Downtime (27 page)

“Bullshit. I don’t care what you said to him, he’s got no justification—”

“I mentioned Alfred. Our ghost,” he clarified before I could ask. “I should have known that would set him off.”

I looked around at Finch and saw a sly smile on the butt-ugly face. “Not information you want getting around, huh? Bet you anything that Alfred wasn’t the first to die on this asshole’s watch.”

Finch stepped back from the doorway. “Come on out, then,” he said as if he were inviting us to join him for tea. “If you gents ain’t happy with me, I know where we can settle it.”

Ezra’s grip tightened. “Morgan, you will be shut up in Newgate for months. Or worse.”

“Don’t spoil my fun,” Finch protested. “I ain’t done down a Yank right and proper in ever so long. You let him out and I’ll discharge him for fair, after.” He showed off a row of dingy gray teeth. “That is, if I ain’t broke his neck first.”

Ezra planted himself in front of me. “I will have a word with Inspector Pimblett straightaway, if you please.”

I knew there had to be something besides my fist that could wipe that grin off Finch’s smug face. It figured Ezra would be the one to come up with it. Finch looked like he regretted doing no more than bruising Ezra’s cheek and, further, that he planned to make up for it. He started toward us, only to be brought to a halt by an impatient voice at the outer door.

“Finch, what’s holding you up? I’ve already missed my supper. Let’s have the other one.”

“Right away, sir,” Finch called out with a deference that was startling in contrast to the attitude he’d taken with us. He grabbed my coat, yanking me past Ezra. Jesus, the bastard was even stronger than he looked. “I ain’t done with you,” he muttered, and pushed me ahead of him. I looked around at Ezra, who tried to smile encouragingly.

“Simple and on the subject,” he reminded me, with hardly a hint of the deserved sarcasm. The concern in his eyes said everything else.

Grumbling what were probably obscenities for his time, Finch gave me a shove down the corridor and I gritted my teeth against the urge to take a swing at him. It wasn’t just my own ass I’d be stringing up on the nearest gallows. I got my temper under control by the time we reached what looked like some sort of storage room. Wooden file drawers circled the only other furniture, a table and two chairs.

One was already occupied by a man in a black suit, bent over a notebook. He was a less impressive figure than his constable; wiry and rumpled, with unkempt, graying black hair and ink-stained fingers that moved the pen with itchy speed across the paper, he didn’t look tough enough to have worked his way from the streets of Whitechapel to a desk job. At our entrance, he took us both in with hardly a flicker of interest, then nodded at the chair before returning to his work.

Finch gave me a none-too-gentle push toward the chair, then parked himself at the door. I sat down, feeling a transient amusement over the situation. I’d faced inquiries once or twice in my early years at the Bureau, until Sully’d gotten through to me that playing by my own rules was acceptable only in the most dire circumstances. Now here I was, in a world where the rules seemed to be less clearly defined, and I was still pissing people off. I had to be glad Sully was in no condition to thump me on the head. Of course I had reason to think Ezra would shortly be doing it on his behalf.

Finally the scratch of the pen ceased and a weary sigh replaced it. Eyes a penetrating brown lifted to peruse my face with an unapologetic directness. “Morgan Nash, is it?”

“That’s right. You’re Pimblett?”

“Inspector Charles Pimblett,” he said with a certain sardonic quality as he sat up straighter, those eyes still picking me apart.

I didn’t know if he paid any attention to body language, but kept mine nonthreatening. “Mind if I ask what we’re charged with?”

Pimblett tapped his pen on the notebook. “Abusive language. Causing a disturbance. Assault and detention of Mr. John Leeke. Oh, and possible involvement in the deaths of Annie Chapman and Mary Ann Nichols.”

“I guess just about everyone you arrest these days is charged with that last one.”

He sat back and eyed me for the longest minute before replying. “Some are, yes. Especially those who are noticeably out of place.”

If only he knew just how out of place. “So you think I don’t fit in?”

He laid the pen on the scarred table and folded his hands over his stomach. “I take it you are here on holiday?”

I wondered how much Ezra had told him. “My original intent was a holiday, but I’ll admit this case has piqued my interest.”

“Amateur detective, are we?”

“Professional.”

“I see. With the New York police?”

There was a note of disdain in his voice and I figured he’d worked with them before, and not amicably. “No, I’m on my own.”

“Indeed. You’ve come quite the distance to spend your holiday trying to crack our case. Mr. Glacenbie has vouched for your character, though the embarrassment of arrest may spur him to send you back home at his first opportunity.”

Pimblett was probably right about that. “I didn’t intend to get in the way of your investigation. Mr. Leeke’s behavior in the pub drew my attention—”

“Behavior?”

“He was sitting alone. He had a black bag in his possession and he was occupied in close study of the female patrons. He accosted three of them in the fifteen minutes I observed him before following him from the pub.” I felt a weird homesickness that I wasn’t sitting across from Faulkner’s grumpy visage, relating my report as he sucked down coffee and sighed every few minutes. In the habit of following a report with my own opinions, I couldn’t stop myself from continuing. “The suspect matches the witness descriptions you have on file. I think his behavior warrants further surveillance. It’s unlikely but not impossible that your killer has an accomplice, even a female one. I’d follow up all possible leads, no matter how far-fetched, if I were you.”

“Hold a minute.” The inspector’s gaze narrowed. “You imagine a woman could do this to another woman?”

If he was going to prevent me from investigating the murders, I could at least get it into his head to pursue leads he’d probably never considered. “I’ve seen women capable of doing some pretty nasty things to their fellow human beings, Inspector. Granted, in this case, the probability that a woman is involved is low, but if you’re looking for an obviously crazed lunatic, you’re limiting your chances of catching the killer. Have you ever handled this type of case before?”

“I’ve taken on my share of murder cases.”

“I’m not talking about the sort of killer who kills once, over money or a failed marriage or one of a million reasons people come up with for taking a life. I’m talking about a different kind of person. One who isn’t noticeably insane, but has a perception of the world so skewed, it drives him to kill over and over again. And there’s a pattern to the evidence he leaves behind, evidence you lose when you don’t protect your crime scene. Do you know how to dust for prints? I realize it’s a new technique—”

“Mr. Nash.”

I knew I’d gone too far. Pimblett had no reason to consider the ideas of a man he’d just arrested on suspicion of murder or even the ideas of a fellow investigator when that investigator was a nosy stranger from across the pond. “I’m not competing with you, Inspector. I want to catch this guy just as much as you do.”

If there was resentment and annoyance in the man’s steady gaze, there was also curiosity and a reluctant interest to hear more. But it had no doubt been a long couple of months for him, and he’d probably been offered more unofficial advice than any professional could stand to hear.

“Mr. Nash, I am going to discharge you and your friend on one condition. That you leave Whitechapel and do not come back. If I see you on these streets again, I’ll lock you up. For your sake as well as ours.”

I sensed he wasn’t too convinced I’d listen, but he didn’t know how else to scare me off. Maybe the thought of potential bad press was a factor or maybe he just didn’t want to deal with me further when he had bigger fish slipping through his net. I wasn’t going to push him. I was too relieved to draw the get out of jail card. “Thank you, Inspector. I’m sorry I delayed your dinner.”

My noncommittal response left him even more suspicious, but he rose and nodded at Finch. “Discharge them and find them a cab. Good-bye, Mr. Nash.” The trace of a smile tugged at his lips. “And thank you for all the advice.”

“Any time, sir.”

As I followed good old Finchy out, I was aware of the anticipation in his step. He and I weren’t done yet, as far as he was concerned. I didn’t want to get either Ezra or myself into more trouble, but I wasn’t going to be this guy’s punching bag and he wasn’t laying a hand on Ezra again, that was for damned sure. He waited until we were in the corridor leading to the cells before he turned and pushed me against the wall. I’d been waiting for it. I backed away and flashed him my biggest grin. It was all the encouragement he needed to throw a fist at me. I blocked it and used his momentum to roll him to the floor. A little pressure on his arm warned him to stay put.

“We done or you want some more?”

To my surprise, he grinned up at me. “That’s how it’s done in America? No one’s ever put me down, not like that. Clever lad.”

“Spare me the flattery, Finch. I’m going to let you up and you’re going to follow Pimblett’s orders and let us go.”

I stepped out of his reach as he clambered to his feet. He rubbed his shoulder, the good-humored glint still in his eyes. “Show me how you did that, will you?”

This guy didn’t need any new tricks in his arsenal. His natural strength was dangerous enough. “Sorry. Goes against Bureau policy to teach self-defense to bullies.”

“I don’t know how your friend come to think I killed that bloke. Weren’t my fault he was sickly. I’m to bring in them that’s stealing, whether they’re poorly or not. I was doing my job and no one can say otherwise.”

“Your job is to protect and serve, not to beat up on those weaker than you just because you’ve been given the authority to detain people for breaking the law.” I gestured impatiently for him to hurry up as I reached the cell door. Ezra sat slumped on the bench, altogether still, and I jabbed Finch’s arm as he fitted the key in the lock. “Come on. Get it open.” Inside, I crossed the cell in two steps. “Ez?”

I anxiously clamped fingers over his shoulder. He opened his eyes and blinked at me. “Morgan?” He yawned and sat up. “You were quick.”

He was sleeping. I’d been worried about him and here he was comfortably snoozing while I was being interrogated. “Well, I’m glad you were able to catch a few winks.” Though I’d gone for sarcastic, I realized I meant it too much for it to sound anything but sincere. I’d put him through one hell of an evening and the purpling bruise on his cheek dissipated any exasperation. “You all right?”

“Yes. Are you?” Ezra slid a wary gaze in Finch’s direction. “He didn’t—”

“Nah. He tried, but it backfired on him.” I glanced around. Finch was watching us just as warily from the cell door. “We might have a shot at getting him canned, but even if there’s an IA division, it’d still be his word against a ghost’s. Doubt that would hold up in court. Even in your time,” I concluded ruefully.