Free Hard Case Crime: Deadly Beloved by Max Allan Collins Page B

hadn’t given it up (his vaguely military bearing did not extend to offering name/rank/serial number); but several bullpen detectives seeing the perp hauled in had recognized him from other busts, as the homicide lieutenant was referencing right now.
    “This isn’t just another B & E collar, Ron,” Rafe said, still prowling one side of the table in the little room. “This time you’re cutting yourself in on murder.”
    That finally got a reaction out of Ron, though not anything desired: he laughed, once. Still not looking at Rafe.
    Rafe stopped pacing and planted himself next to the suspect. “You find that funny, Ron?”
    Looking at himself in the mirror (and inadvertently at Dan and me), Ron said, “It’s funny, you waving murder at me. I’m the one that got assaulted.”
    Rafe’s eyes and nostrils flared. “Spare me that story again....”
    But Ron did not spare Rafe or us.
    As we’d heard three times, in rote response, Ron said, “Got a friend in the building. Got off on the wrong floor. Saw a door ajar and heard suspicious noises and checked it out.”
    “In a ski mask and gloves.”
    “It’s winter, in case you didn’t deduce that yet, Detective.”
    Now Ron’s face swung to look up at Rafe and a small trace of a sarcastic smile was there if you tried hard enough to see it.
    “And anyway, did I have a ski mask on when your boys found me? On the floor? Roughed up by that snotnose P.I.? Maybe you’re cutting yourself in, Lieutenant—on a lawsuit.”
    Rafe drew a breath, expelled it, then began to pace again.
    And Ron just sat there smugly at the table, arms folded, face stony.
    In our dark little observation booth, Dan said to me, “Rafe says my buddy Ron’s at the head of his class in B & E busts, over the last decade or so.”
    “Yeah, and only one conviction.”
    “Desert Storm vet.”
    I nodded. “No question the guy’s a pro. And watch him ride this storm out....”
    Over on the bright side of the glass, Rafe leaned in and plucked the bagged radio from the table and thrust it in his guest’s face.
    “You know what this is, Ron? This is the radio you brought with you.”
    Again, Ron was not returning Rafe’s gaze, nor was he acknowledging the object waved in front of his face.
    The perp said, “So owning a radio’s a crime now? Wow. Gotta write that one down.”
    “The other radio’s in the lab, who already confirmed finding a transmitter inside it.”
    “Inside what?”
    “The other radio!”
    “Other radio? What other radio?”
    “The one on the nightstand in Marcy Addwatter’s bedroom.” Rafe shook its bagged twin at Ron. “The one you were planning to swap out with this one!”
    Ron’s brow tightened. He actually looked at the bagged radio. And he thought for several long moments.
    Then he said, “Let’s say—hypothetically—I knew that the lady of the house whacked the man of the house, the other day.”
    “Let’s say.”
    Ron shrugged. “And, so, you know, it was common knowledge nobody was home. A guy with a rap sheet like mine might go in for a look around, right? Nothing to do with the hubby’s murder, other than it cleared the path for a little plunder. Hypothetically.”
    Rafe’s eyes were tight as he leaned in over the suspect. “You’re right, Ron, nobody was home...’cause the lady of the house killed two people, including the man of the house. Safe to go in and remove evidence in a murder case....”
    I said to Dan, “Rafe overplayed it.”
    Dan said, “Yeah. Think he did.”
    Back on their side of the glass, Ron’s hands went up. “Okay, that’s it. I humored you. Now I want my lawyer.”
    Rafe backed off, stood there with hands on hips regarding the stony break-in artist with contempt, then turned to the uniformed cop in the corner.
    “Lock his ass back up,” Rafe said, and went out.
    Dan and I were watching as the cocky Ron was escorted out by the uniformed cop when Rafe entered our booth.
    I turned toward the lieutenant, who made a face