Free Downriver by Loren D. Estleman Page B

said. “He never left the arson scene.”
    Jackson said, “Orlander thought Richie and the others worked it out before the robbery. Davy was kind of loud, especially when he drank. They shut him up and sweetened their own pile to boot. Only Richie got grabbed before he could take his split.”
    “Sounds like Orlander had it in for him.”
    “Them sportswriters was starting to notice Richie. Some white folks just can’t stand watching a brother pick hisself up. I can’t say if Orlander was like that. His partner was. He had this rat-face sergeant who would of looked right fine decked out in a sheet and dunce cap. I don’t remember his name. Emmaline?”
    She shook her head. Her face was shining. The strain of holding herself up was getting to her.
    “Mean man,” Jackson said. “Wouldn’t sit down in my house. Like he was afraid he get something on his pants. It was like I never left Mississippi.”
    “I read up on the case. I never saw anything about Davy being shot by one of his own.”
    “Hot time. Maybe they didn’t want to stir nothing up.”
    “Makes sense. They’d never have made a case like that stick anyway, without the weapon.” I rose. “ Thanks, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson. You didn’t have anything to do with what happened up north. I had to ask.”
    “I would of if I could,” she said. “I’m just sorry they didn’t kill him.”
    “Woman, you don’t mean that. Killing’s a bigger sin than greed.”
    “I’d burn in hell happy.”
    He pushed himself out of his chair, caught his balance, and went up to help her back to bed, using the railing all the way. I waited. I wanted to ask if “redstick ranger” meant anything to him. It took me five minutes to realize he wasn’t coming back down. Outside, the fresh air washed over me like a spray of clean water.

11
    I HADN’T EATEN since Grayling. I ordered off the dinner menu in a seafood place on Grand, made easy work of a bass served in horseradish, and mounted a partially successful expedition for clams in the chowder. Thus sustained I penetrated enemy territory, the granite columns at 1300 Beaubien, Detroit Police Headquarters.
    One of the better-looking cops in the Criminal Investigation Division was showing some leg on the edge of Sergeant Cranmer’s desk in Robbery, reading items from a hot sheet in her hand over the telephone. She had her brown hair pinned back to beat the heat and a couple of buttons undone on a gray silk blouse to raise the temperature of everyone else in the squad room. Her skirt was matador red and just a little less than knee-length when she was sitting, dangling a silver sandal off her right foot. She answered to Lieutenant Mary Ann Thaler.
    “Demoted?” I asked when she had hung up.
    “Cranmer’s out sick. I’m adding his job to the three others I’ve been doing since Easter.” She adjusted her tortoiseshell rims. “Is there something wrong with your neck, or are you working on your Cary Grant?”
    “Honorable injury. I’ve been out diving for the Edmund Fitzgerald. Alderdyce around? He isn’t in his office.”
    “Turn around, Mr. Detective,” she said.
    I’d walked right past him. He had his broad back to me at the copying machine by the door, coatless, with his salmon-colored shirt pasted to his skin in patches and the curved grip of his department .38 hooking his right kidney. I flipped Lieutenant Thaler a salute and left her.
    John Alderdyce jumped a foot when I used his name. He turned his dark hacked-out face on me. “Why don’t you use a cattle prod?” he snapped. “I haven’t killed a man since supper last night. My average is slipping.”
    “Next time I’ll whistle. What put you on the stick?”
    “The heat. The crime statistics. Double shifts. Everybody calls in sick when the sun comes out. Having rank means you get to keep everyone else’s job for them. If you’re really lucky you’ll make commissioner and die before you’re fifty. How the hell are you?”
    “My neck hurts. But