“Who got it?” he asked.
“Lester Henderson.”
“You kidding me?”
“Would we kid a master detective?” Monoghan said.
“A super sleuth?” Monroe said, still grinning.
“Stick it up your ass,” Ollie explained. “Anybody else from the Eight-Eight here?”
“You’re the first.”
“Then that puts me in charge,” Ollie said.
In this city, the appearance of Homicide detectives at the scene of any murder was mandatory if not necessary. Presumably, they were here in an “advisory and supervisory capacity,” which meant they only got in the way of the precinct detectives who caught the squeal. Since Ollie was the so-called First Man Up, the case was his. All he had to do was file his reports in triplicate with Homicide, and then go his merry way. He did not think he needed to remind the M&Ms that this was a fact of police life in this fair metropolis, ah yes. They knew full well that except on television, the glory days of Homicide were long gone.
The dead man lay on his back in a disorganized heap alongside a podium draped with red, white, and blue bunting. A sign above the podium readLESTER MEANS LAW. Ollie didn’t know what that meant. The dead man was wearing blue jeans, brown loafers without socks, and a pink crewneck cotton sweater. The front of the sweater was blotted with blood.
“So what happened?” Ollie asked.
“He got shot from the wings,” Monroe said. “They were setting up for the big rally tonight…”
“Whowas setting up?”
“His people.”
“All these people here?”
“All these people.”
“Toomanypeople,” Ollie said.
“Is right.”
“Whatrally?”
“Big fund raiser. Putting up lights, American flags, cameras, bunting, the whole shmear.”
“So?”
“So somebody fired half a dozen shots from the wings there.”
“Is that an accurate count, or are you guessing?”
“That’s what his aide told us. Five, six shots, something like that.”
“His aide? Who’s that?”
“Guy with all those reporters over there.”
“Who letthemin?”
“They were already here when we responded,” Monroe said.
“Terrific security,” Ollie said. “What’s the aide’s name?”
“Alan Pierce.”
The corpse lay in angular disarray, surrounded now by the Mobile Lab techs and the Medical Examiner, who was kneeling beside the dead man and delicately lifting his pink cotton sweater. Not fifteen feet from this concerned knot of professionals, a man wearing blue jeans similar to the dead man’s, and a blue denim shirt, and black loafers with blue socks stood at the center of a moving mass of reporters wielding pencils and pads, microphones, and flash cameras. A tall, slender man, who looked as if he jogged and swam and lifted weights and watched his calories—all the things Ollie considered a waste of time—Pierce appeared pale and stunned but nonetheless in control of the situation. Like a bunch of third graders waving their hands for a bathroom pass, the reporters swarmed around him.
“Yes, Honey?” Pierce said, and a cute little blonde with a short skirt showing plenty of leg and thigh thrust a microphone in Pierce’s face. Ollie recognized her as Honey Blair, the roving reporter for the Eleven O’Clock News.
“Can you tell us if it’s true that Mr. Henderson had definitely decided to run for the Mayor’s office?” she asked.
“I did not have a chance to discuss that with him before…before this happened,” Pierce said. “I can say that he met with Governor Carson’s people this weekend, and that was the main reason we flew upstate.”
“We’ve heard rumors that you yourself have your eye on City Hall,” Honey said. “Is that so?”
“This is the first I’m hearing of it,” Pierce said.
Me, too, Ollie thought. But that’s very interesting, Mr. Pierce.
Honey would not let it go.
“Well,hadyou planned on running for Deputy Mayor? Assuming Mr. Henderson ran for Mayor?”
“He and I never discussed that. Yes, David?”
A man Ollie had seen a few times here and there around City Hall shoved a microphone at Pierce.
“Sir,” he said, “can you tell us where you were when Mr. Henderson…?”
“That’s it, thank you very much,” Ollie said, and strolled into the crowd. Flashing his shield like a proud father exhibiting a photograph of his first born, he said, “This is all under control here, let’s go home, okay?” and then signaled to one of the blues to get this mob out of here. Grumbling, the reporters allowed themselves to be herded offstage. Ollie stepped into Honey’s path just as she was turning to go, and said, “Hey, what’s your hurry? No hello?”
She looked at him, puzzled.
“Oliver Weeks,” he said. “The Eighty-eighth Precinct. Remember the zoo? The lady getting eaten by lions? Christmastime?”
“Oh yes,” Honey said without the slightest interest, and turned again to go.
“Stick around,” Ollie said. “We’ll have coffee later.”
“Thanks, I have a deadline,” she said, and followed her tits off-stage.
Ollie showed Pierce his shield. “Detective Weeks,” he said, “Eighty-eighth Squad. Sorry to interrupt the conference, sir, but I’d rather you tolduswhat you saw and heard.”
“Yes, of course,” Pierce said.
“You were here when Mr. Henderson got shot, is that it?”
“I was standing right alongside him.”
“Did you see the shooter?”
“No, I did not.”
“You told the other detectives the shots came from the wings.”
“That’s what it seemed like, yes.”
“Oh? Have you changed your mind about that?”
“No, no. I still think they came from the wings.”
“But you didn’t see the shooter.”
“No, I did not.”
“Guy fired five, six shots, you didn’t see him.”
“No.”
“How come?”
“I ducked when I heard the first shot.”
“I woulda done the same thing,” Ollie said understandingly. “How about the second shot?”
“Lester was falling. I tried to catch him. I wasn’t looking into the wings.”
“And all the other shots?”
“I was kneeling over Lester. I heard someone running off, but I didn’t see anything. There was a lot of confusion, you know.”
“Wereyou planning to run for Deputy Mayor?”
“I wasn’t asked to do so. I was only Lester’s aide.”
“What does that mean, anyway?” Ollie asked. “Being an aide?”
“Like his right hand man,” Pierce said.
“Sort of like a secretary?”
“More like an assistant.”
“So you don’t have any political aspirations, is that correct?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then you do?”
“I wouldn’t be in politics if I didn’t have political aspirations.”
“Excuse me, Alan,” a voice said.
Ollie turned to see a slight and narrow, precise little man wearing a blue blazer, a red tie, a white shirt, gray slacks, gray socks, and black loafers. Ever since the terrorist bombing at Clarendon Hall, everybody in this city dressed like an American flag. Ollie figured half of them were faking it.