“Listen,” Billy said, leaning closer, “I didn’t ask you to meet me so we could talk about a waiter. I’ve got a serious problem to discuss.”
“So I guessed. But why couldn’t we have talked it over at the office?”
Billy actually looked around as if someone might be eavesdropping before he leaned even closer and whispered, “Because it has to do with the department. We’ve got big internal troubles, Custis.”
Longarm drew a five-cent cheroot out of his vest pocket and stuck it into the corner of his mouth. He folded his arms across his chest and said, “I’m listening.”
“All right. As you very well know, the entire department has been in chaos since Commissioner John Pinter committed suicide.”
“Sure,” Longarm said. “Everyone in the department took Pinter’s death real hard. Stupid and thoughtless damned thing for him to do, Billy, what in the hell was the matter with the commissioner anyway? I never took him for a man that would kill himself. He had a fine family and-“
Billy leaned even closer and whispered, “Maybe he didn’t commit suicide.”
Longarm studied his boss. United States Marshal Billy Vail was a short, heavyset man who looked harmless but was not. He’d been a deputy marshal just like Longarm and a very good one, which was why he’d been promoted from the field to a desk job. Longarm liked and respected his immediate superior, and he knew that Billy was not one given to wild murder theories or twisted imaginings. If Billy believed that the evidence was starting to point toward the commissioner having been murdered rather than committing suicide, then this really was going to be a serious conversation.
Longarm removed his cheroot and emptied his beer glass. He poured another, giving himself time to recover from this shocking revelation while saying, “One of our best men investigated Commissioner Pinter’s death. He said Pinter had obviously been drunk when he jumped off the top of the Federal Building to his death.”
“Custis, what if our commissioner was forced to drink whiskey and then thrown to his death?”
“Who would do a thing like that?” Longarm demanded. “And off the top of our own building?”
“Good question. And the very same one that I have been asking myself ever since I spoke to Commissioner Pinter’s widow. You see, she told me a few things that I never would have learned while the commissioner was alive.”
“Such as?”
Billy drained his own glass, then refilled it before he continued. “Such as that Commissioner Pinter had a paid secret assassin hidden on our monthly payroll.”
“No!”
“It’s true,” Billy vowed. “Mrs. Pinter couldn’t name the man. She’d never even seen him, but knew that he did exist. Pinter actually called him ‘The Assassin.’”
“Did anyone else know about this?”
“Probably.” Billy sighed. “I expect that the governor himself might have had knowledge of this individual. Maybe even a senator or assemblyman or two. But you can bet that none of them would admit the fact.”
“What else could Mrs. Pinter tell you?”
“She said that her husband was very upset the last few days before he suddenly plunged to his death.”
“Did she say why?”
“Mrs. Pinter thought it had something to do with the Marble Gang being allowed to post bail.”
“I still can’t understand that decision.”
“Me neither. But what I suspect is that the commissioner botched the case. We also had the misfortune of getting a very lenient judge.”
Longarm bristled. “It was a travesty of justice! That gang is clearly guilty of murder, extortion, and bank robbery.”
“It gets worse—they all skipped town,” Billy said. “And here’s the really interesting part. Before they left, the Marble Gang torched a house over on Sixth Avenue. They were seen by neighbors running away after the fire started.”
“Why would the gang start a fire?”
“That’s what I want you to find out,” Billy said. “From what little I’ve already discovered, the family that lived in this house consisted of a husband and wife and their young son.”
“Did they all die in the fire?”
“They found the charred remains of the boy and his mother. The father either wasn’t at home at the time, or else managed to escape with his life from the burning building.”
Longarm pulled a pad and paper out of his pocket. He quickly scribbled down the address of the fire and said, “What was the family’s name?”
“Smith. They were the James Smith family—though I’m sure that was just an alias. The neighbors knew almost nothing about them. They were very quiet and kept to themselves.”
“What has all this to do with the Marble Gang?”
“I’m not sure,” Billy said, “but think about it. They murdered this family and then immediately skipped town. That tells me that the Smith family had something very important to do with the case. And there’s one other thing that you should know.”
“I’m all ears,” Longarm said.
