Dead Street

possibly because approaching sirens had warned the intruder off. No one seemed to know what he was after. Ray Burnwald was expected to be hospitalized for some time.

Crimes like this are committed for one reason only: money, or some other type of financial gain. Those files were full of paperwork, not valuable artifacts of gold or jewelry that can be cashed out anywhere, but hard copy that dated to when computers were backed up on paper. All those files contained was information and the data couldn’t be too critical because it was stored in an easily accessed area.

But was it worth enough to chance getting a murder charge wrapped around someone’s neck? That shooting was meant to be a killing one.

I got hold of Sergeant Davy Ross at his new precinct number and asked him to look into the hit on Credentials and find out if Burnwald would be able to talk to me shortly. I sat by the phone for three hours, saw Bettie get picked up by a Sunset Lodge station wagon filled with a half dozen older women, had two pots of coffee and watched an old movie on TV before the call came in.

Davy Ross had worked through the investigating officers on the case and all they had for evidence were the slugs they took out of Ray Burnwald’s body. Luckily, he was not in critical condition and would be glad to talk to me at any time. So would the investigating officers. They smelled something interesting going on, even though they had no fingerprints or incidental evidence from the crime scene. Two of Burnwald’s current employees, one of whom was in charge of the filing system, had no idea what the intruder was after, though he did mention that three of the folders seemed to have been more thoroughly perused than all the others. But on a check with duplicate information, nothing was missing.

I asked Davy if he had the dates covered by those three folders and when he checked his notes he gave me the year, month and weeks of my requests.

Over the phone Davy asked, “Watcha got on this deal, Jack?”

“Nothing yet.”

“But you’re thinking something.”

“Damn right, Davy, but let me check it out a little further. I don’t want to drop any problems on the guys processing this. Let me know if you get a make on those slugs they took out of Burnwald.”

“You got it, buddy. Anything else I can do?”

“Not yet. Soon, maybe.”

“The guys want to know how you’re doing.”

“I’m hanging in there. How’s the street?”

“The old lady’s still hanging out the window on her pillow.”

“She was supposed to go to Elizabeth.”

“Her daughter got sick. She’s due to come today, they tell me.”

“Won’t they ever let that street die a decent death?”

“Crazy. You take care, Jack. By the way, you need any mo... .45 ammo?”

“We get it all for free down here. Besides, nobody’s around to shoot.”

Davy let out a chuckle, said so long and hung up.

I looked at the notes I had scratched on my lap pad. The dates of the most “perused” files were right before Bettie had been abducted.

And there was that word again. Abducted. Killing her would have been easier.

And what were they looking for in the old Credentials files? Nothing seemed to be missing.

Three folders had been given more than a casual inspection.

And those three folders were dated just before the hit on Bettie.

Had something alerted Bettie to information in those files?

Had Bettie removed the pertinent items herself, most likely to give to me?

If so, Bettie had no memory at all about the event.

Damn!

Psychiatrists probe minds. They don’t operate. They don’t give physical therapy. They probe minds and try to make sense out of what’s there. Sometimes it works. They say bartenders are great at that too because their “patients” get bent out of shape with booze and hand the guy behind the bar all kinds of gibberish he has to sort out to keep the gibberish from turning into a bar brawl. Cops have to play the same game to keep a lot of loudmouths from doing jail time and for being able to recognize the little mental slips and omissions the bad guys fabricate to ease out of an arrest.

This job was not something we really studied at the Academy. It was strictly street smarts.

I heard back from Davy Ross a few hours later. I recognized his voice, said, “Hi, buddy. What do you have?”

“Forget any ID on those Burnwald slugs. They didn’t match any in the ID files, but photos of them are at hand. Most likely the shooter has already dropped the gun in the river and there are no witnesses who saw anyone make an entrance into the Credentials offices.”

I nodded into the phone. “Thought it would be that way.”

“What have you got in your mind, Jack?”

“Nothing I can put into words, pal. I’ll be in touch when I can.”

“Roger and out, Captain,” he said, then added with a laugh. “That’s G.I. talk, remember?”

“How could I forget?” I told him.

Before I could hang up, he said, “Hey, Jack!”

“Yeah?”

“Damn near forgot to tell you. I just saw old Bessie O’Brian, when her daughter picked her up. She told me something funny.”

“Like what?”

“She said she saw a guy wandering around that dead old street... reminded her of Bucky Mohler, who used to live down from her. You remember that piece of work, don’t you?”

“Sure, Davy — and I remember the Blue Uptowners nailing Bucky with a stolen car. Mashed the hell out of him.”

“Well, you know old Bessie. Whatever happened on that street, she’d know about.”

“Yeah, she always was a reliable old bird, only this time she has to be off the track.”

“You so sure?”

“Bucky’s wallet and a dry cleaner’s ticket were in his pocket. Bloodstained, but readable.”

“Maybe, Jack. But even his family couldn’t identify Bucky, at the morgue. And old Bessie says she saw him.”

“Bessie’s older than dirt, Davy.”

“So are we, Jack. So are we....”

She knew I’d be coming over there.

So did her dog. When my hand turned the doorknob, I heard Tacos’ soft yip and Bettie’s head turned and her smile reached between the two houses and she waved.

She wasn’t wearing her sunglasses, and somehow her pupils followed me down the steps and across to her porch. When I reached her she held up her hand the way she used to twenty years ago and when I kissed it her eyebrows gave a minute twitch and nobody had to remind me that this was an unconscious act of remembrance. I had kissed her hand many times in the past, but not where somebody could see me do it. Big cops never did that sort of thing to young ladies. To their mothers, maybe, or grandmothers, but not to a beautiful, sensuous doll.

Cops sure had a lot to learn.

I pulled up another rocker and sat down beside her. I didn’t try to be surreptitious with my question, but something had to jar her recognition facilities and I said, “You used to work at a place called Credentials, didn’t you?”

“Why.... ” Her mouth creased and she paused. “That sounds a little bit familiar. I think. Remember, I only think.”

“Good enough.”

“Is it important?”

Now was the time I had to sink the barb in. I told her, “The man who owns Credentials was shot and the files