“Mr. Engels,” I said, “let’s take a break for a while, shall we? Why don’t you take a rest?”
Engels nodded. I went into the bathroom and wet a paper napkin in the sink. I tossed it to him and he swabbed his face and upper body with it.
“Rest, Eddie,” I said, smiling down at the handsome killer.
He nodded again and hid his face in his hands.
“I’m going for a walk,” I announced to Dudley and Mike Breuning. I grabbed a container of cold coffee and a cold hamburger and walked outside.
A Santa Ana wind had come up, and the shabby front lawn was littered with a fresh array of debris. Palm fronds had blown out onto the sidewalk. The wind had cleared all traces of smog from the air, and the twilight sky was a pure light blue tinged with the remnants of a pink sun.
I tried to eat my burger, but it was too greasy and cold, and my nervous stomach balked. I threw the sandwich to the ground and sipped my coffee, pondering the rituals of justice.
Dudley came out a minute later. “Our friend is asleep, lad,” he said. “Mike slipped him a Mickey Finn. He’ll wake up in about four hours or so with a devilish headache. Then I’ll go to work on him.”
“Where’s Carlisle?”
“He’s going through handsome Eddie’s apartment. He should be back soon. How do you feel, lad?”
“Expectant. Anxious for it to be over.”
“Soon, lad, soon. I’m going to have at that monster for a good long time. You stay out until I take off my necktie. Then you intervene. Meet force with force, lad, be it verbal or physical. Do you follow?”
“Yes.”
“Ahhh, grand. You are a brilliant young policeman, Freddy. Do you know that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ve wanted a protégé like you for a long time, lad. Mike and Dick are good cops, but they’ve got no brains, no imagination. You have a spark, a brilliant one.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you look so glum?”
“I’m wondering how I’ll like the detective bureau.”
“You’ll like it fine. It’s the cream of the department. Now get some rest.”
I went into the room adjoining the interrogation room and lay down on a saggy army cot that was a good half foot too short for me. I got up and walked to the bathroom. It was relatively clean; almost clean enough to use. I looked at myself in the cracked mirror above the sink. I needed a shave and hadn’t thought to bring a razor.
I lay back down on my cot. Exhaustion grabbed me before I could remove my shoes or shoulder holster. I fought sleep for brief moments, managing to mutter, “Lorna, Lorna, Lorna” until sleep triumphed.
I awoke to someone jostling me. I bolted upright and went for my gun. Dick Carlisle materialized and pinned my arms. The light from the overhead bulb was glinting off his steel-rimmed spectacles.
I swung my legs over the edge of the cot and suddenly realized that I didn’t like Carlisle. There was something sullen and animalistic about him. And he was plainly keyed up.
“Look at this,” he said, digging into his coat pocket and pulling out Maggie Cadwallader’s diamond brooch.
“Jesus!” I said. “Where the hell did you get that? Is it real?”
“Dudley says so. He knows a lot about this kind of stuff, and he says it’s legit. I found it at Engels’s apartment hidden away in a tie rack.”
“Jesus,” I said, feigning awe, my wheels turning. “Jesus. When I searched the Cadwallader dame’s apartment, I found a little photograph of her. She was wearing a brooch just like this one!”
“Christ, Underhill! What did you do with it?”
“I lost it when I had the newspaper photo reprinted.”
“Shit. I’ll tell Dudley.”
Carlisle disappeared through the door that connected the two rooms, and I busied myself throwing water on my face and combing my hair. When I entered the interrogation room Dick Carlisle was slapping Eddie Engels awake, and Dudley and Mike Breuning were huddled in conversation. Seeing me, Dudley waved me toward him.
“Freddy, you’re sure you saw a brooch like this one in that photograph you found?” He held it up for me to see.