Melting Clock by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

me. He backed up, went around the desk, and sat heavily. The chair made a rusty squeal as he turned away and found a fascinating squashed beetle to look at on the wall. I had the rush of an idea that Phil and Dali might have a lot in common. I hoped they would never have the chance for a discussion of contemporary art. It would either end with Dali dead or Phil in a straight-jacket.
    “Sit down, Toby,” Seidman said, moving back to the wall and patting down his wisps of hair.
    I sat down in the chair across from Phil.
    The war had been Phil’s big break. He had been promoted right up the ladder from Homicide Sergeant to Detective Captain of the whole Wilshire District. Seidman had moved up with him. The rise hadn’t been because of Phil’s skills, but in spite of them. Phil was a basher. Phil hated criminals, sincerely hated them. Phil wanted to end all crime but knew it would never happen. The resulting frustration meant that every time he came face-to-face with a felon he became enraged. Other cops loved Phil. He was the one you frightened suspects with. No one in homicide had to play bad cop. They just called Phil or, if the criminal had been around a while, they just evoked his name. But the armed forces had taken the younger, ambitious police talent and Phil had been promoted to a job he hated, sitting behind a desk dealing with complaints from vendors about cops taking avocados, filling out forms, talking to visiting Chambers of Commerce from Quincy, Illinois. He had lasted about a year as boss of the Wilshire and then had been booted back to homicide after too many complaints. Seidman had asked to go back to homicide with him. Phil had been happy with the demotion. His wife, Ruth, with three kids in the house, had resumed worrying about her husband’s high blood pressure.
    “I appreciate your coming,” I said.
    Seidman shook his head; Phil said nothing and kept staring at the bug.
    “Did you kill him?” asked Seidman.
    “No, Steve. Am I a killer?”
    “Toby, don’t answer my questions with questions. Phil and I leave and two guys who don’t know you are going to come through that door and put you on the top of page two of the Times. ”
    “I didn’t kill him,” I said.
    “Ask him about the handkerchief,” said Phil, very softly.
    “You had a bloody handkerchief,” said Seidman, who was back to playing with his hat.
    What could I say? It was bloody because I used it to fish Adam Place’s wallet out of his pocket and put it back and then wipe my fingerprints off the doorknobs?
    “I didn’t do it, Phil,” I said to my brother’s back.
    “Ask him about breaking in,” said Phil.
    “Did you—” Seidman began, but I jumped in.
    “Can we eliminate the middleman here? Maybe we can save a little time and you can find the killer.”
    “If I talk to him, I kill him,” said Phil. “He’s made my life a toilet.” Phil leaned forward and punched the wall about two inches above the bug, leaving a depression in the general shape and size of a fist.
    “I can deal with a middleman,” I said. “I went into Place’s house because I was on a job. I had reason to believe a valuable piece of property had been taken by Place and would be destroyed by midnight. I knocked at the door. He didn’t answer. I went in through the window, found him, and called the police immediately.”
    “You pick up a Hunky accent during the night?” said Phil, forgetting immediately that we had agreed on a middleman.
    “I didn’t want to get involved.”
    “What about the painting?” asked Seidman.
    “My client’s. It was stolen.”
    “It was a mess,” said Seidman.
    “I was going to give it back anyway,” I said. “You got me for picking up stolen property and trying to return it. By the way, the clock in Place’s bedroom—that was my client’s, too.”
    “We got you for breaking and entering, burglary, homicide, and attempting to leave the scene of a felony,” said Seidman, ignoring my addition of the