Free Kill Fee by Barbara Paul

bring anybody in for intensive questioning. The
Summit
staff people aren't suspects, Captain—just sources of information."
    Ansbacher looked at him a long time without saying anything, long enough for an already uncomfortable Sergeant Eberhart to start fidgeting. Eberhart tried to meet the Captain's eyes but couldn't; he found himself staring at Ansbacher's pink and white cheeks. Jowls that would do a bulldog proud—and the complexion of a baby.
    Then Ansbacher said, softly, "They aren't suspects, you say. You don't consider Leon Walsh a suspect?"
    "Lieutenant Murtaugh doesn't," Eberhart answered—and immediately felt like a fink. Buck-passer.
    "I know what Murtaugh thinks. I'm asking you what you think."
    Eberhart thought furiously before replying. Was Ansbacher offering him a way out? It sounded as if he was building some sort of case against the Lieutenant—and wanted to use Eberhart in some way. "I don't really know whether Walsh should be considered a suspect or not," he temporized, wondering if he could get away with straddling the fence.
    "Why not?" Ansbacher persisted. "You've been on the case since the start. You must have formed your own opinion, independent of what other people think."
    There it was. He was supposed to side with Ansbacher against Murtaugh, with the captain against the lieutenant. Common sense said go with the higher rank. But Murtaugh was a good cop; Eberhart wasn't sure what Ansbacher was. But one thing he did know: he wanted to go on working with Lieutenant Murtaugh.
    "Well, sir," Eberhart started out cautiously, "Walsh isn't the only one to profit from Jerry Sussman's death. Sussman had other partners in other projects—"
    ''But Walsh was the only one in danger of losing his magazine," Ansbacher interrupted.
    "That's what makes him
look
like a suspect. But his alibi checks out—he was in Connecticut at the time of the shooting. We got witnesses. His former wife was with him all the time. Also, there's the desk clerk at the inn where they stayed, a waitress in the coffee shop, one of the maids. They all say Walsh was there, right up to a couple of days after the killing. They stopped for gas on the way up—we got the dated credit card receipt with Walsh's signature on it. No question, Captain. Walsh was in Connecticut when Sussman was killed."
    Ansbacher scowled. "So what? A pencil-pusher like Walsh wouldn't do the job himself. He hired somebody."
    "We don't think so, Captain. He doesn't have that kind of connections. He doesn't even know somebody who knows somebody who has that kind of connections. He just doesn't move in that world."
    "Bank accounts?"
    "Two, checking and savings. No large checks or withdrawals in the past year—just enough for bills and walking-around money." Ansbacher knew all that; Lieutenant Murtaugh had kept him informed.
    "Did you search his apartment?" Ansbacher asked.
    "On what grounds? We got no probable cause for a warrant."
    "Bankbooks for accounts you don't know about. Key to a safety deposit box."
    "Excuse me, Captain, but we can't get a warrant because we think Walsh
might
have something incriminating in his apartment. You know we—"
    Ansbacher barked a laugh. "You're telling me Mur taugh doesn't have a tame judge in his back pocket? Didn't you even try?"
    Sergeant Eberhart was sweating; he was in over his head. "Maybe you ought to talk to the Lieutenant, sir. I personally don't see any probable cause, but maybe if you talked it over with—"
    "Are you telling me how to do my job, Sergeant?"
    "Nossir, I—"
    "I've talked with Lieutenant Murtaugh, and now I'm talking to you. I don't think you've been pushing hard enough. What about Sussman's other business partners? Any prospects there?"
    ''We're still checking them out."
    "Meaning you don't have anything. Well, Sergeant, I hope for your sake this one doesn't go down on the books as unsolved. That's not going to help your record any. But you and Murtaugh are on your own now.