The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One by Ross H. Spencer

?”
    “Excellent—armed personnel at every entrance—everybody’s carded.”
    “Do you live alone?”
    “Uh-huh—a small house just off the Fox River, north of St. Charles.”
    “Rent or own?”
    “Rent.”
    “Do you have a gun?”
    “Yes—it’s a Repentino-Morté something-or-other.”
    “Repentino-Morté Black Mamba Mark III—excellent piece, probably the best. Do you have it in your purse?”
    “Heavens, no —I’m afraid of the damned thing!”
    “You’d better get over that and carry it. Some of these screwballs are for real.”
    Erika Elwood stretched catlike in the overstuffed chair. She said, “May I compliment you, Mr. Lockington?”
    “That’d be a switch. For what?”
    “For a precise line of questioning—I’ve never been, uhh-h-h— grilled before. Is that the word— grilled ?”
    “That’s what the newspapers call it, the connotation indicating police brutality, of course.”
    “Oh, my, we do have a chip on our shoulder, don’t we?”
    “ Shouldn’t we?”
    She considered the question, shifting slightly in her chair, her silver chain sparkling on her well-turned ankle. “Yes—yes, indeed we should. At any rate, Mr. Lockington, you’ve learned more about me than I know about you, which isn’t fair. Might I ask you a question or two?”
    “Concerning?”
    “Concerning Julie—was that her name—Julie Masters?”
    Lockington nodded. “Where do you get your information?”
    “It was in our files—the Sentinel carried the story.”
    “The Sentinel would .”
    “She died of multiple knife wounds—in February, wasn’t it?”
    “Look, Miss Elwood, I’d just as soon not discuss it.”
    “You two were happy?”
    “Very. Let’s drop it right there.”
    “Just one more question—just one ?”
    “I’d have to hear the question.”
    “Since Julie’s death, you’ve killed four times—prior to it, just twice, and you were untouched by controversy in any—”
    Lockington broke in. “I’d be untouched today if it weren’t for the Morning Sentinel .”
    “Granted. Mr. Lockington, you’re a reasonable man, fair-minded—you’d have thrown me out if you weren’t—but isn’t it just possible that you’ve seen in the people you’ve killed the man or men who murdered Julie Masters?”
    Lockington throttled his temper, shrugging. It was a fair question—he’d thought about it before and he’d shrugged then. He said, “Look, how the hell can I answer that? Freud might—so, go see Freud.”
    “Freud is dead—so are four minor-league criminals.”
    “A minor-league criminal is a criminal working on becoming a major-league criminal.”
    “You sound like a crusader.”
    “No, I’m a cop— you’re the crusader!”
    “In effect then, you don’t differentiate between an arsonist and an innocent shoplifter.”
    “Shoplifters aren’t innocent—if they were innocent they wouldn’t be shoplifting.”
    “You’d shoot one?”
    “Circumstances dictate cases, Miss Elwood and, incidentally, that’s two questions.”
    “No, that’s two parts of one three-part question.”
    Lockington said, “I see.” He really didn’t.
    Erika Elwood said, “It’s obvious that you had to kill Joe Solano—if you hadn’t killed him, he’d probably have killed you .”
    “Well, would you believe that I received that very same impression?”
    “And it’s just as obvious that Timothy Gozzen had to go—sooner or later, Gozzen would have killed a little girl.”
    “Or a dozen.”
    “But those Mexican kids on Barry Avenue last Sunday night—they had a couple of knives and you had a gun ! That was a mismatch!”
    Lockington grinned. “Oh, it was, indeed it was.”
    “They could have been bluffing.”
    “They could have been, but when you’re looking at a pair of switchblade knives on a dark street, you just don’t take that possibility under consideration. The Cook County morgue is stacked to the scuppers with switchblade victims!”
    “ Now? ”
    “ Any damn