Stone Cold Dead James Ziskin (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📖

“Sorry, what’d you say? I didn’t hear you.”

“I said that’s my car,” I repeated, a touch more forcefully.

“Sorry, miss,” he smiled, cigar squashed between his lips. “Evidence. You can’t have it till I’m done with it.”

He turned back to his men, a couple of whom laughed, while others looked away. Officer Palumbo stiffened, his broad chest growing before my eyes, as he frowned at his chief. Finn took notice and strutted over to the handsome cop.

“You got something to say, Palumbo?” he asked.

Palumbo looked past him and said no. Finn stepped back, regarded him up and down, then sneered.

“Who do you think you are? Vic Mature?”

The same couple of cops laughed, no doubt to curry favor, and Finn smiled at them, relishing his power.

“You and your guinea good looks,” sneered Finn, turning back to Palumbo. “You think that girl over there is gonna swoon over you ’cause you look like some wop actor?” He laughed then looked at me. “Wait till you’re off duty to chase after Jew girls.”

That was unexpected. I gasped, and the cold air bit my lungs. Finn looked to his men as if expecting applause, then I felt a soft touch on my shoulder. I jerked my head to see who was there. It was Frank Olney, his smoldering eyes fixed on Finn.

Frank stepped around me, boots crunching on the frozen slush, and approached the chief, who was still admiring his own wit and basking in the approbation of his sycophants. Then Finn turned back toward me, no doubt to fire off another enlightened bit of bigotry, and saw Frank approaching. His smile vanished from his chapped lips, and his red face froze.

“Key,” said Frank, holding out his hand.

Finn took a half step back. I wasn’t sure whose jurisdiction we were in, but Frank was claiming it.

“I’m not asking again,” said the sheriff, his meaty paw still waiting for the key.

The policemen behind Finn fidgeted, except for my handsome cop, Palumbo, who stood like an obelisk, gazing straight ahead. Finn frowned, huffing hot breath into the frigid air. His lip curled a touch as he squinted at the big man before him. Finally, he smiled and shook his head.

“If you want to take over this investigation, you’re welcome to it,” he said, trying to save face. “I sure as hell don’t want it.”

He slapped the key into Frank’s hand, thinking he’d scored a point or two, or at least escaped with his pride. But the sheriff caught his hand as he tried to withdraw it and held it fast when the chief tried to pull it away. He squeezed it for about ten seconds, refusing to let go, and Finn resigned himself to captivity.

“Thanks,” said Frank finally. “I’ll be happy to bail you out on this one if it’s more than you can handle,” and he flung the pink hand away as if it were mucus stuck to his fingers.

Frank Olney may have seemed like just another big fat guy. But, like those huge professional wrestlers, he was a tough fat guy: a brute who could twist your arm off and beat you over the head with it. And in spite of our rocky start on the Shaw murder case, he’d become my tough fat guy.

The police chief waved goodbye over his shoulder and sauntered over to his car as if nothing had happened. Just as if he hadn’t been schooled by Big Frank Olney.

“Here’s your key,” said the sheriff once the city cops had decamped. “You’ll want to move your car before Finn gives you a ticket.”

“Thanks, Frank,” I said, beholden, trying to catch his eye to express my gratitude. I was making him uncomfortable in the process.

“Go on,” he said, patting me on the shoulder to be rid of me, and trudged off to his cruiser.

I climbed into my frigid car, slipped the key into the ignition, and pulled the door closed. There was a thud, and the door banged open again. I yanked it a second time with the same result. Several attempts later, I bowed my head, drew a sigh, and cursed Joey Figlio and Fred Blaylock. My car door would not close properly, thanks to Joey for leaving it open and to Fred for driving it down the boat launch into the lake.

I moved the Dodge into an empty space next to the school buses in the parking lot. I managed to secure the door by holding it shut and locking it. The latch still didn’t hold, but at least the door wouldn’t wave in the wind.

My whole day had been turned on its ear. I’d missed my City Desk meeting and lunch with Norma at Wolfson’s, and I was bruised like an old peach kicked down a hill. But I was in the perfect spot to meet Darleen’s friends. I located bus number 63 idling a few feet away from my car. Some students had already boarded the bus to escape the cold, but most were milling about, stealing a few more minutes with their friends on the blacktop before heading home for the day.

Gus Arnold was reading the newspaper in the driver’s seat, his big right boot crossed over his left knee, exposing half a meaty calf beneath his green work pants. He didn’t notice me when I climbed aboard, but once I’d said hello, he did a double take and nearly fell out of his seat.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I’d like to take a ride, if I may.”

He didn’t like the idea, but I told him I only wanted to see the route and talk to Darleen’s friends. He probably figured he’d rather have me on his good side than not, and he reluctantly agreed.

“Can you drop me here on the way back to the depot?” I asked.

He grunted assent then excused himself to smoke a cigarette outside, anywhere but with me.

Teenage girls are an intimidating lot. There’s no social group more confident in its own superiority with less reason