Killain,” Chief Riley said. “I know you won't get in the car. Where can we talk?”
Johnny looked up and down the deserted street. He noticed that the chief was out of uniform. “What's the matter with right here?” he asked warily.
“Fine with me,” Riley agreed. “Let's just step into this doorway out of the damn wind.”
“Let's just let me set up the housekeeping arrangements,” Johnny countered. In the doorway they stood so that Jack Riley's broad back shielded Johnny from anyone passing by. “Did you just stop in yourself at the game and ask for me?”
“Yes.”
“No flies on that Rudy,” Johnny said. He explained about the job offer. “Lowell walks in an' asks for me, you walk in an' ask for me, so Rudy figures right away to hire himself someone close to the crown to add a little depth to his defenses.”
“What did Dick Lowell come to see you about?” Chief Riley demanded at once.
Johnny looked at him. “You came over here to ask me what Lowell wanted to see me about?”
“All right,” the chief said resignedly. His heavy features looked serious. “I've got a little proposition, Killain. I don't have to like you to work with you. I've got a job for you.”
“Runnin' a poker game?”
Riley ignored the interruption. “I don't know what you're doing here but I take back what I said earlier about your umbrella being no good. You've got Lowell leaning on me from one direction and Daddario from another, although I'll be damned if I can see why. I'll cut it short. I'll pay you a thousand dollars to find someone for me.”
“In Madagascar?”
“Right in this town. I think.”
“The chief of police offers me a thousand bucks to find someone in his own home town,” Johnny murmured. “Forgive me if I sound a little confused. Who is it?” He anticipated the answer and was already prepared to disbelieve it.
“Micheline Thompson.” Johnny drew a breath but the chief held up a placating palm. “Wait a minute before you start in, Killain. It's simpler than you think. I want to know where she is, but I can't look for her and I can't send anyone to look for her because I can't trust anyone.”
“You're just overflowin' with trust in me, though.”
“If you run to Daddario with this I'll deny it. He knows we don't like each other, on top of which he don't like you.”
Riley gestured impatiently. “I need action. In my book you're a sonofabitch on wheels, but you get action.”
“Thanks for the double-edged testimonial. What are you tryin' to do, submarine Daddario?”
“I'm taking care of Riley,” the chief said stolidly.
“How do I get paid if I take it on?” Johnny asked.
“C.O.D. with the accent on the O.D.”
“Put it up with Rudy,” Johnny told him. “To be released by a phone call from you.”
“That sounds all right,” Riley decided. “It will be there by nine in the morning.” He glanced around at the windswept street. “Remember, if you find her, tell me. No one else. And don't come to headquarters. Call me. I'll meet you somewhere.” He strode out to his car.
Johnny watched him drive off. Well, Killain? Daddario evidently tells his business to no one. It was a little incredible Riley wouldn't know where Micheline Thompson was, but if it was true it wasn't incredible that he couldn't make a move to find her himself without Daddario finding out. If Rudy said the thousand was there in the morning it would be a pretty good indication that Riley was leveling.
He stepped out of the doorway and bucked the wind again on the way to Mrs. Peterson's. Very shortly he was going to have to ask himself a question he'd been avoiding. He'd done a lot of talking about Micheline Thompson but he'd made no real effort to find her. And he knew why.
He was afraid of what he would find.
Jim Daddario might have a violent temper and have everyone in Jefferson tiptoeing around him, but Johnny didn't see how Daddario could control an unacquiescent Micheline for this length of time. The girl he'd known years ago would have reduced Jim Daddario to one-inch strips and knitted a shawl with the pieces. Since she showed no sign of doing it, she almost had to be a part of the whole scheme. The whole dirty scheme.
Face to face with the idea, Johnny found he didn't like it. If what he suspected were true, Micheline Thompson had almost as much to do with the violent death of her husband as though she'd used the knife on him herself. How could the girl he'd known wind up doublecrossing her own husband? But she'd said it herself: people change.
Let it go for tonight, he decided, grimacing in the stinging wind. Start fresh in the morning. It might look better.
He reached Mrs. Peterson's, went upstairs quietly in the darkened house and went to bed and to sleep.
It looked no better in the morning. Dressing, he recalled the timing of the calls that got him out of the Duarte and the police in. It had been no accident. He had been suspicious then. If she weren't a part of the whole thing only a gun in her back should have been able to persuade Micheline to make the call to Johnny.
He looked at his watch. Ten after eight. First breakfast and then he'd decide what to do. He slipped into Mickey Tallant's jacket and clattered down the stairs. Jingle stepped out of the living-room doorway and looked at him appealingly. “Won't you have breakfast with us?” she asked. “I'll make you some eggs.” She had on an oversized apron and carried a spatula in her hand.
Johnny had his mouth open to refuse when he saw Mrs. Peterson nodding yes over the girl's shoulder. He hesitated. He supposed this was part of the rehabilitation project, but he was in no mood to be held up by it. Every refusal that came to his mind sounded so ungracious that he finally nodded reluctantly. “Just bounce 'em once or twice off the stove, Jingle. I'm in a little bit of a rush.”
“How many?” she demanded eagerly. “Sunnyside up?”
“I'm ashamed to tell you how many.”
“Four,” Mrs. Peterson ruled, and the girl darted into the kitchen. Johnny removed the leather jacket. He caught Valerie Peterson's eye as they moved together into the kitchen.
“You said somethin' one time about the president of the city council runnin' after the ex-police chief's wife,” he said to her in a low tone with one eye on Jingle out of earshot at the stove. “Is it a fact or just some of the citizenry runnin' off at the mouth?”
“It's been freely spoken of,” Valerie Peterson said slowly, “but do you ever know?” She was silent as Jingle, in triumph, set down a mug of steaming black coffee and a plate of slightly scorched toast before Johnny. “Eggs coming up,” the girl said brightly, and returned to the stove.
“Up to a year ago I never would have believed it,” Mrs. Peterson continued. “I'm not sure that I do now. The little I saw of her she seemed pleasant enough, if not a ready mixer. And her little girl was darling.”
Johnny stared. “Little girl?”
“Surely.” Mrs. Peterson looked her surprise. “You didn't know? She has a daughter in Jingle's school, but a few grades back.”
Jingle placed a platter of eggs before Johnny. “Who has a daughter in my school, Val?”
“Mrs. Thompson, dear.”
“Oh, Genevieve Thompson.” Jingle looked at Johnny's mug. “More coffee, Johnny?” She was already on her way to the stove and returned with the percolator. “Genevieve must be sick, Val,” she said as she poured. “She hasn't been in school all week.”
Johnny strangled on a mouthful of toast and blew out a spray of crumbs. “Sorry,” he mumbled when he could speak. He grabbed up a fork and shoveled eggs and toast down indiscriminately. He burned his mouth on the coffee, winced, and pushed back his chair. “Thanks a million, Jingle. I'm good for a reference anytime. See you later.”
Valerie Peterson followed him out into the hall as he struggled back into the leather jacket. “What is it?” she asked quietly. “What upset you?”
“I been tryin' to think of a reason Micheline would hold still for Daddario's game,” Johnny said grimly. “If Daddario had his thumb on her kid wouldn't that be a damn fine reason?”
“Oh, he wouldn't,” she said immediately. She shook her head as Johnny's eyes bored into hers. “I can't say it
