“Where?”
“Dan Means tells me that figuring the way she was stacked I should give the bedroom the real business. You see that little table between the beds? It’s got a glass top on it. I wish all the tables in the world got glass tops. The glass is lousy with her prints and her husband’s. But look at these here? First and second fingers of the right hand. Strangers! Here’s the picture of the table where I circled the place we lifted them. Daniel Bronson, clear as a damn bell. Honest to God, if these nail him, I’m going to start believing in this crap.”
Wixler looked at the picture of the table. A man would have to be in her bed or sitting on the edge of her bed to leave his prints in that position on the table.
“How old, Catelli?”
“Not as old as the ones on the flour can, Sarge. Not that old. But not real fresh. Don’t pin me down. I’ll put it this way. If her prints on the can are today, and his print on the can is a week old, then this comes somewhere in the middle. Three days, five days. Hell, I can’t tell for sure.”
“But you would swear they weren’t made on the same day.”
Catelli looked at him with an expression of outrage. “I know they weren’t made on the same day. The oil was...”
“Okay, okay. How about the money Dan found?”
“Nothing. You expect anything?”
“Not really. Knobs and latches?”
“Still nothing. Not even any kind of little piece of a print on the inside knob of the back door. It turns hard, so it looks like he had gloves or else he wiped it.”
Ben went back up to the room where Bronson waited. Bronson looked at him with an odd expression.
“What’s the matter?”
“I just remembered the last thing I ever said to her. I leaned down and yelled in her face. I yelled ‘Shut up,’ and then I left.”
That memory made up Wixler’s mind for him. It would hurt Lee, but hurt him in a different way than he was punishing himself. In a dispassionate voice he told him what Catelli had found — the evidence of at least two visits, and the indicative place where the more recent prints were found.
“From three to five days ago?” Bronson said blankly. “In the bedroom?”
He stood up quickly and went to the window and looked out at the brick wall eight feet away, his back to the room. Wixler waited. Bronson stood there for at least two full minutes. Then he turned slowly and came back and sat down. “That is something Danny would do. But not without an invitation. And I don’t think he just happened to sit on the bed and watch her hide the money. Not Danny. I wonder just how many other God damn invitations she passed around, and how many acceptances she had.”
“Take it easy.”
“I feel like a fool. That’s something about her I should have been able to guess. When you get Danny I want to see him.”
“I may want to talk to you again tomorrow.”
“You’re not holding me?”
“I don’t see why we should. But I’ll tell you one thing. If you wore a size twelve and a half shoe instead of an eleven, we might have solved your housing problem. I’d rather you didn’t stay at home. I don’t imagine you want to, do you?”
“No.”
“I’ll have Detective Spence take you back there while you pick up what you’ll need. When you find a place to stay, phone in and let me know. By the way, Dr. Haughton is getting someone to take your classes. This is going to be a big thing in the newspapers.”
They walked downstairs together. Lee Bronson stuck out his hand. Wixler hesitated, and then took it. He said, “I think we’ll crack this as soon as we can get hold of your brother.”
“Thanks for being... so damn decent, Sergeant.”
Wixler watched him join Al Spence at the door and go out. He met Dan Means outside the door of the ready room.
“Got Keefler?”
“Fifteen minutes ago, Ben.”
“Sit in on this with me.”
“I never liked that guy, believe me.”
“You aren’t alone. Let’s take him upstairs. You bring him.”
Keefler came in with an air of arrogance. “I don’t know what you fellas think you’re doing, Wixler. I’m working and I get hauled in off the street like a bum or something.”
“Where was he?”
“Plato’s bar on Fifth Street.”
“I was looking for a guy,” Keefler said.
“Sit down and lower your voice, Keefler,” Wixler said. Keefler hesitated and then sat down, expression defiant. “Now I am going to point out a few things to you. You are no longer a member of the force.”
“Don’t you think I...”
“Shut up.”
“I got a license for a gun and your stooges took it off...”
“I told you to shut up. If you don’t, I swear to God you spend the night in the tank and I talk to you in the morning.”
Keefler looked at Wixler and then at Dan Means. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Okay, what am I supposed to have done?”
“You reported Danny Bronson as being in violation of parole.”
“Right.”
“Your responsibility ended there.”
“Not if I can find him, it don’t.”
“It ended there. If your case load isn’t heavy enough, ask for more. Bronson is a police responsibility.”
“Okay, so I look for him anyway. Show me a law. Show me why I can’t.”
“You threatened a private citizen. Mr. Lee Bronson.”
“He’s another punk like his lousy brother.”
Ben looked over at Dan Means. “I think I will put in an official complaint, Dan. I think this little viper ought to be in some new kind of work.”
“He’s a hero, remember,” Dan said. “He shot an unarmed fourteen-year-old kid between the eyes after the kid blew his hand off.”
“I don’t believe Mr. Keefler should be permitted to carry a gun, and I don’t believe he should be permitted to attempt to intimidate private citizens. I think we’ll fix his hash in the morning.”
Keefler began to yell. Spittle sprayed the table top. He slapped the table top with his good hand. For a time he was entirely incoherent, Wixler watched him mildly and then with more interest as Keefler became understandable. “...know a frigging thing about police work! So where is Danny? He’ll be in when I bring him in. I got leads. What do you jokers know? I know he’s on a blackmail kick and he’s working solo or maybe with a woman and when I got pulled in I was on the track of a statement in an envelope he’s got planted with somebody for insurance.”
“Hold it!” Ben snapped.
“Sure. Now you listen. Now you sit up. Sure.”
“What envelope? How did you hear about an envelope?”
“I’m not a cop so it’s my private business.”
“Lock him up, Dan.”
“On what charge? What’s going on?”
“Suppressing evidence. It seems a crime was committed, Johnny. Somebody killed Lucille Bronson. They were looking for something in the Bronson house. So talk. Or get booked as a common criminal.”
“The envelope. You want to know about that. Okay, he was in town Thursday, Bronson was. Last Thursday, and no smart cop made him and picked him up. He went to a lawyer. He tried to get the lawyer — his name is Paul Verney — to hold a statement for him. Verney didn’t like the way he acted. So he checked later, after he turned him down, and yesterday he got hold of me, and Verney give me some leads, some first names, Fred and Tommy, guys Bronson said would hold it for him. I checked the first names through CR and I been checking the list. So all the time Bronson had it! I seen them Saturday. They lied to me. You got him in a cell? I want to talk to that guy.”
“Sit down. You’re not talking to anybody,”
Keefler sat down sullenly.
“Why did Verney contact you?”
“He found out I was Bronson’s parole officer.”