Free The Body Looks Familiar by Richard Wormser Page B

hands.
    Jim Latson’s grin was ghoulish. “Hot, boy? You might be… That Martin doesn’t miss much. Cap Martin. I should have put him out in the sticks years ago. He’s the best cop in the city. Maybe one of the best in the country.”
    Dave Corday’s voice was a full octave higher, to his own ears. “Why did you let him take the case?”
    Jim Latson shrugged. “Routine. It seemed to me that the more natural I let this thing be, the better it would look. Matter of fact, it still seems that way.” He put a foot on the window sill, continued to stare down. “What this city needs is half as many people and twice as many streets.”
    Corday said, “I’ll send for Martin, talk to him.”
    Jim Latson turned and faced the attorney squarely. “Do that. And right away.”
    Corday shoved the swivel chair back with his thighs, jumped to his feet. He leveled a finger at the police chief in his best courtroom manner. “Don’t bark orders at me! I’m practically acting district attorney from now on; the boss is going to campaign for governor. You’ll mind your manners in this office.”
    Latson walked over to the desk. At the last minute he swerved and went around it, came behind Corday’s symbol of office, until he was facing the district attorney. Only then did he take his hands out of his pockets. The right hand shot up with ferocious speed and caught Corday’s nose; Latson twisted it with all his force.
    Then he let go, and put his hands back in his pockets. He strolled with his back to the desk to the door. Then he turned, smiling. Corday was dabbing at his nose with the white handkerchief that had formerly cut such a nice line across his left breast. “Try putting a cold key on the back of your neck,” Jim Latson said. “I’m giving a cocktail party at the Zebra House this afternoon,” he added. “Six o’clock on. If you’re swinging for the D.A.’s place on the ballot, you could pick up a little help there.”
    After Latson had gone, Corday crossed the room quickly and locked the door. By lying down on the floor and stuffing paper under his lip, he managed to stop the nosebleed without any of his staff knowing he had it.
    There was a little mirror in the center drawer of his big desk. He examined himself in it, and decided he looked like a man with a touch of hay fever, nothing more. After he had thrown the bloody handkerchief out the window and replaced it with another from his desk, he felt himself able to go on with the day’s business.
    But he didn’t continue writing his speech. Instead, he had his secretary get Captain Martin on the line. Corday’s joviality—he was aware of it himself—was a pale imitation of Jim Latson’s habitual manner, but it would have to do. “Marty, how’s my big case coming?”
    “Which one?”
    “Guild, of course.”
    “Was going to call you,” Cap Martin said. “Complications. Guy from the U.S. Immigration Service was just here. Guild’s an illegal entrant.”
    “But he’s naturalized.”
    “Illegally. He bought another Czech’s quota number and entered under the other man’s name. Makes his naturalization illegal, too.”
    Dave Corday said, “Now, wait a minute. I wasn’t aware that you had a lawyer’s degree, that you were admitted to the bar, Captain.”
    Apparently Cap Martin didn’t think that was worthwhile answering. The phone remained completely silent, and Corday had to carry on the conversation himself. “Immigration would have to prove all this,” he said. “At any rate, I have no intention of releasing Guild to a federal court. He’s ours, and we are going to try him—that is, if you work up a good case for me.”
    Again he waited. This time he said, “Are you still there, Martin?”
    Cap Martin said, “Sure.”
    “Has anything developed in the case itself?”
    Cap Martin’s calm voice said, “No.”
    Dave Corday took a deep breath. If Latson had been lying, why? If Cap Martin was lying now, why? He asked, “You mean, nothing