The Murderers (Badge of Honor 6)

“What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know,” Matt said, aware of how stupid that made him sound. “See if they talk together. Anything. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that they’re both here together.”

“If they’ve got enough brains to pour piss out of a boot,” the larger one said, “they’d transact their business out here in the parking lot, where nobody would see them.”

It was a valid comment, and Matt could think of no reply to make.

“Harry,” the smaller one said, “I could drink another cup of coffee.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Matt said.

“If you need some help, why don’t you get on the radio?” the larger one said.

“I’m driving my own car.”

“Where are these guys?”

“Atchison, five eight or nine, a hundred ninety pounds, forty-something, in a suit, is in the second banquette from the kitchen door. Foley, twenty-five, six one, maybe two hundred pounds, is in a two-tone sports coat, third or fourth seat from the far end of the counter.”

“We’ll have a look,” the larger one said. “I’m Harry Cronin, Payne, South Detectives. This is Bob Chesley.”

Chesley waved a hand in greeting; Cronin offered his hand.

“You tore the shit out of your jacket, I guess you know,” he said, then signaled for Chesley to go into the diner ahead of him.

A minute after that, Cronin followed Chesley into the diner. Matt walked away from the diner, stationing himself behind the second line of cars in the parking lot.

Five minutes later, he saw Foley come out of the diner. Matt ducked behind a car and watched Foley through the windows. Foley went to a battered, somewhat gaudily repainted Oldsmobile two-door and got in. The door closed, and a moment later the interior lights went on.

Matt couldn’t see what he was doing at first, but then Foley tapped a stack of money on the dashboard. The door opened wider, and he could see an envelope flutter to the ground. The door closed, the engine cranked, the lights came on, and Foley drove out of the parking lot.

“That one,” Detective Cronin reported as he approached Matt, “went into the crapper carrying a package. A heavy package. He came out a minute or two later without it. Then the fat guy went in the crapper, and when he came out, he had the package.”

Matt ran over and retrieved the envelope. It was blank, but Matt remembered a lecture at the Police Academy—and it had been a question on the detective’s exam—where the technique of lifting fingerprints from paper using nihydrous oxide had been discussed. An envelope with Foley’s and Atchison’s prints on it would be valuable.

“I’d love to know what’s in that package,” Matt said when he went back to where Cronin waited.

“It was heavy and tied with string,” Cronin said. “It could be a gun. Guns. More than one.”

“Shit,” Matt said.

“Guns don’t help?”

“In the last couple of days, I’ve had several lectures about not giving defense attorneys an edge,” Matt said. “I’m afraid we’d get into an unlawful search-and-seizure, and lose the guns as evidence.”

“If they are guns,” Cronin said. “That’s just a maybe.”

“Shit,” Matt said.

“I could bump into the fat guy, and maybe the package would fall to the ground and rip open…”

“And maybe it wouldn’t.”

“You call it, Payne.”

“I think I had better be very careful,” Matt said.

“Whatever. Anything else?”