Free Trouble in Rooster Paradise by T.W. Emory Page A

remonstrated with the desk
sergeant.
    “ Ja , but how can you go back before you been forth ?” he argued. The desk
sergeant shook his head and tried again. But it’s hard arguing with
that kind of logic. I know. My grandpa Sven was doggedly puzzled at
how people got “in” an automobile but got “on” a train.
    Milland stood talking with Lieutenant Archibald
Lister. I slipped a clove under my tongue and walked over to them.
Lister was about forty-five, sleepy-eyed, and balding. His deceased
parents had named him Archibald, but apparently they were the only
humans who called him that. He refused to be called Archie. And no
one in his right mind called him Baldy. Not to his face anyway. So
it was either “Lieutenant” or “Lister.” I can only imagine what his
wife and kids did when they wanted his attention.
    Lieutenant Lister favored funereal suits of
gray blue or inky black that helped to define him. Since he wore a
perpetual sneer, you looked for other clues as to his emotional
state. At that moment his face was the color of a toreador’s cape,
which went well with his words and gestures.
    “ I don’t go for this special
consideration bullshit,” he said as he thrust his face within a few
inches of mine. His lip quivered and I could count his nose hairs.
He looked back at Milland and said, “Give him ten minutes. Tops.
Then you kick his privileged candy ass out of here.”
    The sobbing woman broke off her story to gawk
at us. In fact, everyone looked our way. Everyone, that is, but the
old Swede. He knew where the universe centered and nothing was
about to disturb the confidence he felt about it.
    After Lieutenant Lister stomped off, I said to
Milland, “What’s his beef? Is his wife dosing his coffee with
saltpeter again?”
    “ Ah, cut the guy some slack, Gunnar.
It’s been a pressure-cooker week. You getting your well-heeled
client to start pulling strings hasn’t helped. You know the
lieutenant doesn’t like citizen interference. I figured you for
smarter than that.”
    “ I didn’t ask for strings to be
pulled, Frank.”
    “ Well, strings have been downright
jerked in your favor. How is it you happen to know Rikard Lundeen,
anyway?”
    “ I worked for him once. Is it my
fault he likes me?”
    Milland scowled. “You want to talk to the
Engstrom kid?”
    “ Yeah. Lundeen was afraid he’d talk
himself into the role of prime suspect.”
    “ He did more than talk himself
there.”
    “ Does he look that good?”
    Milland picked up on the surprise in my voice.
“Damn good,” he said smiling. “Double damn good.”
    He explained that quite a few people witnessed
the scene and overheard the noise the day before when Dirk Engstrom
stormed in on Christine Johanson while she was working. However,
only three people were close enough to the fracas to see that Dirk
was enraged, and one of these three said he heard Dirk threaten to
kill Christine.
    “ It doesn’t sound good,” I
said.
    “ No, it gets better than that. We
found drops of blood on a pair of shoes in Engstrom’s apartment.
We’re checking on a match.”
    “ It sounds real bad.”
    “ It gets even worse. We found a gun
in the kid’s apartment that had been recently fired. His prints
were lifted from it and the ballistics boys are checking to see if
it’s the gun that killed the Johanson dame.”
    “ Double damn good is right.” So
ended forty-five dollars a day.
    Milland nodded. “The Engstrom kid is on the
brink of being charged, booked, sealed, and delivered. So get your
chat in while you can, Gunnar. Lundeen’s pull has got us taking
things nice and slow for now. And we’re also keeping the kid from
the press as long as possible. Lundeen must have leverage with both
the Times and P.I. , because I’ve seen no crime
reporters sniffing around. But I’m not rooting for you on this one,
Gunnar. Not if you aim to prove the kid innocent.”
    “ Look, Frank, the Engstrom kid is
Lundeen’s godson. I’m rented for the day to