sick, what the Chief made us do.’
‘Is that how the rest of them feel?’
Beacham looked at him. ‘A lot of us.’ His eyes turned back toward the avenue. A single red fire engine could be seen in the evening light. ‘The Chief, he better watch what he asks the firemen to do. We’re not like the cops. Lingo’s men, either. We’re not like them. It’s different with us.’
‘How long did this go on?’
‘Seemed like forever,’ Beacham said. ‘I was holding the nozzle. That fucking thing is heavy. After a while I felt like I was holding up a car or something. And the way the water was shooting through it, it was like wrestling a bull.’ He laughed. ‘You know Jim Pointer, don’t you, Ben? Little guy with a mustache?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, he was my backup, you know, holding up the hose,’ Beacham said. ‘Finally he just let go of it. Said, “No more, Lamar. They can get me to go in a burning building, but this ain’t my job and I’m through with it.”’ Beacham stared at Ben wonderingly. ‘And he just walked off. Just took off his helmet and walked right off. Can you beat that?’
Ben did not answer.
Beacham’s voice took on a grim note of warning. ‘Chief better watch it. He’s pushing too hard, and he’s going to find hisseif with nobody but the trash around him. Lingo’s men. Shit, half of them ought to be in the pen themselves.’ He shook his head despairingly, then eased himself from the side of the building. ‘Well, take it easy, Ben,’ he said as he moved down the stairs. ‘I got to go home, but Lord knows I dread it. My wife’s going to kill me for this.’
The inside of Police Headquarters was less crowded than Ben had seen it in weeks. The lines of makeshift cots were empty, and only a few stragglers remained in the detective bullpen. The Chief’s office was dark, and the only light in the corridor came from under Luther’s tightly closed door. It was as if a strange emptiness had overtaken everything, an eerie vacancy that could be felt in the nearly deserted hallways, the unoccupied meeting rooms, even the thickening night beyond the windows. There was an odd, unworldly quiet in the air, and as Ben moved from one room to the next, he could sense that some part of the raging tumult which had been swirling in the city for so long had finally run its course, become exhausted, and simply slumped away, like a wounded beast into the enveloping brush. He did not know what part it was, but as he headed toward the dark office door of Property and Records, he sensed that it was somehow vital to the rest, a fire guttering out, one that left in its wake only the faintly acrid smell of defeated anger.
‘What are you doing up here?’
Ben turned and saw a tall figure, backlit in the doorway at the opposite end of the corridor.
Ben stared in his direction. ‘Who’s that?’
The man stepped out of the shadows, his face now half-illuminated by a slant of light.
It was Breedlove, and his body seemed taut and catlike, poised to leap.
‘Most everybody’s gone home,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ Ben said. ‘It looks that way.’
Breedlove smiled coolly. ‘You weren’t with us today, were you, Ben?’
‘No.’
‘How come?’
‘I’m still working on a case.’
‘That little girl, right?’
‘Yes.’
Breedlove stared intently into Ben’s eyes. ‘You got some kind of special interest in that?’
‘Maybe.’
Breedlove took a single step toward him, his whole body now plainly visible in the hall light. ‘Why is that, Ben? Why are you so interested in that case?’
‘She was a little girl,’ Ben said flatly, ‘I don’t like what happened to her.’
Breedlove smiled. ‘Course, it happens all the time, don’t it?’
‘Too much, yeah.’
‘You always work them this hard?’
‘Always,’ Ben said bluntly.
Breedlove laughed thinly. ‘I admire your dedication,’ he said, suddenly forcing some lightness into his voice. ‘I really do.’ The edge was now entirely gone from his speech. It had been replaced by something else, a strained friendliness. ‘Well, good for you, old buddy,’ he said, his body relaxing visibly. ‘Nothing like a good cop to straighten out the world, ain’t that right?’
‘I guess so,’ Ben replied curtly.
Breedlove scratched the back of his neck casually. ‘Well, I got to get home like everybody else. You coming?’
‘No. I want to check a few things.’
Breedlove’s face clinched slightly, then relaxed again. ‘All right then,’ he said. ‘See you tomorrow.’
Ben stood silently in the corridor until Breedlove had disappeared down the stairs. Then he turned quickly, walked into the Records and Property Room and switched on the light.
Rows of gray metal filing cabinets lined the back wall of the room, and Ben walked over to the group marked ‘Traffic Citations.’ The citations were arranged by the date the summonses had been written, and Ben immediately began flipping through them, edging backward, closer and closer to the Sunday of Doreen Ballinger’s disappearance.
It was a slender stack, held together by a single rubber band, and it did not take long for Ben to find the few summonses that had been issued by either Tod or Teddy Langley. One had been given in the downtown area at around two in the afternoon. A second had been issued to an illegally parked car just inside the borders of Bearmatch. A third had been issued to a speeding car at about three in the afternoon. The fourth had also been issued as a speeding violation. The time was recorded at a quarter after five, and the location was 21st Street and Second Avenue, the southwest corner of the old ballfield. It had been issued to a man named Norman Siegel, whose address was listed as 2347 Williams Street, Mountain Brook.
It was nearly eight at night by the time Ben turned onto Williams Street. He drove slowly, craning his neck to see the addresses as he passed one modest wood-frame house after another. He finally spotted the one he was looking for. It was a light-blue wood-frame house with an enclosed garage, and as Ben pulled into the driveway, he noticed the large assortment of toys which dotted the recently mowed lawn.
The door opened after the second knock, and Ben could see a short, middle-aged woman through the silvery screen mesh.
‘Is this the Siegel residence?’ he asked.
The woman nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Does Norman Siegel live here?’
‘Yes, he does,’ the woman said.
Ben took out his police identification. ‘It’s nothing serious, ma’am,’ he said, ‘but I’d like to talk to Mr Siegel if he can spare the time.’
The woman looked at him worriedly. ‘All right,’ she said, her voice somewhat strained. ‘Come in, please.’
The screen door swung open, and Ben stepped into the house.
‘Just have a seat anywhere,’ the woman said as she disappeared into the back of the house.
Ben remained standing. His eyes drifted over the room. It had an exposed brick fireplace, its plain wooden mantel decked with family photographs in pink plastic frames. The carpet was reddish, with white flecks, and it was strewn with toys that looked as if they been scattered about haphazardly and then entirely forgotten. There was a brown naugahyde recliner, and opposite it, a plain tan sofa with bright red cushions.
‘I’m Norman Siegel.’
He was a small man in thick glasses, and he was dressed in khaki trousers and white, open-collared shirt. ‘I was just mowing the back forty,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘Night’s about the only time I have for it.’ He offered Ben his hand. ‘Sarah said you were from the police.’
Ben shook his hand quickly. ‘That’s right.’
