up.
“Did you hear what I was saying?” Carroll blazed, her eyes flashing.
“I heard you call me an idiot,” Lepski said. “I’m going to change my shirt. If there’s any beef left, I’d like some sandwiches,” and he stalked off to their bedroom.
Carroll was waiting with a pack of sandwiches as Lepski, shaved, showered and in a fresh shirt, came out of the bedroom.
He looked at the pack of sandwiches as Carroll thrust them at him.
“Beef?”
“Oh God! Yes!”
“Mustard?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“See you sometime, honey. Just forget about that old rum-dum.” He aimed a kiss at her cheek, then stormed down the garden path to his car.
He was to spend a wasteful night tramping the streets asking questions, visiting nightclubs to which McCuen belonged, but getting a picture, as did the other questioning detectives, that fear was gripping the City: fear like an atomic fall out.
THREE
D etective 2nd Grade Max Jacoby was catching the midnight stint. While he guarded the telephone, he was busy classifying the mass of reports on the McCuen murder that were continually coming in, sorting the wheat from the chaff for Terrell’s eyes the first thing the following morning.
Two young police officers kept him company: smart men but without much experience. The red head was Dusty Lucas: the squat one was Rocky Hamblin. They were yawning over more reports.
“These guys sure wear out shoe leather,” Dusty observed, reaching for another report. “Imagine: this is my forty-third report and what does it say: nothing!”
Aware, as their senior, he had to set an example, Jacoby looked up and scowled. “This is police work. The forty-fourth report could give us what we’re looking for.”
“Oh, yeah?” Both Rookies exclaimed. “Who are you trying to kid, Max?”
Then the telephone bell rang.
As Jacoby reached for the receiver, he looked at the fly blown wall clock.
The time was 22.47.
“Police headquarters: Jacoby,” he said briskly.
“I want help here,” a man said. His voice was unsteady but authoritative.
“The Seagull, Beach Drive. Send someone quickly.”
“Who is this talking?” Jacoby asked as he scribbled the address on a pad.
“Malcolm Riddle. I have a dead woman here . . . send someone quickly.”
Jacoby was familiar with the names of the more important citizens of the city. Malcolm Riddle was the President of the Yacht Club, the Chairman of the Opera House and his wife was considered to be the seventh richest woman in Florida. That made him important.
“Yes, Mr. Riddle.” Jacoby sat forward in his chair. “An officer will be with you right away.” He was already looking at the electronic chart that told him where the prowl cars were. Can you give me more details?”
“It’s murder,” Riddle said flatly and broke the connection.
Within seconds Jacoby was in contact with Patrol Officer Steve Roberts who was covering the area near Beach Drive.
“Get over to The Seagull, Beach Drive fast, Steve,” he said. “Malcolm Riddle is reporting a murder. I’ll alert Homicide. Just hold everything until they arrive.”
“Sure,” Roberts said, a startled note in his voice. “I’m on my way.”
For the next few minutes Jacoby was busy on the phone, watched by the two pop-eyed Rookies. He first called Beigler who was just going to bed.
Beigler listened and when he heard Malcolm Riddle was involved, he told Jacoby to alert Terrell.
“Where’s Lepski?” Beigler asked, struggling with a yawn.
“He should be home by now. He clocked out twenty minutes ago.”
“Get him down there,” Beigler said and hung up.
Beigler and Lepski arrived simultaneously at the small luxe bungalow.
The bungalow was so obviously a love nest that no one looking beyond the discreet flowering shrubs that half screened the little place could have had any other ideas about it. It faced the sea, had a forest of mangrove trees protecting its rear and tall, overgrown flowering shrubs
“Did you hear what I was saying?” Carroll blazed, her eyes flashing.
“I heard you call me an idiot,” Lepski said. “I’m going to change my shirt. If there’s any beef left, I’d like some sandwiches,” and he stalked off to their bedroom.
Carroll was waiting with a pack of sandwiches as Lepski, shaved, showered and in a fresh shirt, came out of the bedroom.
He looked at the pack of sandwiches as Carroll thrust them at him.
“Beef?”
“Oh God! Yes!”
“Mustard?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“See you sometime, honey. Just forget about that old rum-dum.” He aimed a kiss at her cheek, then stormed down the garden path to his car.
He was to spend a wasteful night tramping the streets asking questions, visiting nightclubs to which McCuen belonged, but getting a picture, as did the other questioning detectives, that fear was gripping the City: fear like an atomic fall out.
THREE
D etective 2nd Grade Max Jacoby was catching the midnight stint. While he guarded the telephone, he was busy classifying the mass of reports on the McCuen murder that were continually coming in, sorting the wheat from the chaff for Terrell’s eyes the first thing the following morning.
Two young police officers kept him company: smart men but without much experience. The red head was Dusty Lucas: the squat one was Rocky Hamblin. They were yawning over more reports.
“These guys sure wear out shoe leather,” Dusty observed, reaching for another report. “Imagine: this is my forty-third report and what does it say: nothing!”
Aware, as their senior, he had to set an example, Jacoby looked up and scowled. “This is police work. The forty-fourth report could give us what we’re looking for.”
“Oh, yeah?” Both Rookies exclaimed. “Who are you trying to kid, Max?”
Then the telephone bell rang.
As Jacoby reached for the receiver, he looked at the fly blown wall clock.
The time was 22.47.
“Police headquarters: Jacoby,” he said briskly.
“I want help here,” a man said. His voice was unsteady but authoritative.
“The Seagull, Beach Drive. Send someone quickly.”
“Who is this talking?” Jacoby asked as he scribbled the address on a pad.
“Malcolm Riddle. I have a dead woman here . . . send someone quickly.”
Jacoby was familiar with the names of the more important citizens of the city. Malcolm Riddle was the President of the Yacht Club, the Chairman of the Opera House and his wife was considered to be the seventh richest woman in Florida. That made him important.
“Yes, Mr. Riddle.” Jacoby sat forward in his chair. “An officer will be with you right away.” He was already looking at the electronic chart that told him where the prowl cars were. Can you give me more details?”
“It’s murder,” Riddle said flatly and broke the connection.
Within seconds Jacoby was in contact with Patrol Officer Steve Roberts who was covering the area near Beach Drive.
“Get over to The Seagull, Beach Drive fast, Steve,” he said. “Malcolm Riddle is reporting a murder. I’ll alert Homicide. Just hold everything until they arrive.”
“Sure,” Roberts said, a startled note in his voice. “I’m on my way.”
For the next few minutes Jacoby was busy on the phone, watched by the two pop-eyed Rookies. He first called Beigler who was just going to bed.
Beigler listened and when he heard Malcolm Riddle was involved, he told Jacoby to alert Terrell.
“Where’s Lepski?” Beigler asked, struggling with a yawn.
“He should be home by now. He clocked out twenty minutes ago.”
“Get him down there,” Beigler said and hung up.
Beigler and Lepski arrived simultaneously at the small luxe bungalow.
The bungalow was so obviously a love nest that no one looking beyond the discreet flowering shrubs that half screened the little place could have had any other ideas about it. It faced the sea, had a forest of mangrove trees protecting its rear and tall, overgrown flowering shrubs
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