Free Sacrificial Ground by Thomas H. Cook Page A

Frank,” Gibbons said, slowing as he came nearer. “Got a late start this morning.” He smiled cheerfully. “Anything on the night beat?”
    â€œNothing.”
    Gibbons straightened his bright yellow tie. “No untimely deaths, huh?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat about that girl they found over on Glenwood?” Gibbons asked. He shifted his own personal volume of the FBI Uniform Crime Report. “That a kill?”
    â€œWe don’t know yet,” Frank said.
    â€œIf it’s a kill, it’s a prime collar. You still on it?”
    â€œYes.”
    A glimmer of surprise passed over Gibbons’ face, and Frank suspected that someone at headquarters had already tipped him off that the case was going to be shifted to him. Gibbons always had a jump on everybody else when it came to knowing what was coming down from the top floor. He played tennis with the chief of detectives and handball with the head of Vice, and on Sunday, he ended up at the Mount Pyron Church of God wailing for salvation from the same pew as two members of the city council. There wasn’t a wheel of government he hadn’t greased, and because of it, information flowed down to him like manna.
    â€œWell, let me know if you need an assist on this one,” Gibbons said cheerfully. “I mean, we’re all in this together.” He smiled thinly, and just behind his lips, Frank thought he could see the pale, starving features of his soul.

7
    I t was almost ten when Frank got to the offices of Arthur Cummings. They spread out across the top floor of one of the city’s most elegant towers, and as he stepped into its spacious reception area, Frank could almost hear the rustle of the hundreds of briefs and motions and appeals which had paid for it. The carpet was scarlet, and very thick, and the paneled walls were decked with a lavish display of paintings. A brass chandelier hung from the ceiling, and its bright light fell over an array of flowers and potted plants.
    The receptionist sat behind a large wooden desk, her fingers moving nimbly over a bank of phones. She was dressed in a skirt and blouse that were almost as red as the carpeting, and she had the pliant, yet calculating look of a woman who knows that she is surrounded by rich and powerful men.
    â€œMay I help you, sir?” she asked as Frank stepped up to her desk.
    Her tone was a bit stiff, and Frank noticed that her eyes gave him a quick, dismissive glance, the sort that falls on all the wrong things, the slight stain on his tie, the unpolished shoes, the suit from so many seasons past that she seemed to be surprised that such relics still survived in her more modem world. It was the kind of look that reduced one kind of man while it exalted another, and under it, Frank felt himself utterly reduced, a ragamuffin cop with a swollen eye and a pocketful of loose change.
    â€œYou wish to see someone?” the woman asked.
    â€œArthur Cummings,” Frank said crisply.
    â€œMr. Cummings?” the woman asked doubtfully.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDo you have an appointment?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell, I’m afraid you’ll have to make one.”
    Frank shook his head. “I don’t have time for that.”
    The woman stared at him lethally. “What was that?”
    â€œIs Cummings here?”
    The woman did not reply. Instead, she looked at him as if she knew quite well that any further discussion would be held in the lobby between Frank and the building’s largest security officer.
    â€œAs I mentioned,” she said in a cool, measured tone, “Mr. Cummings does not see anyone without an appointment.”
    Frank took out his badge and waved it in front of her face.
    The woman leaned forward and looked at it closely, checking to see if it were authentic, or just some tin star he’d bought at a novelty store.
    â€œYou’re with the Atlanta police?” she asked finally.
    Frank nodded.