No Man's Dog (24 page)

He tossed off the remainder of his scotch and set the glass on the carpet next to the chair. “Well,” he said, more briskly, “sorry for the civics lesson. I’m sure I haven’t told you much that you weren’t at least a little aware of. Every government in history faces this same problem. They typically have a leader, a president, a national figure, a dictator maybe, who has a publicly avowed program. It’s sold to the public. But there’s always a secret agenda, a political philosophy that isn’t made public. The politicians don’t trust the public.

“Anyway, the regime intends to implement its program. But there are naturally opponents. That’s party politics, right? Nothing unusual, the public expects that. They even count on that to keep the regime ‘honest.’ What’s interesting is that some of those opponents are actually within that regime, often deep within it—there are contesting views. Depending on the strength of the leader, of the regime, these views don’t get much opportunity to be expressed, or they get too much. But they’re all working to thwart the ostensibly prevailing notion. Even in Hitler’s Germany, in the Nazi party, there were contesting factions. It’s natural.”

“Okay, so you’re working with a few different groups,” Joe said. “You’re telling me not to take your chumminess with Luck at face value. Okay, I won’t. So what happened to Echeverria?”

“Ah, so that’s it,” the Colonel said. “What have you learned?”

“You’re the one who needs to answer,” Joe said.

“I hate to tell you this, Joe, but Echeverria wasn’t in that ambulance you blew up. Sorry about that. You did good work, though.”

“Did you know he wasn’t in that ambulance? Was I being set up?”

“No, I didn’t know. But someone did. Someone knew that there might be an attempt on his life. He had left earlier, on another plane. I didn’t find out until, oh, maybe a month later.
Someone thought that Echeverria, as bad a guy as he was, and is, was still useful to the U.S. in our war on drugs. They got to him, turned him. He agreed to cooperate, and they got him out. They should have let me in on it. It would have saved a lot of trouble. But they couldn’t risk it. Or maybe they even liked to create the impression that he was dead. Anyway, from your point of view, what difference does it make? You did your job, you got out of that jail rap.

“It turns out that Echeverria was worth the trouble. He’s been a help. We got some more lethal guys with his help. And, maybe, we’ll get more. But Echeverria, he went free. He’s still mad at you, though, Joe. You almost killed him, twice. You ruined his handsome face. He’s had a number of transplants, he has a lot of pain. I think he might be a drug addict himself by now. He doesn’t like you, Joe. That’s one of the things I wanted to warn you about, but you were too leery.”

Joe sat down. “Okay, you’ve warned me. Now what?”

The Colonel got up and went to the mini-bar for a refill. All he could find was some J&B scotch. He frowned but poured it into his glass. He came back and sat down across from Joe.

“Now we’ve got to iron out this problem with Mulheisen. He’s complicated things. I was trying to recruit him, but he went off snooping around on his own. I guess he was just trying to check out the terrain, but he screwed up. Now, Luck is out of his mind—he thinks Mulheisen is going to blow the whistle on him. We need Luck. He’s got some good contacts. We’ve spent a lot of time and money setting his program up. And we need very much to resolve this bombing case. Mulheisen is making a mess of it. I’m hoping that you can help us figure out how to straighten it out.”

“What can I do?” Joe said. “Mulheisen’s his own guy. I don’t know who he gets along with. I mean, he gets along, he’s an agreeable guy, but he has his own mind about things.”

“Where’s he at?” Tucker asked.

“Who knows? He couldn’t get away from me fast enough,” Joe said. “Actually, the feeling was mutual. I tried to give him some advice and he basically flipped me off. I’d guess he was on his way back to Detroit.”

“How about you?” Tucker asked. “What do you want? Have I answered your questions?”

“Well, I’d kind of like to know what was the idea setting me up? I mean, Luck’s saying all kinds of things about me online. I’m sure he’s not doing all that on his own.”

Tucker smiled. “I knew you’d be difficult, Joe. I needed to encourage you. That’s all.”

“Well, if that’s all . . .,” Joe said. “Then so long. I won’t stand in your way. I’ve got other things to do.”

“Oh, now, Joe, don’t be that way. I need your help. You’re the best at finding out what everybody else can’t. I need to find this bomber.”

“What do I know about Arabs?” Joe said. “Or was it something to do with drugs? I don’t know anything about that either. I’m out of the loop. The mob won’t give me the time of day. Besides, you say Echeverria’s looking for me. Maybe I should look for him. You’re from Montana. You know you’ve got to put out those little fires before they become big ones.”

“Speaking of that,” the Colonel said, “you’re sitting out there on French Forque in plain view. A house, a dog, a wife . . .”

“I don’t have a wife,” Joe snapped. “Anyway, you can leave Helen out of this. I made a mistake bringing her into that deal with you. Whatever happens to me, happens to me. Helen and I are history. She has nothing to do with Echeverria. Neither does the house, neither does the dog, for that matter. I’m out of there.”

The Colonel was taken aback. “It’s like that, is it? You’re a tough man, Joe. You give up a lot.”

Joe shrugged. “Sometimes that’s what you’ve got to do. I enjoyed it, but it’s over. Kaput. I’m on my own. That’s the way I like it.”

“I admire you,” the Colonel said. “But I’m not sure it’ll make much difference to Echeverria and his goons when they get to French Forque, which I’m sure they will eventually.”

Joe’s eyes narrowed. “I hope that is just a surmise, Colonel, and not a threat.”

“It’s almost a certainty. It doesn’t have anything to do with me. I never said anything to Echeverria. I’ve never even spoken to the man. I’m just assuming that he’ll do what anyone else would do in his position. He’s got a lot of pain, a lot of anger, and he’s out of a culture that believes in the vendetta. He thinks he’ll be less of a man, in the eyes of others and in his own heart, if he doesn’t pay you back. If that involves Helen, I’d guess that he’d like that even better.”

“You just convinced me that I don’t have any more time to sit around talking to you,” Joe said. “Sorry to be inhospitable, Colonel, but I’ve got work to do.”

“Does that mean you won’t work for me? For us?”

Joe laughed. “Who’s this ‘us’? The Lucani? Homeland Security? America?”

“It’s all pretty much the same,” Tucker said. He got to his feet.

“So you’re the good guys,” Joe said.

The Colonel shrugged modestly. “We’re not the bad guys.”

“How could anyone tell?” Joe said.

“Joe—” the Colonel began.

But Joe waved him off. “Good night, Colonel. Hope you catch the bad guys. Say hi to Dinah for me.”

The Colonel looked down at his wet shoes. They were well-burnished cordovan penny loafers. He seemed to be debating something
internally. Finally, he looked up and said, “Joe, I always liked you, even when you were a bit . . . um, a bit of a smart-ass. I can’t let this go like this. There are some agents downstairs. They expect me to come down with you. If I don’t, they’ll come up here. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were already on the floor.”

Joe didn’t react. His hand was in his pocket, lightly fingering the .38. The Uzi was within reach on the table. He didn’t like being in a dressing gown, but what the heck. He felt ready for whatever was going to happen.

The Colonel could see the resolve in his eyes. “It’s not like that, Joe, believe me. I was just thinking . . . you’re concerned about Echeverria, for yourself and—whatever you say—for Helen, too. I can give you Echeverria.”

Joe couldn’t restrain a smile. “That’s more like the Colonel I have learned to expect. Why didn’t you say so before?”

The Colonel smiled too. “He’s protected, Joe, by people higher up than me. I can’t
give
him to you, literally. But I can tell you where to find him. You’ve got to promise me that you won’t let it out.”

“You mean, ‘scout’s honor’ and all that?” Joe said, smiling.

“Scout’s honor,” Tucker said.

Joe held up his left forefinger, then two fingers, then the one. “Is it one or two?” he asked.

“Just don’t blab.”

“You got it, Colonel.”

“All right,” the Colonel said. “But first things first. I’ve got to get this bomber.”

“It’s probably Luck, isn’t it?” Joe said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Just a stab in the dark,” Joe said.

“And how about Mulheisen?”

“Ah. I’m sorry, I can’t give you Mulheisen,” Joe said. “I don’t have him. I told you, the guy is . . . what’s the phrase . . . a dog who
hunts by himself. Shouldn’t be that hard to find, though. Where’s he gonna go? He’s not a street person. He’s got a house, an invalid mother.”

“She’s a problem all by herself,” the Colonel said.

“How so?”

“She was there, at Wards Cove. If she saw anything, she doesn’t remember it. That doesn’t mean she won’t remember something. And when she does, she’ll tell her son.”

“And you think he’ll tell you?” Joe smiled.

“It’s more likely, if he’s on the team,” the Colonel said. “Anyway, this situation is more pressing. We need him fast, before this gets out of control,” the Colonel said. “You could find him.”

Joe thought for a moment, then grinned. “Done,” he said.

“And quickly. I need to resolve this issue with Luck. I don’t want this guy going off half-cocked. If this hits the news, it’s too late.”

“Actually, Colonel, if you’ll wait until I get dressed we can go see him right now.”

The Colonel had started toward the door. He stopped and looked at Joe, then uttered a short laugh. “You’re something, Joe. Where is he?”

“I’ll take you to him,” Joe said, “but just you. Not the others.”

“Um . . . I don’t know about that.”

“Oh, sure you do,” Joe said. “Just have another drink and sit while I dress.” He tossed his robe onto the bed.

The Colonel glanced away from Joe’s nakedness, then started toward the door again. “I’ll just go down and tell the fellas,” he said.

Joe was pulling on his briefs. They were cut very low, muscle-man style, in black. “Don’t,” he said. When the Colonel hesitated, Joe added, “Just pour yourself a drink. I won’t be a minute.”

Tucker shrugged, went to the mini-bar, and rummaged about. He found another J&B, grimaced, and poured it into a glass, then stood sipping while Joe finished dressing in slacks, a navy blue turtle-neck sweater, and a pair of light hiking boots.

“Does the name al-Huq mean anything to you?” Joe asked as he slipped on a harness and fitted the Llama automatic into the holster.

Tucker frowned. “Not offhand,” he said, “unless . . . you mean the al-Qaeda guy? Where’d you hear about him?”

“Private sources,” Joe said. He packed a small nylon bag with some clothing and the Uzi, along with some loaded clips. “What does he look like?”

Tucker searched his memory, sipping his drink. “Kind of slim, dark. Speaks very good English, I’m told. I never met him. I think he studied in the U.S., law or something. He’s Saudi. Very well connected with bin Laden. What do you know about him?”

“Nothing,” Joe said. “One of my contacts mentioned him. Does he have any connection with Echeverria?”

“Not that I know of, but he could,” Tucker said. “He was active in Kosovo. I think he had some interest in the drug business there. Yeah, there could be a connection. If you know anything, Joe, it could be very valuable.”

“Valuable? I like the sound of that,” Joe said, zipping up his bag. “I’ll inquire further. How much would it be worth? Just theoretically?”

“By all means, inquire further,” Tucker said. “If you can make a connection between him and Echeverria, that would be worth . . . oh, how does a hundred thousand sound?”

“Sounds like a start,” Joe said. He picked up the bag, hefted it. It clanked a bit. He set it aside and looked about for something. “But just a start.”

The Colonel asked, “Is it true, you and Helen split?”

“It wasn’t a mutual decision,” Joe said, shrugging on a dark blue nylon windbreaker. “I’m not sure she knows yet. It’s one of those things, Colonel. Sometimes you have to change your habits. I’m sure she had a different view of the future.”

“She’s a hell of a woman,” the Colonel said. “You could do worse.”

“With Helen, you don’t get to choose,” Joe said, picking up the bag again. “It’s not like you can sit down and discuss it. She has her notion. If it coincides with yours, life couldn’t be better. If it doesn’t, you better find another country.”

“Dinah will be interested to hear this,” the Colonel said with a sly smile as he unhooked the chain on the door.

Joe shook his head. “Let’s leave Dinah out of this. Now, before you open that door,” he said, fumbling the .38 out of the pocket of the robe and stuffing it into his jacket pocket, “let’s get the details clear. Okay?”

“What details?”

“We’ll walk out together. I’ll be very close to you. Whoever is out there, you explain to them that you and I are going for a ride. It’s all very friendly. Right? They can go on back to . . . well, wherever they have to go. You’ll contact them later. Is that all right?”

The Colonel nodded.

“Fine,” Joe said. “Let’s go. And remember, I’m very close, and this is a friendly departure. I’m not pulling anything funny. I just don’t want anyone to get excited and do something foolish.”

They walked out. The Colonel called to a man at the end of the hall. “It’s okay, Allen. Joe and I are just going for a drive. Go on back to the others and explain. I’ll give you a call later.”

The man vanished down the stairs. “Follow him,” Joe said, prodding the Colonel with the gun in his back. They could hear the man descending, but no one stopped them. There was a door on the ground floor that led to the parking lot. Joe gestured and they went out into the rain. “Let’s take your car,” Joe said.

15

Bad Dog

M
ulheisen was still sitting in the dark and listening to the rain, but now he was smoking a cigar. The phone rang. It was Joe.

“Mul, sorry to bug you, man. Were you sleeping? No, I didn’t think you would be. Listen, I’m at the pay phone at the convenience store on the highway. I’ve got someone who wants to talk to you—Tucker. Yeah. We’ll be along in fifteen minutes or so. Maybe we can work the good cop, bad cop routine. I’ll be the bad cop.”

Mulheisen laughed. “I’m sure he knows all about that. But sometimes it works anyway. One thing: does he know about Hook?”

“I don’t know,” Joe said. “I didn’t mention it.”

“Good. Let’s keep that between us. It might be worth something.”

In fact, it was twenty minutes before Mulheisen saw headlights moving slowly up the drive, bobbing with the undulations of the dirt road. He put down the cigar and picked up the Stoner rifle Joe had left with him. When the car stopped, he flicked on the yard light.

The two men walked through the rain to the cabin.

“Very nice,” the Colonel said as he entered, looking about. “But kind of dark, isn’t it?”

“There’s plenty of light from the yard,” Mulheisen said. “Sit down, Colonel.”

“Plenty of light,” Joe said. “Leave the yard light on. I’ll make some coffee.”

“There’s some whisky,” Mulheisen said. “You prefer that, Colonel?”

“Sure,” the Colonel said.

Joe set about making coffee in the automatic machine. “The Colonel’s got a little story to tell,” he said over his shoulder. “Go ahead, Colonel, tell Mul about the intricacies of intelligence work.”

“I’m sure Sergeant Mulheisen is familiar with it,” the Colonel said sourly. He accepted the whisky. It was Johnny Walker Black Label. “You’re a better host than Joe,” he said.

Joe outlined the Colonel’s association with Luck while he finished putting the coffee in motion. “Turns out it was all a misunderstanding, Luck grabbing you like that,” Joe said.

“I’m sorry you were, ah, discommoded,” Tucker said. “His men did what they thought was right, but it wasn’t right. And then, the damage was done.”

Mulheisen puffed his cigar. “Did you talk to the men?” he asked.

“Not directly,” Tucker said. “Luck explained it to me. I guess it was a couple of the Huley boys. They’re kind of . . . naive, I guess you could say. Not the brightest bulbs on the tree.”

Mulheisen nodded. “Now what?”

“Well, that’s up to you,” Tucker said. He glanced at the phone. “I should call and tell my people to stand down.”

“Let’s wait on that,” Mulheisen said. He looked to Joe, who was leaning on the kitchen counter, waiting for the coffee to finish. “You weren’t followed?”

“I don’t think so,” Joe said. “It’s not easy to keep up a tail in this weather, on these lonely roads. It didn’t look like anyone was
behind us. But . . .” He shrugged. “They have access to planes, choppers, that sort of thing. For all I know, the Colonel had some kind of locator device on his car.”

“Nonsense,” the Colonel said. He looked tired. Obviously, it had been a long day, a lot of tension. He poured himself another shot of the Johnny Walker. He looked across the kitchen table at Mulheisen and said, “Mul, I am sorry about all this. I really have only one mission here, and that’s to find the bomber who injured your mother and killed those innocent people. There’s still a spot for you on the team, if you’re willing to help us, after this . . . this screwup.” He sounded sincere, but he managed to insert a tone of disgust at the end, in reference to the “screwup.”

Mulheisen eyed him. “You don’t think the bomber was Luck?”

“No. No, I don’t. I’ve known Imp for a long time,” Tucker said. “He’s a bit rash, at times, and he has, ah, a radical outlook, but I don’t think he’d do anything like that. What would be the motive?”

Mulheisen shrugged. “Who knows? That’s what I’m checking out. What do you know about his wife?”

“His wife? Connie? What does she have to do with it? She died a long time ago.”

“Not so long ago,” Mulheisen said. “It’s not real clear just what happened. The records have all been hushed up.”

“Oh, that was my doing,” Tucker said. “I used the law, the new laws, to keep that out of the press. I was convinced, from my own investigations, that it was not germane.”

“Who was she?” Mulheisen asked. He accepted the cup of coffee that Joe placed before him. He sipped it gratefully. The smoke from his cigar drifted across the table.

“Just between us?” the Colonel said, absently waving away the smoke. “She was one of my agents. Luck didn’t know that. She’d worked for us before, and when she met Luck . . . well, as odd as it sounds, she fell for him. When she moved up here, with Luck, she
wanted out. But I asked her to keep an eye on him. She agreed. That’s all there was to it.”

“So it was just coincidental that she hooked up with him?” Mulheisen said. He was noncommittal about it. He drew on his cigar, then looked at it thoughtfully. “She hadn’t been assigned beforehand, to keep an eye on him?”

“No. It was just, as you say, coincidence. But it seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up. The fact is, she never had anything significant to report. I trusted her. She was reliable. I think if she’d found out anything, she’d have told me. But, of course, you can’t be sure. When a woman falls in love, gets married . . . her loyalties can change.”

“Did they change? Did you have a chance to talk to her about it?”

“Yes, I talked to her. I don’t think anything changed. She was a loyal woman, a patriotic American.”

“Was she still on the payroll?” Mulheisen asked.

“Um, yes, she was. It wasn’t much. But she continued to make reports.”

“Written reports?”

“Mostly verbal, to me. But, yes, there were some written reports,” Tucker said.

“What about this Lucani group?” Mulheisen asked.

The Colonel seemed startled. He glanced at Joe, who didn’t reveal anything in his expression. “I don’t know what Joe has told you,” Tucker said to Mulheisen, “but it’s just an informal group of agents, with like minds about some things. I’m sure you’re familiar with the kind of rapport that some law enforcement people develop with one another.” He glanced at Joe again, then added, “Joe might have gotten a mistaken view of it . . .”

He said to Joe then, “I’m sorry, Joe. I probably misled you a bit. But you are, essentially, an outsider on this issue. Sometimes
it’s necessary, a need-to-know sort of thing. Mulheisen, I’m sure”—he glanced at Mulheisen—“understands how that works. It’s a necessary evil, a way of doing what needs to be done.”

Mulheisen asked, “Was Constance Malachi a member of the Lucani?”

“Not really,” Tucker said. “She might have thought she was. I may have given her that impression. Once again, it’s just a way—”

“Of doing business,” Mulheisen finished for him, with a wry tone. “And you’re confident that Luck never knew she was an agent?”

“Well, you can’t ever be sure,” Tucker said. “But, yes, I’m fairly confident. I never had any indication otherwise, from her or from him.”

“All right, then. What’s all this stuff about this Echeverria? Did you set Joe up to assassinate him?”

“Echeverria is a complicated issue,” the Colonel said. “I’m really not at liberty to discuss—. All right”—he noticed Mulheisen’s impatient expression, and went on, hastily—“all right, he’s another of those snafus that crop up in bureaucratic situations, one group trying to carry out a mission, an official mission, and then another group intervenes with a superior mandate. You know the sort of thing. I never agreed with the disposition of that case, but what could I do? My hands were tied. And then it seems he had a connection with the bombing. One of his men was being heard that day, making a deposition. I thought we might be able to make a connection. Plus, Joe here had reason to be interested. Echeverria held a grudge against him. But let me say, there was no assassination plot.”

“No?” Mulheisen raised an eyebrow toward Joe.

The Colonel shrugged, sipped his whisky, poured some more. “We needed Joe’s help. It had to look like Echeverria was hit. That was the cover. Then, when I needed his help again, on this investigation, he was being a bit cute with me. I applied a little pressure.
Joe can be difficult, you know.” He smiled wryly at Mulheisen, then said, “Sorry, Joe.”

Joe was looking out the window. He didn’t acknowledge the remark. Mulheisen was thoughtful, gazing quietly at Tucker, puffing gently on his cigar.

“What do you know about Constance Malachi’s death?” Mulheisen asked finally.

“Not much,” Tucker said. “Why? Is there a problem?”

“I don’t know,” Mulheisen said. “Is there?”

“Not that I know of,” Tucker said.

Mulheisen sat quietly, drawing on the cigar and looking at Tucker. It was a long silence. Joe turned from the window, waiting. The silence was accentuated by the rain drumming steadily on the metal roof.

Finally, Tucker said, “She had some kind of congenital heart problem. Tragic. She was so young . . .”

“She was a federal agent, you said,” Mulheisen noted. “I guess she must have had some training? Yes? And a physical. You usually have to pass a physical. That’ll be on record. It must not have been detected. Eh?”

“I don’t know,” Tucker said. “I guess not. Her doctor said—”

“I know what her doctor said,” Mulheisen said, “or at least what someone who was supposed to be her doctor said to the doctor who actually examined her, postmortem. I suppose one could have her remains exhumed, just to clarify the cause of death. If one knew where she was buried. Do you know where she’s buried?”

But Tucker had heard enough. He pushed back from the table. “Gentlemen, I’m tired,” he said. “I’ve had a long day. This is absurd. I’m not in the mood for sitting around discussing the death, by natural causes, of a woman who obviously has no bearing on my mission.”

“Ah,” Mulheisen said calmly, “what do you want to discuss?”

“I’d be happy to discuss the bombing. That’s my task. If we’re through here—”

“Relax, Colonel,” Mulheisen said. “Have another drink.” He pushed the bottle. Tucker hesitated, then poured himself a shot. While he drank, Mulheisen asked, “What do you know about Luck’s operation? You had an agent there. What’s the point of the armed guards? What’s he hiding?”

Tucker shook his head wearily. “It’s just some pseudo-militaristic patriot group,” he said. “It’s nothing. A bunch of lard-ass conservative flag-wavers. But really, fellas, I’m not here to be interrogated by a man who isn’t even an official pol—”

“Tucker, listen up,” Mulheisen said calmly, drawing on the stub of his nearly depleted cigar. “People don’t die unattended without the body being autopsied. And when the body disappears—” “Bodies can disappear,” Joe interjected. “Especially out here. Float away in the river. Sometimes they aren’t found.” There was no menace in Service’s tone, just a flat, almost careless assertion that sounded fairly reasonable.

Tucker’s eyes flickered from Mulheisen to Service, then back. He finished his drink, then reached for the bottle. Mulheisen moved it away, casually, before he could touch it. The Colonel sat back, watching.

“What is this,” he said, looking at Joe, “good cop, bad cop?” He snorted contemptuously.

“I’m not a cop,” Joe said, “and neither is Mul.” He was leaning his butt against the counter, fiddling with the .38, flicking the cylinder open, spinning it, then snapping it shut. “I thought about shooting you more than once, Tucker,” he said, without emotion. “You tried to set me up once before, with that idiot agent of yours. What was his name? Pollak. The guy who never came back. I’ll tell
you what . . .” He set the .38 on the table next to Tucker’s hand. Then he opened his jacket to reveal the Llama automatic in his shoulder holster.

Tucker smiled derisorily. “Am I supposed to throw down on you? Joe, you’ve been living in Montana too long.” He waved his hand toward the pistol.

The Llama flashed out, into Joe’s hand.

Tucker was visibly taken aback. His chair scraped as he reeled back from the table, his hands up, his eyes wide. He wasn’t tired anymore.

Joe said, his voice low and tight, “Pick it up. I’ll blast your ass through that window. Pick it up.”

Tucker stared at him. Suddenly, Joe leaped. He seized Tucker by the collar. Tucker fell back, tipping over the chair and landing on the floor. Joe was on him, twisting his collar, the Llama thrust into his face. Joe’s eyes were wild.

“Joe! Don’t,” Mulheisen cried, scrambling to his feet.

“Get away, Mul,” Joe snarled. “I’m gonna blast this asshole!”

“Joe! I can’t let you do it,” Mulheisen shouted. “I swear, I’ll hunt you down. Let him up.”

Joe didn’t move. His and the Colonel’s eyes were locked. Then, abruptly, Joe released the man and stood up. He slipped the Llama into the holster and then picked up the .38. He stepped back casually.

Tucker got to his feet, awkwardly, straightening his clothes.

Mulheisen helped Tucker pick up the overturned chair and got him seated. He poured him a jolt of whisky and waited until he’d drunk it. Then he sat down. “Sorry about that, Tucker,” he said. “Are you all right?” He glanced at Joe warningly, but Joe was nonchalantly leaning against the counter again, as if nothing had happened.

“I’m all right,” Tucker said. He didn’t look at Joe.

Abruptly, Mulheisen asked, “You were Constance Malachi’s superior. You have access to her files. Her medical file, her reports. It would be interesting to see them. Let’s say that you had no reason to suspect any problem with her demise. But now a question has arisen. It wouldn’t be much of a problem for you to obtain the records and review them.”

“No,” Tucker said, responding to Mulheisen with alacrity, eagerly seizing on a different topic. “No, it wouldn’t. I could get them. That’s a good idea. Just to clear things up. Would that satisfy you, sergeant?” He glanced at Joe, who was toying with the chamber of the .38, idly spinning it.

Mulheisen drew on his cigar and found it was dead. He laid it in the ashtray at his elbow. “Yes, it would be helpful. If there was no problem, as you say. But, if there was a problem, then I suppose the next step—”