took it and holstered it and wiped at his eyes, thinking of what Tony had said to him up in the steeple. “Yeah, my job. I did my part, too. As shitty as it was.”
Then he climbed out of the car started to walk out to Market Square.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Except for a desk sergeant reading a pulp western magazine in the dingy lobby, the building was deserted. The police station seemed to be the only refuge left for Sam; he could not return home, not now. Upstairs he trudged to the city marshal’s office, but that, too, was empty, as was Mrs. Walton’s desk.
He sat down heavily in his chair and stared at the piles of paper and memos and file folders at his desk without touching them. All this work that awaited him. For the briefest of moments, he felt a stirring of anticipation, that with this whole summit fiasco concluded, he could go back to being a simple police inspector with a simple family, a simple life. If only he could get Sarah and Toby out, he could start again. It would be difficult, and it would take a very, very long time, but he just wanted it to be like it was two weeks before, before he found that dead body by the railroad tracks.
That’s all he wanted.
He stretched out his legs, looked down at his shoes, and saw stains there.
From his brother’s blood.
Sam put his arms on his desk, lowered his head, and wept.
Hours later, the piles had been sorted, some papers dumped, others reviewed, and some old case files reread. It had been routine, plodding work, and Sam almost cherished every moment. He had no idea what time it was; he didn’t care.
There were footsteps behind him. He turned, and Marshal Hanson stood there, a bland expression on his face. “The prodigal son returns,” Hanson remarked.
“If you like, sir,” Sam said. “I’ve been released from my federal duty.”
Hanson was dressed in a well-cut black suit. Sam saw that the man was swaying just the tiniest bit. Sam had never seen his boss drunk.
Hanson gently placed a hand on Sam’s back. “Jesus, son, I heard what happened today. A damn, damn shame. I sure wish it could have ended in a different way… but there was no other choice, was there? Tony was trying to assassinate Hitler. It must have been a tremendous loss, but the summit had to be saved. In a way, it was a sacrifice—a hard sacrifice for the greater good.”
Sam forced the words out, thinking how Tony had been betrayed. Some sacrifice. “That’s true, and if you want a briefing of what went on, I’d be glad to—”
Hanson lifted his hand from Sam’s back. “No, no, the FBI man in charge said I would get a full report later. I need to run along. Tell you what, you finish what you have to do and then go home, Okay?”
Sam wondered what in hell Groebke had on LaCouture, dirt that kept the FBI agent silent about the city’s only police inspector breaking his nose. “No, I don’t think so. I really want to get a jump on my work. I’ll probably spend the night here.”
Hanson said, “All right, but you won’t be sleeping in the basement. Use the couch in my office. There are a couple of blankets in the closet.”
“That’s very generous of you, sir. And if I may talk about—”
Hanson swayed. “Yes, yes. Your wife and son. Not now, Sam. There’s too much going on now. But I promise, once it settles down, we’ll see what we can do. It’s a federal beef, but I’ll see if I can help.” He rubbed his eyes wearily. “Sleep well! We’re going to need you tomorrow, when this whole thing wraps up.”
“It’s done? So soon?”
“The summit’s a success. Ended a day ahead of schedule. Agreement reached on a number of issues, so on and so forth, but bottom line, Hitler is going to get his arms, the Kingfish is going to get his full employment. Both of them are going to be safe in their jobs for a long time to come.”
“And the Jews?” Sam knew he was pushing it, but he had to know. “Will they continue to come over here?”
Hanson looked about, ensuring they were alone. “Oh, yes. Hitler is eager to get rid of them, and Long is eager to put them to work. But Sam, no more talk of that, all right?”
“All right,” he agreed. “So that’s it, then.”
“Yep,” his boss said. “Hitler and Long, both heading home tomorrow, and Long is going to visit Berlin next week to seal the deal. There you go. History made again in our little Portsmouth.”
Sam thought of Tony. His spirit must be furious. Not only to die in vain, but Sam was certain LaCouture had been right: Tony’s death had made the summit a bigger success.
“Yeah,” he told Hanson. “Our little Portsmouth.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
It was a sign of his profound exhaustion that Sam slept deeply on Hanson’s leather couch. After getting up, he went down to the basement, getting a bowl of oatmeal and some bacon for breakfast, again served by the American Legion’s women’s auxiliary members. He ate at a long table full of talkative and gossipy cops and feds, and he tuned them all out. He wanted to get through this day, do his work, and let the summit circus leave. Newspapers were passed around, with loud screaming headlines about the success of the summit, and buried in them were brief stories about Tony. If anyone said anything about his brother, he was certain he would punch out the first one, but no one did. They seemed to know enough to leave him alone.
If he was fortunate, in the next day or so, his family would be freed, through either Hanson or Groebke. If not, then the hell with what Groebke had said, he’d go to Camp Carpenter and demand to see the commandant and get his family out of there. Whatever it took, he would get them out.
At his desk again, he tossed aside the old message from Mrs. Walton to contact the medical examiner. As he dove through a pile of burglary reports, trying to find some pattern, some new angle of attack, a woman’s voice said: “Inspector? Inspector Miller?”
He swiveled in his chair.
“Yes?” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“The desk sergeant. He told me to come see you.”
He got up and dragged over an empty chair, trying to hide his displeasure. He hated these refugee matters. “Please, do sit down.”
“Thanks,” she said carefully. The women had blond hair cut in a bob, and her worn light blue cotton dress spoke of careful mending. She sat down and gripped a battered black purse in her lap. Her accent was British.
“So,” he said, picking up a fountain pen and a notepad. “What can I do for you?”
“My name is Alicia Hale,” she told him. “I’m looking for my husband. Your Red Cross helped locate him, so I know he’s in your city, and I know who he’s been seen with. Some kind of writer. This is the third time I’ve come here looking for help, and I hope you can do something.”
From her purse, she took out a black-and-white snapshot of a smiling man wearing a British military uniform. Sam studied the photo and said, “Is it Reginald Hale?”
She smiled in astonishment. “You know my Reggie?”
He handed the photo back to her. “I’ve run into him a couple of times. We have a mutual acquaintance. Your husband’s missing a leg, correct?”
She placed the photo carefully into her purse, as if afraid someone might steal it. “Yes, he lost that during the invasion. We were separated soon afterward; Reggie was evacuated with some of the wounded, and I stayed behind. We’ve only managed to exchange a few letters over the years.”
“Oh. And if I may ask, how did you get here?”
