That last was posed to me; I nodded.
“And I think Fred Barker was driving,” Cowley continued. “I don’t know who the other one in the Hudson was… the one I winged. Do you, Heller?”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re going to love this, Cowley. Maybe we should get Purvis over here to have a piece of this.”
Cowley squinted again. “What are you talking about?”
“The guy you winged was a ghost. Ghost of a guy who got killed at the Biograph Theater not so long ago.”
Hoover sneered. “This man is a lunatic!”
Cowley wasn’t sure. He didn’t say anything, just looked at me.
I said, “This time he really does have a new face.”
Cowley’s mouth hung open; then he looked down at the pavement. He still had the tommy gun in his hand, but now it looked heavy.
Hoover was pacing, rubbing his chin, thinking.
Cowley looked up and, all business, said, “Keep that, uh…ghost to yourself for the time being, Heller. All right?”
“Sure,” I shrugged.
Hoover, not following any of that apparently, was giving me a long cold look.
“If you were undercover,” he said, biting off each word, pointing a stubby finger at me, “and knew in advance of this scheme, it follows that you must know the getaway route, as well.”
I glanced at my watch; they’d made their switch at the loading dock by now. They were probably heading down Van Buren. Not far from my office.
“I haven’t a clue,” I said to Hoover.
That was when the state attorney’s car pulled up and a confused-looking little man in a mustache and gray suit got out and said, “Sorry we’re late, Mr. Hoover. Uh, has there been some problem here?”
Sam Cowley hid his smile behind his hand.
I didn’t bother.
41
She was asleep when I got back to the office. She was still in her pink dress, on top of the covers. Sleeping on her side, knees up, dress too, milky underneath of thigh showing, hands clasped as if in prayer; her lips apart, looking soft, pliant, like a baby’s.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her hair; she stirred, smiling. Gradually she opened her eyes, just partway, but you could still get lost in ’em.
“What—what time is it?” she asked.
The office was dark but for the pulse of orange neon.
“A little after eight,” I said.
“Where have you been?”
“That’s not important.”
“What is?”
“Supper.”
That got a big smile out of her, a farm-girl smile those beestung lips seemed incapable of, only there she was doing it.
She sat up, wide awake. “I don’t have any clothes—just what I’ve had on all day. And slept in.”
“We’ll get you some things tomorrow. Smooth your dress out and bring your appetite.”
“Well,” she said, and shrugged, and smiled, “okay.”
She freshened up in my bathroom (the last girl in there was Polly Hamilton), and we walked downstairs, out into a cool summer night, the heat wave finally a memory, strolling hand in hand and around the corner to Binyon’s, where I bought her a T-bone steak with all the trimmings, which she gobbled down greedily. She hadn’t eaten in eight hours.
Nor had I, but I didn’t have much of an appetite. I ordered coffee and ate a roll or two, to keep my stomach at bay. We didn’t talk much at dinner; she was busy eating, and I was busy wondering what the hell to do about her.
Actually, I’d already done something about her, and that’s what was nagging me.
After I gave him a statement at the division field office, Cowley had let me use the phone. I’d reversed the charges to call Joshua Petersen in De Kalb, at the number he’d provided. To tell him I had found his daughter.
He’d shown no surprise, or joy; just relief, as he said, “That’s good news, Mr. Heller.”
“She isn’t with Candy Walker anymore. He’s dead.”
“Good,” he said.
His voice had a flat, dry sound, like his soul needed rain.
I said, “I’ve got her away from the ‘bad crowd’ she was running with, and she’s ready to make a new start. I just can’t guarantee you she’s going to be willing to do it your way.”
