And the other reason they were open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, Lieutenant Jack Malone was convinced, was because the Working Man’s Friend had a hot car scam of some kind going.
Malone had no facts. Just a gut feeling. But he knew.
I don’t care if he and Commissioner Czernich play with the same rubber duck, the sonofabitch is a thief. And I’m going to catch him.
He circled the block, and then found a place to park the rusty old Mustang in the shadow of a building where he would not attract attention, and from which he could keep his eyes on the door to the Holland Motor Company Body Shop.
Something, maybe not tonight, maybe not this week, maybe not this fucking year, but something, sometime, sooner or later, is going to happen, and then I’ll know how he’s doing it.
He lit a cigarette, saw that it was his next to last—
Fuck it, I smoke too much anyway—
—and settled himself against the worn-out and lumpy cushion and started to look.
NINE
When Officer Charles McFadden finished his tour at four, he went looking for Officer Matthew Payne. When he went through the door marked HEADQUARTERS, SPECIAL OPERATIONS, Payne was not at his desk. And there was no one sitting at the sergeant’s desk either.
Charley sat on the edge of Payne’s desk, confident that one or both of them would turn up in a minute; somebody would be around to answer the inspector’s phone.
A minute or so later, the door to the inspector’s office opened and a slight, fair-skinned, rather sharp-featured police officer came out. He was in Highway regalia identical to Officer McFadden’s, except that there were silver captain’s bars on the epaulets of his leather jacket. He was Captain David Pekach, commanding officer of Highway Patrol.
McFadden pushed himself quickly off Payne’s desk.
“Hey, whaddaya say, McFadden?” Captain Pekach said, smiling, and offering his hand.
“Captain,” McFadden replied.
“Where’s the sergeant?” Pekach asked.
“I don’t know,” Charley said. “I came in here looking for Payne.”
“The inspector’s got him running down some paperwork. I don’t think he’ll be back today. Something I can do for you?”
“No, sir, it was—I wanted to see if he wanted to have a beer or something.”
“You might try him at home in a couple of hours,” Pekach said. “I really don’t think he’ll be coming back. Do me a favor, Charley?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stick around for a couple of minutes and answer the phone until the sergeant comes back. He’s probably in the can. But somebody should be on that phone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The inspector’s gone for the day. Captain Sabara and I are minding the store.”
“Yes, sir,” McFadden said, smiling. He liked Captain Pekach. Pekach had been his lieutenant when he had worked undercover in Narcotics.
The door opened and a sergeant whom McFadden didn’t know came in.
“You looking for me, sir?”
“Not anymore,” Pekach said, tempering the sarcasm with a little smile.
“I had to go to the can, Captain.”
“See if you can find Detective Harris,” Pekach said. “Keep looking. Tell him to call either me or Captain Sabara, no matter what the hour.”