Walker touched Stillman’s arm. “Wait. What if they leave before we get to the station? We should go back to Main and get the license number of their car.”
“New Hampshire plate, NXV-76989.”
“Pretty good,” said Walker.
“Presence of mind,” said Stillman. “Work on it. In this business, you can’t get by on afterthought.”
“Good thing I’m not in this business.” Walker held Stillman in the corner of his eye, but his reaction was invisible.
They walked with the same quick, long strides up Constitution Avenue, under old maple and oak trees that merged above the road to form a canopy over the pavement and kept them in uninterrupted shade until they came to a cross street, then closed over them again until the next one. Walker noted their progress impatiently as they crossed Adams, Jefferson, Franklin, Grant, then the streets named after trees: Sycamore, Oak, Maple, Birch, Hemlock. The houses along Constitution were nearly all from a period that had been referred to loosely in Ohio as colonial—mostly white, with two rows of shuttered windows, a center entrance with a pedimented doorway, and chimneys at both ends. It was a strange place to be doing what he was doing now: rushing to the police station to get some murderers arrested.
He could see that he and Stillmen were coming to the side street where they had parked yesterday to look at the police station. He said, “Is there anything I should know before we tell them? Anything I should keep to myself?”
Stillman answered, “I’ll do the lying, and you swear to it. While we were in Miami, we got an anonymous tip that one of these guys lived around Keene. We haven’t done any investigating since we got here—just looked around in these little towns to get our bearings—and we just happened to see those two.”
“The cops are going to buy that?”
“We’ve only been in Keene two nights, and we can prove it. No cop is going to think that’s a long time not to accomplish anything.”
They headed for the back doors that opened onto the parking lot. Stillman nodded toward the row of shiny patrol cars. “Fifteen today. Ought to be enough for our purposes.”
The doors opened onto a short, bare white hallway with doors on either side. To the right, Walker could see that one of the doors was steel, and had an impressive electronic lock with a numbered keypad. He supposed that it led to a cellblock, and this must be the entrance the police used to bring a suspect in from a patrol car. It would preserve the tranquillity of upper Main Street. In a short time, he thought, those two men would be taking a trip through that doorway.
The corridor opened onto a large reception area, with a low wooden counter along the whole left side, and several plain, unmarked doors along the walls behind it. On the right side of the room were squat, heavy wooden benches that were bolted to the floor.
Two uniformed policemen were sitting at desks behind the counter. One of them was in his late thirties with blond hair that was cut too short on the sides, revealing the ridges and bumps of his skull. The other was shorter and had a dark mustache waxed at the ends to turn upward and small, close-set blue eyes. Walker was pleased with them: they were just frightening enough to inspire confidence.
Stillman walked up to the counter, and they both stood up. The smaller one hung back and leaned against a desk, watchful, while the tall one stepped forward. Stillman said, “Good afternoon, officers.” His voice was loud and his words clearly enunciated.
The policeman at the counter said, “Yes, sir,” and the other folded his arms and waited.
“My name is Max Stillman, and this is John Walker. We’re here investigating a fraud case for McClaren Life and Casualty.” As he spoke he was producing one of his business cards. He handed it to the cop, who studied it as though it actually said something.
“What can we do for you?” asked the tall man.
“A few minutes ago, we happened to recognize two men on Main Street. They’re wanted by police in Pasadena, California, and Wallerton, Illinois, in connection with a kidnapping, murder, and assorted other charges.”
The policemen looked at each other without speaking, but an understanding passed between them. The shorter one went through one of the doorways behind him, while the other reached under the counter and produced a piece of paper that looked to Walker like some kind of report form and a pen.
“Can you give me their names?”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Stillman.
“Did you bring a warrant for them?”
“No, we didn’t,” said Stillman. “If you need it, the Illinois State Police can wire you one. The main points are that you’ve got two men in the coffee shop down the street from here who are wanted, dangerous, and probably armed. They’re driving a new blue Chevrolet with New Hampshire plate number NXV-76989.”
“Description?”
“One of them is six feet tall, one seventy-five with light brown hair, wearing blue jeans and a tan shirt with a military cut and button breast pockets. The other is six-one, about two hundred, dark hair and mustache, wearing a blue oxford shirt, blue jeans, and a dark green nylon windbreaker. That one is carrying a briefcase.”
The shorter cop reappeared with a gray-haired man about Stillman’s age. His face was thin, with a strong chin and defined cheekbones, and eyebrows that seemed habitually stuck in a look of determination. He wore a tie and a short-sleeved white shirt with a gold badge pinned to the pocket, but as he walked in, he was putting on a summer-weight sport coat that covered his shoulder holster. Walker was even more pleased with this man. Walker had spent enough time in police stations lately to know this was the boss.
The tall cop stopped scribbling, looked up from his paper at Stillman, saw where his eyes had focused, and turned. “This is Chief Raines. Chief, these fellows say they just identified two men who were—”
“I heard that part,” the chief interrupted. “You gentlemen positively identified both suspects yourselves?”
“Yes, sir,” said Stillman. “They were going into the coffee shop down Main Street, and we came directly here.”
“You’ve seen them before? Not just a picture on a circular?”
“Yes,” Stillman answered.
“Both of you?”
“Yes,” said Walker. “We’ve seen them at close range. We’re absolutely sure they’re the right ones.”
The chief turned to the taller cop. “You’ve already got full descriptions of them and gotten all the information?”
“Not quite, Chief.” The tall cop turned back to Stillman with his pen held ready. “What was that place in Illinois?”
“Wallerton,” said Stillman. “But it might be quicker to call the state police in Springfield.”
“And what murder are we talking about?”
“The victim’s name is Ellen Snyder. You already have our names.”
“Right.” The tall cop turned around to look at his boss expectantly, holding the paper in both big hands.
Chief Raines said, “Elton, get the state police in Springfield and have them verify, fax a description and a warrant.” The tall cop walked through another of the doors behind the counter. Raines said to the shorter cop, “Carlyle, let’s get some officers down there to see what we’ve got.”
The orders were coming quickly, but they seemed to be contradictory. Walker wasn’t sure whether he should be pleased or not. He looked at Stillman, who had slipped into his expression of quiescent inscrutability. He was looking down, ostensibly at the counter in front of him, but Walker could see that his left arm was bent across his belly. He was looking at his watch.
Chief Raines said, “I want you to get officers into position on the streets near the coffee shop. No black- and-whites in sight, and no uniforms where the suspects might see them. Nobody moves in until I give you the word on frequency two. Just keep the coffee shop covered, front and back, and stand by.” Carlyle nodded and headed for the door behind the counter.
Stillman seemed to awaken. “Chief Raines, if I may—”
“No, you may not,” said the chief, evenly. “Here’s how it is. Maybe some big-city police forces will burst into a coffee shop any old afternoon and arrest whoever you say, just because it was you that said it. Around here, we
