“Keep moving,” I ordered the engine.
The top speed it allowed me this afternoon was thirty-five. I had to stick to side streets, irritating the traffic behind me by keeping below twenty. It took over a half an hour to get to the Central District.
“I’m stopping here first because Finchley will be gone later,” I explained to Peppy, in case she was accusing me of cowardice. “I’m still planning on finding Roz.”
I went in through the entrance to police headquarters on State Street. If I used the station door around the corner, I’d have to explain my business to the watch commander. Of course there’s a guard at State Street, but he didn’t take as much persuading as a desk sergeant would— especially since he recognized my last name. He’d known my dad years ago and chatted with me about him for a bit.
“I was just a rookie then, but Tony took an interest in the young men on the force. I’ve always remembered that and try to do the same for the new guys coming up. And gals, of course. Oh, well. You want to go up to the lieutenant, not stand around reminiscing. You know where his office is, don’t you?”
“Yes, I’ve been there hundreds of times. You don’t need to call up.”
Bobby’s unit shared quarters on the third floor at the south end of the building. The detectives had desks jammed behind waist-high room dividers lining the fringe of the room while the uniformed officers shared desks in an open space up front. Bobby held the reins of command in a miniscule office in the southeast corner.
Terry Finchley was finishing a report, banging on a typewriter almost as ancient as my own, Mary Louise Neely, a uniformed officer who worked with the unit, was sitting on the edge of his desk talking while he typed. The typewriter was so noisy, they didn’t hear me come in.
Most of the desks were empty. The shift changes at four, so roll call and assignments had long been disposed of. Five is a slow time in the crime world. The cops take it easy then, too, getting dinner or waiting for witnesses to come home from work or whatever else you do when you have a little breather on the job.
The door to Bobby’s office was shut. I hoped that meant he’d gone home. I went over to Finchley’s cubicle, interrupting Officer Neely as she was describing the interior of an XJS she’d chased down last night. I didn’t know if it was the black leather seats or the three kilos of coke she’d found underneath them that impressed her more. Usually ramrod stiff, she was gesturing and laughing, a tinge of color in her pale face.
“Hi, guys,” I said. “Sorry to butt in.”
Finchley stopped his one-handed banging on the machine. “Hi, Vic. You looking for Mickey? He’s not in right now.”
Officer Neely retreated behind her colorless facade. Murmuring something about “putting it in writing,” she marched stiffly off to the desks in front.
“Only partly—to see if he’d turned up anything on my aunt. She’s been missing four days now, you know, I found something at my place this afternoon and stopped by to see if you might have dropped it.”
“I didn’t know your aunt was missing. The lieutenant must have given Mickey the assignment on the side.” Finchley gestured hospitably to the metal chair by his desk. “Take a pew. Want some coffee?”
I shuddered. “My stomach isn’t strong enough for the stuff you guys drink.” I sat down. “I never saw Officer Neely look so human. I kind of wish I hadn’t interrupted.”
The police woman was sitting at a typewriter clattering away with flawless precision, her back straight enough to satisfy a West Point inspection.
“She’s the first female in the unit,” Finchley explained. “You know how that goes, Ms. W. Maybe she’s afraid you see her acting natural, you’ll squeal to the lieutenant.”
“Me?” I was outraged.
Finchley grinned. “Okay, maybe she’s afraid if she acts friendly around you, the lieutenant will think you’ve corrupted her. You like that better?”
“Much,” I said emphatically. I pulled the bracelet from my pocket and showed it to Finchley.
“I found it under my couch,” I explained. “You and Montgomery are the only men who’ve been sitting there lately. I wondered if you’d dropped it.”
Finchley looked at it briefly. “Ain’t mine. That’s pimp jewelry—I hate that kind of stuff. And give Monty his due, it’s not exactly his style, either.” He scanned my face. “I’ll ask him for you if you like.”
I hesitated. I hated to admit I couldn’t stomach facing the arson lieutenant. On the other hand, how many difficult confrontations did I need to prove I wasn’t a chicken? I accepted ruefully.
Finchley was sliding the chain through his fingers. “You know, this really looks more like—” He bit himself off. “I’ll ask around.”