Free Streets of Death - Dell Shannon by Dell Shannon

thoughtful, and suddenly added,
"Good-bye," and shut the door.
    "And what you think that was worth," said
Galeano sourly, "I don’t damn well know."
    " Neither do I," said Mendoza. "Here--you
take the key back to her, amigo. And for God’s sake preserve your
common sense."
    Cunningly, Galeano waited until just before two
o’c1ock to take the key back, and offered to drive Mrs. Fleming
home through the rain. She thanked him formally, and emerged in a
practical hooded gray coat over a subdued navy dress.
    "I am sorry if I have offended your chief,"
she said in the car. "But it is so silly to ask the questions
over and over."
    Her profile was enchanting, with its little tilted
nose and the wisp of tawny hair under the hood. Galeano nearly ran a
light. "Wel1, we have certain routines to go through," he
said. "Look, nobody suspects you, Mrs. Fleming. I mean, we can
see you’ve had a bad time. What with everything."
    She was silent. When he stopped in front of the
apartment, went round and opened the door, she said, "Thank
you--you are kind. I am sorry, your name--"
    "Galeano. Nick Galeano."
    "Mr. Galeano. Thank
you." She ran into the apartment quickly and he stared after
her, for a moment forgetting to put on his hat.
    * * *
    By five o’clock Stephanie had pored over a lot of
mug-shots, and pointed out three though her responses were laced with
doubt. "I mean, all of these look something like him. Not just
exactly, but they could be."
    Wanda shepherded her back to the Peacocks at the
Holiday Inn. If this came to court, she’d be asked to identify X
positively; as it was, Palliser and Glasser looked at the possibles
she’d picked out with mixed feelings as well. Steven Edward Smith:
pedigree of B. and E. Richard Lamont: indecent exposure, assault with
intent. Earl Rank: rape, B. and E.
    "Two possibles, by their records," said
Glasser. But the addresses were nowhere near downtown L.A., and they
were fairly recent addresses; Lamont was just out of jail. "People
move around," said Palliser. "We can have a look at them,
Henry."
 

    FOUR
    AFTER A COUPLE of quiet shifts, the night watch was
busy. They had E. M. Shogart back, that stolid plodder who’d put in
twenty years in the old Robbery office before it got merged with
Homicide, and was still a little unreconciled to the change. He would
be up for retirement next year if he wanted to take it, and probably
would.
    A rather bored Schenke was listening to Piggott talk
about his tropical fish, an unlikely hobby which had seized him a
while ago, when they got the first call, to a heist up on Seventh.
Early, but time meant nothing to the punks. They both went out on it.
    It was, expectably, a liquor store, and the owner had
been there alone, just about to close. "I got this place up for
sale," he told them, "and not before it’s time. I been
heisted four times the last nine months."
    "Can you give us any description of him?"
asked Schenke.
    "Description? I could draw you a picture."
The owner was a little fat man about sixty, named Wensink. "Talk
about adding insult to injury, they not only walked off with the cash
from the register, about a hundred and forty, they loaded up a
station wagon with a thousand bucks’ retail of my best stuff! There
was three of them. One with the gun. The one I saw best was that one.
A guy maybe forty, medium-size, not much hair and he had one walleye.
And what looked like a forty-five. All business, he was. The other
two were younger, one with a mustache, the long hair."
    "Well, that’s a switch," said Schenke.
"Taking the stock. A station wagon? You got a look at it?"
    "I sure did," said Wensink. "They
parked right in front, come in just at closing time. Anybody noticed
them carrying stuff out, I suppose thought they were just customers.
I didn’t get a look at the license plate but it was a Ford
nine-passenger wagon, white over brown, about five years old."
    He thought the one with the gun might have touched
the register, so they called out a