second time in as many days he’d heard the term “honorable” applied to the decedent. 

“The answer to my phone calls abruptly stopping is, again, simple.  On the evening you say somebody killed Mr. Prescott, I had a social engagement, which prevented me from trying to reach him any later than my last call.  Several dozen prominent citizens can verify my presence at the function, which ran rather late.  It was a fundraiser for the Children’s Hospital.  Shortly after they discovered his body early the next morning, my source informed me of his death.  Obviously, there was no need to continue calling.  My search for legal representation at once turned elsewhere.”

On hearing this, Nik’s face flushed with anger.  “How did–?  Who told you of his murder so quickly?”

Leo’s expression revealed nothing until Tyrone interjected, “How long have you owned the Belvedere Building?”  Their host smiled ominously.

“What?”  Nik looked between McDaniel and Czapala, as his thoughts rushed back to Mr. Jacobs and his attempted phone calls the prior morning.  “How did you come by that, Tyrone?”

Tyrone moved his eyes from Nik to Czapala.  Triumphantly, he declared, “That was my O.C. contact on the phone.  He had only just heard that we found Prescott’s body in the Belvedere Building.  I hadn’t mentioned it when we met, because it didn’t hold any significance as far as I could see.  When he learned of it, he figured I ought to know our friend here owns the building through a holding company.”

Czapala’s smile waned.  “Ah, yes, the inscrutable Detective Mealing.”

“How d’you find out about Prescott’s death, Leo?  Was it from the Belvedere’s manager?”  Nik thought of a return visit he’d be paying Jacobs later.

Czapala’s eyebrows arched, and he exhaled at the repeated disrespectful familiarization the detectives were showing him, but he maintained an even temperament.  “I have many sources, Dederscheck.  Does it really matter?  The bottom line is, I had nothing to do with Steven Prescott’s death.  And I knew of no one who had any enmity against him.  I certainly did not.”

The detective sergeant’s anger regarding Jacobs calling Czapala raged, but he held fast.  Dederscheck had a job to finish, and he couldn’t let personal feelings get in the way.  The storm passed.  While Nik digested the news of Czapala’s affiliation with the crime scene, McDaniel asked, “As the owner, do you have a key to the building?”

“A key is in the possession of the holding company, but no, I don’t have one.  I own many properties, detective.  I don’t keep keys to all of them.  That is the purpose of such a company.  My secretary can give you the name of a point of contact with them before you leave, if you want it.”

Then McDaniel played a hunch.  “Have you ever met Mr. Prescott’s partner, Kenneth Mosley?”  His fellow detective shot him a hard, questioning look.  Then, the big cop turned his attention to the man across the desk and studied him as he spoke with Tyrone.  Czapala had a malevolent smoothness which put Nik in mind of Basil Rathbone in his more villainous roles.  But this gangster had far more depravity, refined though it might be, than the actor ever showed on the silver screen.  Perhaps, Dederscheck told himself, it was because Rathbone was playing a part in a movie and Leo was living the suave villain’s life.

Czapala had a malevolent smoothness that put Nik in mind of Basil Rathbone in his more villainous roles.

“No, Mr. Mosley has never represented me.”

“That’s not the question I asked, Czapala,” McDaniel said evenly.  “Have you ever met him or had any dealings with him?”  Tyrone’s approach and persistence impressed his partner.

The mobster shifted his eyes to the figure in the darkened corner of the room.  Both detectives followed his gaze to the man, who smiled knowingly.  The cops returned their attention to Czapala, who addressed them as he gazed at his associate.  “Let us say Mr. Mosley approached me recently on a business matter.  At least, he believed I might help him with something he wanted done.”

“He said he’s never met you.”

“Well, I don’t want to think the attorney thought so little of our meeting he’s forgotten it, especially considering the ‘service’ about which he sought me out.”

“And what ‘service’ was that, Czapala?”  Nik’s anger had faded, and he rejoined the fray.

The menacing smile quirked at the corners of Czapala’s lips again.  “I want to be perfectly candid with you, gentlemen, but only as far as good reason will allow.  Permit me to categorize the ‘favor’ Mr. Mosley asked of me as one I’m unlikely to grant even to my children, except under the direst of circumstances.  I’m certainly not likely to do what he requested for someone we call a civilian.”

“What was–?”

Czapala stopped Nik’s question with a raised hand.  “Let’s just say he has watched too many gangster movies, perhaps The Godfather, too often,” said the mobster, in a low, hoarse voice.  “Not that I’m involved in any such activities as portrayed in those depictions, mind you.”  Their host paused and cleared his throat. 

Dederscheck pushed aside his surprise at Czapala’s words and moved on, “Am I to conclude–?”

“You may conclude what you wish, detective.  Beyond that, I refer you to Mr. Mosley for your answer.  No doubt he will give you the solution to your quest shortly.  The man is not an expert hand at dissimulation.”

“Yeah,” the sergeant huffed.  “Somebody’s always referring us back to Mosley for answers.”  Czapala smiled.  After a moment’s reflection, Nik asked with anticipation, “Did Kenneth tell you the target of this ‘favor’?  Did you refer him to someone else to get the ‘service’ he sought?”

Czapala again looked past the detectives to the dark corner.  “As far as any ‘target’, as you put it, my associate here dealt with Mosley more than I in the time leading up to our, shall we say, consultation?  Did he divulge any additional information to you, Tommy?  Is there anything you care to tell these gentlemen?”

Nik and Tyrone shifted in their seats better to see the man.  Other than a thin, cold sneer on his lips and his emotionless dark eyes, he hid in the shadowed corner. 

The stoic man took a deep breath and answered, “No, Mr. Czapala.  I have nothing to help these men with in their inquiries.  He gave me no indication who had him so upset, shall we say?”  He paused before offering, “I might add only that Mosley is what I’d term a slinky.”  His facial expression never changed.

Nik’s eyes flashed up from his coffee cup to Tommy.  “A slinky,” the detective repeated.  His response reflected uncertainty about the other man’s statement, but it wasn’t a question.

The thug grinned harshly.  “Yeah, a slinky.  He’s not much good for anything, but he’d probably bring a smile to your face if you pushed him down the stairs.”  His voice was dry and cool.  The man went quiet and resumed his sphinxlike pose.  His comment brought to Nik’s mind the vicious killer portrayed by Richard Widmark in the movie Kiss of Death.  In the role, the actor cold-bloodedly threw an old lady in a wheelchair down a flight of stairs, laughing maniacally as she fell.  In an odd coincidence, Widmark’s character’s first name was Tommy.

The detectives turned back to the mischievous face of their host, whose menacing smile added a twinkle to his basilisk-green eyes.  “My associate is trying to say Mr. Mosley’s impetuous confidence that I might grant him his request carried him beyond his resources.” 

Czapala’s expression grew grim.  He leaned forward over his desk, resting on his elbows.  “Neither did he tell me the entity who was his target nor did I ask.  I am not given to making quantum leaps to conclusions.  However, in retrospect, if my assessment of Kenneth Mosley’s intent is correct, ….  Allow me to say he will be answerable to someone, somewhere, sometime.  If not to you, then to me.  But to answer your query, Detective Dederscheck, I am not a concierge, and I do not operate a referral service,” Czapala said firmly.  “Besides ….”  He paused.  His eyes met the sergeant’s as he contemplated his next words.  “Do you read much?”

“Allow me to say he will be answerable to someone, somewhere, sometime.  If not to you, then to me.”

Surprised by the question, Nik glanced at Tyrone, then looked back at the man behind the desk.  “A fair amount, relatively, I guess.”

“I recently read a quote from Einstein with which you may be familiar. They reported him to have said, ‘After hydrogen, the most common thing in the universe is stupidity.’  I submit Kenneth Mosley as a textbook example of the proof of the hypothesis.  Beyond that, I cannot assist you in your quest.” 

The senior cop looked hard at Czapala.  “Off the record, why are you willing to tell us this?  Doesn’t it break an oath or something?”

The man across the desk smiled, “Off the record, then, popular culture imbues me with a mythical code of silence.”  Nik returned the smile.  The gangster’s grin morphed from ingratiating to menacing.  “Even if there were such an oath or code, it only exists as it relates between me and one of our own, not a civilian such as Mosley.  Furthermore, if he has done what I think he may have, I owe him in a way which might not sit well with your idea of justice.”

Though he was certain of the answer, Dederscheck put forth a question anyway.  “Would you testify to what you’ve told us here today?”

Czapala only glared at his visitor in mild disbelief.  His telephone rang.  As he moved to answer it, he said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have important business pending.  I need to find legal counsel.” 

Satisfied they’d gain nothing more by prolonging their interview further, the pair rose.  Nik reached over the desk and firmly covered Leo’s hand, resting on the yet-unanswered telephone receiver.  “I’ll be in touch, Czapala.”

Czapala frowned, cast his eyes at his minion in the corner, and jerked his head toward the door. The man sauntered across the room and opened it for the detectives.  The pair moved through to the secretary’s area.

Nothing in the outer office had changed since they’d entered earlier.    The brunette labored at her typewriter while working her chewing gum to death.  She paused long enough to hand Nik a business card for Czapala’s holding company.  Downstairs, as detectives approached the exit to the sidewalk, Mr. No-Neck gave them a hard look from his perch at the tall desk.  Dederscheck tossed the man a large smirk before opening the door and lumbering out onto the snow-covered pavement.

* * *

Inside their car, the two men sat for a moment in contemplation of what they’d learned.  “Nik, do you think the ‘service’ Mosley asked Czapala for was having someone killed?”

“I’m not sure.  The cretin seemed to hint in that direction.    It certainly sounded like it to me.  He’s a pretty slick character, though.  Overall, I came away with the impression that the Feds might just have a case against Czapala this time.  He’s worried.  He saw Prescott as his best bet to beat whatever charges there are.”  The junior detective sat quietly for several minutes while Nik checked e-mails on his cell phone.  When he finished, the big cop looked his way.  “What’re your thoughts, Tyrone?”

McDaniel stared ahead and explained, “Oh, I was just running through a few permutations of our facts to this point.” He turned in the seat to face the other man and smiled.  “Wouldn’t it have been ironic if Mosley had received help from Czapala’s people killing Prescott, only to have Leo find out later the mark was the man he was most interested in keeping safe?”  He chuckled softly when he finished the hypothetical.

“Yeah.  Ironic.”

“I wonder whether Kenneth took matters into his own hands when he didn’t get what he wanted from Czapala?”  The question was rhetorical and required no direct answer.

The two men agreed Kenneth Mosley was looking more like the murderer or the person behind the killing of Prescott.  They decided they needed to snatch him to headquarters for hard questioning, get answers, and possibly make an arrest. 

Chapter 7

McDaniel flattened his thumb against the button outside Mosley’s condo.  The detectives were standing on either side of it.  After three such attempts, he pounded on the door.  Still no response.  They returned to the building’s lobby where, by chance, they encountered Ms. Aldridge again.  When asked, she told them she’d not seen her tenant that day and had no idea where they might find him.  Before leaving the building, Tyrone telephoned Prescott’s law office, trying to locate the missing lawyer.  The effort was unsuccessful. Meanwhile, Dederscheck contacted the Prescott residence.  When a female tersely answered the call and Nik identified himself, there was an immediate hang-up.  He was uncertain to whom the voice belonged.  When he called back, there was no answer.

The sergeant impatiently waited for his partner to finish his conversation.  As McDaniel disconnected, he said he’d spoken to Mrs. LeMaistre, who was in the law office packing Steven’s personal things.  She’d neither seen nor heard from Mosley, but promised to contact the detectives if she did.  Nik explained his results in trying to reach the Prescott home.  The pair concurred they needed to get to the location as quickly as possible.  Nik decided his second visit to Jacobs at the Belvedere Building had to wait.  He called Detective Brewer, who agreed to return with them to the Pates Ferry Road residence.  Nik asked her to put out a be-on-the-lookout bulletin for Mosley’s Boxster and meet them in front of the headquarters building.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Brewer hurriedly climbed into the backseat of the Impala, and the three sped away toward the Prescott home with McDaniel behind the wheel.  Nik turned and draped an arm over the back of the seat.  “I realize it’s kinda quick, but have you heard whether anything’s come back on Mosley from our BOLO?”

Brewer unwrapped a woolen scarf from around her neck and responded, “Nah.  The guy’s still on a milk carton.  He’ll show.  You know he will.”  As Tyrone hurriedly weaved through traffic toward Pates Ferry Road, the woman added, “By the way, Nik, the phone dumps on Mosley’s and Mrs. Prescott’s phones came back.  They’ve been in almost constant contact since early on the morning of her husband’s death.” 

At this, the detective sergeant nodded with a knowing smile and a glance at McDaniel.  “I’m not surprised at that.”  Tyrone grimaced and agreed.

The driver eyed Dell in the rearview mirror and opined, “Mosley looks good for the murder, either directly or indirectly.  The problem is we have no idea whether or how deeply he’s involved with Katherine Prescott.

Brewer leaned forward from her seat.  “I don’t mean to throw a monkey wrench into the works, guys. But I’ve been wondering if the lovely widow Prescott hasn’t been playing Ken just to get rid of her ‘ball and chain’.”  Nik turned and shot a startled expression at the woman, who settled back.  “Well, it’s happened before, big guy.”

“… I’ve been wondering if the lovely widow Prescott hasn’t been playing Ken just to get rid of her ‘ball and chain’.”

Nik then looked at their driver, who said, “I’m uncertain one way or the other, Dell.  What we know is Kenneth Mosley’s a self-serving prick.  Right now, what may happen to Katherine is a concern to me.”  Neither of his fellow detectives reacted to the words he’d used.  Both sat in silent acquiescence.  McDaniel pressed the Impala’s accelerator harder.

*  *  *

After a time, McDaniel wheeled the Chevy to the front of the Prescott mansion.  The three hurried to the door and sounded the chimes.  Within a minute, Valerie Eddins opened the door.  When the disheveled woman saw the detectives, she leaned on the portal weakly.  Crying had left her eyes red and swollen.  Instinctively, Tyrone reached out to support her.  He helped her to a nearby chair in the entry hall.

Nik was less merciful.  Someone had murdered her employer, a man who’d given her a job and a home, he told himself.  The big detective was only interested in answers as he bent over Eddins.  “Is Mrs. Prescott here?”  The woman looked up at him with a pitiful face and sobbed.  She didn’t respond to Dederscheck’s question.  He was having none of it.  The burly plainclothesman grabbed her firmly by the arms and shook her.  “Answer me, dammit!  Is Katherine Prescott here?”  He got a lengthy silence for his effort and considered giving her a swift slap to bring her around.

Before he could, the woman looked up at Detective Brewer, as if seeking a sympathizing spirit.  “I loved him.  I told him I loved him.  He made me feel as though he loved me.  We were going to be together.  He said she was just a pawn in his little game.  I played the role he wanted, waiting for the moment he’d come for me.  When he–” her story moaned to a halt. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she tried to relate it.

Because the woman had looked to her for succor, Dell took the lead momentarily.  “Who, Valerie?  Who’re you talking about when you say ‘he’?  Steven Prescott?  Mosley?”          

“Ken,” was the only thing Eddins managed before she plunged her face back into her hands, sobbing.

“When he slept here Tuesday night, did he stay in your room, Valerie?” Tyrone demanded.

The woman was incredulous as she gaped at the junior detective.  “Stayed … Tuesday night?  Who?  What are you saying?”

“Ken Mosley told us he spent that night here.  Did he stay with you?  Did he sleep in another bedroom?  Or with Katherine Prescott?”

“Ken remained here Tuesday night?” she moaned.  “I–I didn’t know.”  She paused as her eyes flashed back and forth, reliving the events of that night.  “After the last bridge hand, I went to my rooms in the west wing. I didn’t see him or Mrs. Prescott after I retired.  No, he didn’t stay with me.  And I’d have known whether he slept in a spare bedroom.  Ensuring the housekeeper makes them up is my responsibility.  He had to have spent the night—”  Her sobs returned, harder, and she covered her eyes again.

“Ken stayed here Tuesday night?” she moaned.  “I–I didn’t know.”

His patience running thin, Nik stepped in.  He grabbed Eddins’ chin with a firm hand and raised her face to meet his.  “Where is Katherine Prescott?  Tell us!”  Dell had the urge to calm the detective sergeant a bit, but let it pass.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.  Ken came back … but for her, not for me.  They left in a hurry.  She–”

“How long ago?”

“Half an hour or so.”

“Did they say where they were going?”

“No.  She just left with three suitcases,” Eddins cried.

“Did you see the car they took off in?”

“Yes.  I stood at the window … stunned and watched them leave,” she sobbed.  “They were in his Boxster.”

“We have to locate that pair now!  Let’s go.”  When Dell, looking at Eddins, seemed to hesitate, Nik reiterated his words.  They abandoned the woman while she cried quietly.  For Ken.  For herself.

*  *  *

Shortly after leaving the Prescott place, Nik’s cell phone rang.  The detective’s excitement appeared to grow as the discussion continued.  Although they only heard one side of the conversation, Tyrone and Dell glanced at each other in the rearview mirror with heightened anticipation.   The detective sergeant asked whoever was on the other end of the line to transfer him to another office.  He spoke briefly about any word on locating Mosley’s car before hanging up.

Nik turned in the seat and looked at his companions.  “That was Jorel Smart.  He’s finished a preliminary examination of the computers.  He found nothing of significance related to our investigation on Prescott’s office device.  The man’s personal home computer had zilch, too.  But he discovered something interesting on Katherine’s.  It seems Ken and the widow shared an e-mail address.  Using that, they’d write messages to each other but save them as drafts.  The other person then logged on and read the draft.  Then he or she deleted it and, if need be, wrote a response or another message which they again saved as a draft.  Back and forth it went.

“It seems Ken and the widow shared an e-mail address.  Using that, they’d write messages to one another but save them as drafts.”

“Although the couple thought they were deleting the messages, our technician recovered them and pieced them together.  They’re a little cryptic in their wording, but clear enough to put the pair in a love affair.  The way they’re worded, though, it’s difficult to tell whether there was a conspiracy between them to kill Steven or have him killed.  Jorel said you could certainly read that intent in Ken’s words, but Katherine’s were more obscure.”  The big man settled back and sighed audibly.  “Regardless, we need to find them now.  Let’s try Mosely’s condo again.”  As an afterthought, he added, “We don’t have time to drop you off, Dell.”

Brewer said she understood.  As they drove, she checked the status of the BOLO she’d placed on Mosley’s Boxster.  Nothing had come back yet.

As they approached the city, Nik laid out a plan.  He described the arrangement of the stairwells and the elevators in Ken’s building to Brewer.  He elaborated, explaining that whichever means someone used to leave, they’d have to pass through the vestibule to reach the parking area below or the front door.  “Dell, when we get to the condo, you stay in the lobby in case our boy or his lover show up or try to abscond.  If you see them, call my cell.  But don’t take any chances with them.  One or both may be responsible for a murder, so they might be dangerous.  And Mosley was a marksman at one time.  Could still be.  Tyrone and I will go up to his place to try to locate them.”

“Got it.”

*  *  *

In time, Tyrone slammed the Impala to a stop in front of the condominium building.  The trio left the car and hustled to the lobby.  At the elevator, Nik pressed hard and long on the call button.  Tyrone chuckled, “I realize you’re eager to catch up with the man, but you can only push the button so hard for so long.”  Nik laughed sheepishly before his exasperation returned and he started for the stairs.  As he turned to move, a lift door opened.  The big detective couldn’t hide his relief.

As her male counterparts scrambled into an unoccupied elevator, Brewer took up a position in the lobby. Her spot afforded an unobstructed view of the stairwell doors, the elevators, and the front door. 

On the eighth floor, the men rushed to Mosley’s residence.  They received no answer when Tyrone impatiently rang the buzzer and followed up with several sharp raps, while identifying themselves as police officers.  The cops exchanged knowing glances.  Without a word, the pair stepped away from the door.  Nik put the full force of a strong, practiced leg at the knob and deadbolt.  They gave way.  The two men cleared the condo and found nothing except evidence in the bedroom of hurried packing by its occupant.  As the detectives hustled back to the elevator, Tyrone called Brewer and told her of their results.  She reported she’d seen neither of the subjects at her end.

The two men cleared the condo and found nothing except evidence in the bedroom of hurried packing by its occupant. 

As Dederscheck and McDaniel got off the elevator in the lobby, their female colleague met them.  Before the three left the building, they saw Ms. Aldridge at the end of the hall.  The woman waved frantically as she hurried toward them.  “Are you looking for Ken Mosley?” she asked breathlessly when she reached them.  When they nodded, she looked at Dell with slight surprise.  “I didn’t know you were with the detectives when I walked past you a minute ago and didn’t see your badge.  Sorry.” 

Trying to check his impatience, Nik asked tersely, “Have you seen Mosley recently?”

The manager nodded and went on, “He tore through the lobby fifteen minutes ago, carrying a couple of suitcases.  I was sure something was wrong, if only by his appearance.  He prides himself on looking so dapper all the time, you know?  But he looked like an unmade bed.  He had a crooked knot in his skinny tie.  His coat was unbuttoned, showing a shirt bunched at the front of his waistband.  He was sweating and had mussed hair.  Unlike his normal style, the creep’s garb was open and casual, as if he’d just come from a ‘nooner’ and was making no effort to hide the fact.”

“He tore through the lobby fifteen minutes ago, carrying a couple of suitcases.”

Tyrone cut to the salient facts.  “Was he alone?  Did he have anybody with him?”

“Not inside, but I saw his Boxster outside at the curb.  A woman was sitting in it.”

“Did he say anything?  Did he tell you his destination?”

“No.  Nothing.  He just hauled ass.”

“If you see him again, call the police.”  The three rushed toward the front door.  “And thanks!” Nik tossed over his shoulder as they pushed through to the sidewalk and the gathering dusk of a midwinter’s day.

*  *  *

In the car, Nik pulled his .40 caliber service sidearm and checked the magazine.  The move caught his fellow detectives by surprise.  Nonetheless, they followed suit.  “You think that’s gonna be necessary?  Does he have a weapon?” Brewer asked from the backseat as she re-holstered her semiautomatic.

… Nik pulled his .40 caliber service sidearm and checked the magazine.  The move caught his fellow detectives by surprise.

“I dunno, Dell, but anything’s possible when a guy such as Mosley gets frantic.  As far as a weapon goes, I don’t know whether he’s armed, but I’m going to assume so.”  He looked sideways at Tyrone.  “I also suspect it may be something other than his .32 caliber, too.”

Tyrone nodded.  “Do you think he’s desperate enough to eat a bullet, Nik?”

“No way!” Brewer chimed in.  “He’s too narcissistic to do himself harm.”

“Or too chicken shit.  But it wouldn’t surprise me to have him put up a fight if he’s cornered,” Nik lamented.  “And now the hell of it is, I’m not sure where we go from here!”

Tyrone started the car and then froze.  “Say, Dell, what color Porsche does Mosley have?”  His words were quick and excited.

“Red, of course.  What the hell else would a philandering creep like him have?”

The look on McDaniel’s face and his question grabbed his partner’s attention.  “What is it, Tyrone?”  The detective sergeant’s eyes shifted to follow Tyrone’s stare.

Half a block along the street, a red Boxster sat at the exit of a bank’s parking lot.  The detectives saw two people, a man and a woman, occupied it, though the distance and fading daylight made identification difficult.  The cops saw the couple looking back and forth at the avenue, preparing to pull out into traffic.  Suddenly, as if in a panic, the driver burned rubber and sped onto the roadway, moving away from them.   The abrupt move forced several cars to maneuver wildly to avoid a collision with the Porsche.  “Let’s go, Tyrone!” Nik yelled.  McDaniel slammed the car into gear and floored the accelerator.  As the detectives jostled through traffic, Dell and Nik struggled to get their seat belts on.

The Boxster was half a block ahead of them as Dederscheck radioed in the situation.  The city’s congestion and the snow-covered roads kept the sports car from reaching its top speed and leaving the cops in its wake.  Watching the sports car dart in and out of traffic left no doubt they were on the trail of their prey.  “That idiot never heard you may outrun a motor vehicle, but you can’t outrun a Motorola,” Brewer put in when Nik finished on the radio. 

The detective sergeant braced himself on the dashboard and chuckled.  “Yeah.  Harsh reality is always better than false hope.  Tyrone, he’s trying to make it to the interstate.”

“I’m doing the best I can!”  Tyrone’s tone had more of an edge than he intended, but he was in no position at the moment for a lengthy apology.  He blurted, “Sorry, sergeant.”

“No problem, partner,” Dederscheck responded, emphasizing the last word for good measure.  “Just an observation.  You’re doing great!”

McDaniel made a severe left turn, following the movement of the attorney’s car. The cop car’s tires screeched through the intersection, which was devoid of snow.  The motion tossed Brewer haphazardly around the backseat, notwithstanding her seat belt.  Nik looked back.  “Are you all right, Dell?”

“Oh, yeah,” she gasped, righting herself.  “Just reliving my senior prom night.”  He shot a questioning glance at her as his eyebrows drew together in uncertainty.  “Another time,” she smiled weakly.

Nik returned his attention to the car ahead.  “He’s headed for the Thirteenth Street Bridge to get to the interstate, Tyrone.”

“That’s what I figure, but he’ll never make the turn at this speed with these road conditions.”  As McDaniel spoke the words, the red Porsche attempted a hard-left turn onto the ramp to the bridge.  Mosley lost control and spun it into an abutment.  The passenger side of the vehicle struck the concrete support with a thunderous crash before bouncing away and finishing its rotation with its driver’s door out of view from the advancing cops.  McDaniel slowed as they approached the scene.  Nothing moved in or around the wrecked vehicle.  Liquid poured out onto the pavement from somewhere beneath it, and steam rose from its crumpled hood.  Out of an abundance of caution, Tyrone stopped some distance from the wreck.  Sirens wailed in the frigid air.  “I’m not sure anybody survived that.”

Mosley lost control and spun it into an abutment.

“Let’s find out.  And be careful, guys,” Nik warned, as he opened his door.

The cops emerged, weapons drawn, and started approaching the Boxster.  Suddenly, a battered Ken Mosley appeared, brandishing a large handgun over the top of the Porsche and firing several shots at them.  As the lawyer showed himself, Nick instinctively moved behind his open door and took aim.  Tyrone used the angle of the police car as a shield and brought his semiautomatic to the ready. 

Dell, the more exposed of the three, made a dash for a concrete brace.   Just before she reached her objective, one of Mosley’s rounds found its mark.  Brewer whirled, cringed, and staggered on the ice the last several yards to safety.  Suddenly, the woman let go with a horrible shriek.  The scream struck her two male companions as more out of anger than agony.  A concerned Tyrone glanced in her direction.  She was conscious and holding her right shoulder in pain.  The determined woman was struggling to get into a firing position. 

From where he knelt on the other side of the car, the senior detective couldn’t see her.  McDaniel read his thoughts and called out, “Dell’s wounded, Nik, but she looks to be okay.”

“Thanks,” came the relieved big cop’s response amid more rounds fired from their suspect.  Although several shots ricocheted off the pavement, at least one round penetrated the door, behind which Dederscheck crouched.  Something struck his meaty thigh, burning like hell.  “That’s not a .32 caliber!” he groaned.  So much, he thought, for trying to get this jerk to surrender.  The shooter ducked below his car’s roofline.

Two of Mosley’s blasts had passed through the Impala’s front quarter panel less than a foot from McDaniel’s head.  “A .40 semiautomatic at least, Nik.  Maybe an extended magazine with the number of shots he’s popping off.”

“Do you see Katherine Prescott?” Nik yelled.

“No. This guy won’t give up!  Let’s do what we’ve gotta do!”

Just as Tyrone finished speaking, Mosley stuck his head above the Boxster’s top again and assumed a shooter’s stance, aiming at the pair hunkered by the police unit.  This time, the detectives met his first shot with a volley of gunfire, some of which passed through the car’s window into his torso.   The lawyer spun and fell, ankles crossed.  After a minute of silence, McDaniel said in a stage whisper, “He’s down, Nik.  I can see his gun hand stretched out on the ground at my end of his car.  The weapon’s three or four inches away from his reach.”

This time, the detectives met his first shot with a volley of gunfire ….

“Okay.  I can’t see him. Check him out, but be careful.  If he moves, don’t hesitate.”  Tyrone shot a look at his partner, which spoke volumes.  Nik read his expression.  “Hey, not everything is intended as an insult to your intelligence or experience.  We just don’t need to lose a righteous cop.  I’m going to check on Dell.”  As Tyrone cautiously approached the Boxster, Dederscheck limped his way to Brewer.  As he moved, he radioed an “officer down” call for an ambulance to come to the scene.  Dell was sitting in the snow with her back against the concrete support, holding her shoulder.   Her contorted face looked up at the sergeant.  She nodded, indicating she’d be fine.

Meanwhile, the junior detective approached Mosley, his weapon at the ready.  As a precaution, he kicked the gun away from the man’s hand.  He leaned over the sprawled figure and held a finger against the side of his neck, feeling for a pulse.  He found none.  The detective found Katherine Prescott’s shattered body on the floorboard of the Boxster.  She hadn’t been wearing a seat belt.  Her half-open, sea-gray eyes gazed in the detective’s direction but saw nothing.  Gone from her face was the sophisticated beauty Tyrone had seen just the day before.  The preacher’s son softly quoted to himself from the Book of Numbers, “‘You may be sure your sin will catch up with you.’”

Her half-open, sea-gray eyes gazed in the detective’s direction but saw nothing.  

McDaniel shook his head and walked to his fellow detectives’ location as the blare of sirens came ever closer.  He read the question on Nik’s face.  Nodding in the red car’s direction, he breathed, “It was Katherine in the car.  They’re both dead.  The crash killed her.”  He turned to the woman on the ground.  “How are you, Dell?”

“Mad as hell, and I don’t care who knows it!  I’m just sorry I didn’t get any shots off at that son of a bitch!”  The two men exchanged startled glances, then stared back at Dell with puzzled looks.  She moved her hand away from her shoulder wound, then returned the pressure to it.  “I’m pretty sure the bastard shot me through my favorite tattoo!”  Nik couldn’t control himself.  He guffawed.  “Yeah, laugh, big man!  But this shoots my upcoming beach season to hell!”  With her unintentional pun, even Tyrone burst forth with a loud chuckle.  Realizing what she’d said, Brewer laughed, too, but simultaneously winced in pain as marked police units and an ambulance arrived at the scene.  When her laughter subsided, Dell gazed up at McDaniel.  “First time you ever shot somebody as an LEO?”  He nodded.  “Well, enjoy the paperwork,” she grimaced.

The younger man scowled but snickered.  As he did, he realized he really liked her as a cop.  She was smart and had what his grandma would have called grit.  Brewer looked up at the black detective as he laughed.  The feeling was mutual.  The EMS crew quickly reached them and pronounced that both wounded officers would live.

*  *  *

Late on the second afternoon after the shoot-out with Mosley, the three detectives sat in a watering hole popular with law enforcement folks.  Brewer, sporting a sling to support her wounded shoulder, sat at the bar between the McDaniel and Dederscheck.  Nik, his minor leg wound still throbbing a little, rested his forearms on the counter and looked straight ahead.  He was just finishing reliving what had seemed to him the long, sluggish minutes the encounter took.  “I have to admit I had flashes of the story behind Jimmy Ballard’s leaving the Greenville Police Department.  I’ll always do my job,” he sighed, sipping his drink, “but, frankly, being this close to retirement makes a body think.  And I never want to be indecisive in a pinch.”  Dell smiled and rubbed his arm in understanding.

Brewer, sporting a sling to support her wounded shoulder, sat at the bar between the McDaniel and Dederscheck.

“Yep.  Indecision can get you killed,” Tyrone muttered gravely.  “The roads are littered with flattened squirrels that couldn’t make up their minds what to do.”  His companions nodded in agreement.  The junior detective put his hand on Dell’s uninjured shoulder.  “I’m just glad nothing more serious happened.  I think Mosley lied when he told us he’d given up shooting.  He still had a fairly expert eye.  The only thing that kept him from being a better shot in our firefight was that he fired his gun in quick succession instead of taking more careful aim.”  He raised his glass to his comrades.  “Here’s to us and those like us.  We–”

The tavern door flying open and Lieutenant Wood rumbling in interrupted his toast.  As the older man approached, he gave a slight wave of his hand, catching the attention of the woman drying glasses behind the bar.  Pointing at Nik, he called out, “Whatever he’s drinking.”  He sat with a thud on the stool next to Dederscheck and cut his eyes sideways at his detectives.  The trio nodded their greeting to him, but said nothing.  The private, solemn moment of sharing their life-threatening experience on the street had ended.  “They told me I’d find you three here.”  The barkeeper acknowledged the recent arrival by setting a drink on the obligatory cocktail napkin in front of him.  Wood took a sip of the concoction and eyed the glass with a stunned expression.  “What the hell is this?  Club soda?”

The man next to him smiled wearily and looked at the bartender knowingly.  She quickly responded to the outburst, “But you said ….”  Brewer and McDaniel shared a perceptive smile.

Wood made the connection.  “Never mind,” he moaned.  “Just give me a double of Jameson.”  Gesturing to the detective sergeant’s glass, he asked, “What’s up with that?”

“Not that anybody would care to notice, but I haven’t had a drink in over six months.  The bullpen got Tyrone so worked up that they unnecessarily worried him about a problem which no longer exists.  We’ve talked it out.”  Nik glimpsed his partner and grinned.

The bullpen got Tyrone so worked up that they unnecessarily worried him about a problem which no longer exists.

“And in the process, I’ve learned there’s not a bogeyman behind every bush, either,” McDaniel put in, returning the smile.

The dialogue took the lieutenant by surprise.  “Well, what’re you doing in this place, Nik?”

“It’s where my buddies hang out.”

 Wood browsed the glasses in front of the other two detectives. and asked, “What about you?”

Tyrone raised his.  “I don’t drink, so mine’s the same as my partner’s.  But I enjoy hanging out with my buddies, too.”

When the lieutenant’s eyes met Detective Brewer’s, she didn’t hesitate.  “Not me!  I’m off duty, and self-medicating!”  She downed her cocktail and slid the empty container toward the bartender for a refill.

“Well, don’t give Tyrone here the wrong impression about your drinking habits.  I’m thinking of pairing the two of you up.”  Brewer playfully punched McDaniel on his shoulder.  Meanwhile, the barkeeper filled Wood’s new drink order.  He turned to Nik.  “I got the retirement letter you put on my desk under your report on the Prescott case.”

The big cop chuckled, “Well, you said not to retire until after I closed Prescott’s murder.  Unfortunately, we can’t make an arrest, but it’s cleared as far as we can.”

“Skip that for a minute.”  He leaned into the detective sergeant.  “I hate for you to leave.  All kidding aside, are you sure about retirement?”

“Yeah, Carl.  It’s time.  Besides,” he turned to his partner, “this guy’s ready for anything.”  McDaniel smiled his gratitude.

“I haven’t gotten to your report yet.  What was the outcome?”

Dederscheck leaned back and looked at Tyrone, who took up the story.  “Well, LT, there was an affair going on between Ken Mosley, the dead man’s law partner, and his wife, Katherine.  Their e-mail history makes it clear.  The messages also make it obvious that Mosley wanted Prescott dead.  The extent to which it involved the widow in a murder plot, if at all, is uncertain.” 

Tyrone paused to give Nik a chance to add something.  He merely nodded, and the junior detective continued, “Mosley solicited a known local gangster to have the job done, as best we can determine.  The only attempted solicitation we’re aware of was unsuccessful, but he could have approached other folks in his effort to get rid of Prescott.  The phone dump on his line showed not only his constant contact with Katherine, but several calls to an off-the-record cellphone that an unknown person in New Jersey had purchased.  No way to trace it.  The burner phone’s owner may or may not have a connection to the killing.  We don’t know.  And probably never will.  Mosley’s fatal attempt to elude capture sewed up his involvement in our minds.  The reason for Katherine’s presence in the situation is less clear.” 

McDaniel shrugged as he spoke, “Perhaps she was simply trying to run away with her lover.  There’s always the possibility that either Katherine or Kenneth shot Steven themselves.  Again, we don’t know and probably never will.  We have no weapon, no witnesses, no physical evidence of any kind, and the only two people on our radar who had motives for wanting Prescott killed are dead.  Our report has a few more details, but that’s it in a nutshell.  The bottom line, lieutenant, is that our most likely known suspects are both deceased.  No trace of any other actors in the killing.  Case closed.”

“We have no weapon, no witnesses, no physical evidence of any kind, and the only two people on our radar who had motives for wanting Prescott killed are dead.”

“It sounds as if you’ve done everything you can to resolve the murder.”  The lieutenant raised his glass.  “Excellent work on a tough set of facts!”

“It may be,” Nik said quietly, “but not every question gets an answer.  Learning to live with that fact is hard as hell.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Now, those of you who have read the title short story in my book Loose Ends know who didn’t kill Steven Prescott.  And you now know who was behind the murder.  Don’t you?!

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