candle flame.
“OK. So tell me about your week.”
Mickey blew smoke at the stars. “Station-wise, even worse than the jacket. No bulletins on the case. No field reports that I could scare up. I talked to a pal in the crime lab, and the boys haven’t come near him.”
“Sloan have a record?”
“Clean as a nun. I checked vice sheets, Records and ID, even Motor Vehicles. Not so much as a traffic ticket. Far as downtown goes, the guy was a choir boy.”
“He smoked marijuana.”
“If he did, he was careful. He was never caught.”
“Unless his files were wiped.”
Inside the saloon the singing swelled.
“What about elsewhere?” Emmett asked.
“I visited the club where Sloan played piano. Singer there, name of Arlene Gray, she worked close with him. She was the one ID’d him at the morgue.”
“You talk to her?”
Mickey shook his head. “Not back on the job yet. But she’s worth a conversation, I’m sure. Had a walk around the colored section while I was down there. Not being on the inside, I don’t have many sources. The snitches I do know weren’t talking.”
Emmett shrugged. “Would you?”
“Also snooped around the hotel,” Mickey said. “Night clerk had nothing but kind words for Sloan. A gentleman, he said. Never any trouble.”
“He let you see the room?”
“New occupant already. Quick turnover in those joints. Besides, Timmons cleaned it out.”
Timmons. Richie T. Where had he heard that name?
“One interesting thing,” Mickey continued. “This guy Virgil Barnes that’s disappeared?”
“Yeah. Mentioned in the Negro papers.”
“Lived in the same hotel as Sloan. Night clerk said they were best buddies.”
“OK. So we scare him up.”
“If he’s still alive.”
“Him and the singer. Not like we’re going to get anything from the cops.”
Mickey dropped his cigarette on the gravel, crushed it with his heel. “If this went down like I think it did, it would be in a lot of people’s interest for the facts to stay fuzzy.”
Emmett shook his head. “But not this fuzzy.”
Mickey drummed the table top, thinking. Emmett took a piece of paper from the briefcase.
“There were two cars reported stolen the day before the murder. A ’34 Dodge and a brand new Reo Speedwagon. Here are the details.” He handed the paper to Mickey. “See where they take you.”
“Jem Boyle could help.”
Emmett pulled a face.
“Just kidding.”
“Think you could find the crime scene? I’d like to have a look.”
“Ten miles of river shore? Get me a dozen academy boys to search and maybe …”
“I can’t believe nobody even noticed any footprints. Timmons’s report had zip. And who found the body? That information is buried. There’s too much missing. The slugs, the standard detail.”
“I’ll keep looking.”
“Check out the train schedules. Goods trains do the river route on the hour. Maybe a driver noticed something across the water. And no harm to check out the vice district. The way I figure it, the perps grabbed Sloan between midnight and one a.m. The place is buzzing then, I don’t care what night of the week it was. Somebody had to see something.”
Mickey was grinning again.
“Now what?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking you wouldn’t make a bad bureau chief. You know the drill.”
Emmett snapped the buckles on his case and finished his water. “You try as many homicide cases as I have over the years, you learn something.”
“County homicide.”
“Murder is murder.”
Mickey raised his eyebrows.
Emmett said, “And as for Richie T – ”
Saying the name out loud snapped it into recognition. Richie Timmons. Implicated in the scandal following the Union Station massacre. Rumor had it that after the shootout, when Pretty Boy Floyd was being treated for his wounds, Timmons stood guard outside the doctor’s office before escorting Public Enemy Number One to the city limits. Of course. Charges were dropped when the sole witness in the case, a
“OK. So tell me about your week.”
Mickey blew smoke at the stars. “Station-wise, even worse than the jacket. No bulletins on the case. No field reports that I could scare up. I talked to a pal in the crime lab, and the boys haven’t come near him.”
“Sloan have a record?”
“Clean as a nun. I checked vice sheets, Records and ID, even Motor Vehicles. Not so much as a traffic ticket. Far as downtown goes, the guy was a choir boy.”
“He smoked marijuana.”
“If he did, he was careful. He was never caught.”
“Unless his files were wiped.”
Inside the saloon the singing swelled.
“What about elsewhere?” Emmett asked.
“I visited the club where Sloan played piano. Singer there, name of Arlene Gray, she worked close with him. She was the one ID’d him at the morgue.”
“You talk to her?”
Mickey shook his head. “Not back on the job yet. But she’s worth a conversation, I’m sure. Had a walk around the colored section while I was down there. Not being on the inside, I don’t have many sources. The snitches I do know weren’t talking.”
Emmett shrugged. “Would you?”
“Also snooped around the hotel,” Mickey said. “Night clerk had nothing but kind words for Sloan. A gentleman, he said. Never any trouble.”
“He let you see the room?”
“New occupant already. Quick turnover in those joints. Besides, Timmons cleaned it out.”
Timmons. Richie T. Where had he heard that name?
“One interesting thing,” Mickey continued. “This guy Virgil Barnes that’s disappeared?”
“Yeah. Mentioned in the Negro papers.”
“Lived in the same hotel as Sloan. Night clerk said they were best buddies.”
“OK. So we scare him up.”
“If he’s still alive.”
“Him and the singer. Not like we’re going to get anything from the cops.”
Mickey dropped his cigarette on the gravel, crushed it with his heel. “If this went down like I think it did, it would be in a lot of people’s interest for the facts to stay fuzzy.”
Emmett shook his head. “But not this fuzzy.”
Mickey drummed the table top, thinking. Emmett took a piece of paper from the briefcase.
“There were two cars reported stolen the day before the murder. A ’34 Dodge and a brand new Reo Speedwagon. Here are the details.” He handed the paper to Mickey. “See where they take you.”
“Jem Boyle could help.”
Emmett pulled a face.
“Just kidding.”
“Think you could find the crime scene? I’d like to have a look.”
“Ten miles of river shore? Get me a dozen academy boys to search and maybe …”
“I can’t believe nobody even noticed any footprints. Timmons’s report had zip. And who found the body? That information is buried. There’s too much missing. The slugs, the standard detail.”
“I’ll keep looking.”
“Check out the train schedules. Goods trains do the river route on the hour. Maybe a driver noticed something across the water. And no harm to check out the vice district. The way I figure it, the perps grabbed Sloan between midnight and one a.m. The place is buzzing then, I don’t care what night of the week it was. Somebody had to see something.”
Mickey was grinning again.
“Now what?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking you wouldn’t make a bad bureau chief. You know the drill.”
Emmett snapped the buckles on his case and finished his water. “You try as many homicide cases as I have over the years, you learn something.”
“County homicide.”
“Murder is murder.”
Mickey raised his eyebrows.
Emmett said, “And as for Richie T – ”
Saying the name out loud snapped it into recognition. Richie Timmons. Implicated in the scandal following the Union Station massacre. Rumor had it that after the shootout, when Pretty Boy Floyd was being treated for his wounds, Timmons stood guard outside the doctor’s office before escorting Public Enemy Number One to the city limits. Of course. Charges were dropped when the sole witness in the case, a
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