Free American Quartet by Warren Adler Page B

brothers were the principal enemy.
    She had barely talked to him, although he always gave her a lascivious look, accompanied by a grab at his Johnson. The gesture, she knew, was so endemic among black men that she began to feel that she was the only one it offended. Despite his faults, Jefferson was marked as a good cop. But the idea of working with him did not appeal to her.
    “Not him,” she muttered. “Not Jefferson.”
    The eggplant observed her squirm, enjoying her discomfort. Finally he stood up and leaned over her, pointing a big finger, almost touching her nose. She confronted it, unblinking. She knew he was itching for her to show some insubordination. Controlling her anger, she let the confrontation become a checkmate. It was futile for both of them. They had no witnesses and, if he had the room bugged, she wasn’t going to give him any evidence. Besides, it was a case that no one wanted. It was doomed to be a standoff, like a bad Irish Catholic marriage.
    The eggplant suddenly turned to his telephone and dialed a number. His rudeness was an obvious dismissal.
    She was surprised to find Jefferson standing outside the door, waiting. His lugubrious heavy-lidded eyes matched her mood. His lips were tight with contempt.
    “It ain’t my idea, mama,” he said, observing her like a meat inspector.
    “Ours is not to reason why.”
    “Ours is but to do or da,” he took up the beat, showing off. So he was not as dumb as he looked. She also was struck by his ghetto accent, slightly awry, as though it were forced.
    He drew air through the spaces of his teeth and offered her a mocking smile.
    “All I ask from you is professionalism,” she said.
    “Say what?” he said, scratching his crotch.
    “And I’d appreciate it if you stopped that disgusting habit.”
    “Got to be sure it stays put, mama.” Jefferson swaggered to the door, his large tight bulging rump moving like chunks of granite under his jacket.
    The other detectives were eyeing them. The blacks seemed to snicker, the whites wore an air of futility. They turned away, avoiding comment. She saw Teddy in a corner, typing with fierce concentration, obviously too ashamed to look up. Shrugging off a biting guilt, she followed Jefferson’s big rump down the hall.

    “But you said you were working,” Fiona said gently, although she had been at it for nearly half an hour. Celia’s fingers shook as she lit a cigarette from the butt end of another. Jefferson leaned against the wall at Hagerstown Police Headquarters, watching them. The girl was obviously lying. Jefferson was growing restless, scornful of her method of interrogation.
    “I was,” the girl repeated for the twentieth time.
    “Your mother says you weren’t.”
    “She was sleeping.”
    “And your father agrees.”
    “He was drunk.”
    They had the manager cooling his heels in another room. So far they had prevented the Hagerstown police from getting into the act, particularly O’Leary. Even Fiona had to admit that it was Jefferson’s awesome presence that had done the trick. He knew how to use his power and could produce an intimidating scowl on demand. On the way to Hagerstown she had made some effort to connect with him, but his grunts told her he was in no mood to meet her even halfway.
    The wife of the McDonald’s manager had told them her husband had gone fishing that morning. It was his day off and he had caught some trout from a mountain lake which they had had for dinner. They in turn did not tell her that the manager had taken unscheduled leave.
    To Fiona, the connection between the two seemed obvious, and she sensed that the girl was frightened of Jefferson.
    “Maybe if you left us alone . . . ,” she suggested as they conferred in the corridor.
    “No way,” he sneered. “It’s bad enough ahm lettin’ you do it to her.”
    “I suppose you can do better.”
    “Sheet.” She did not want him to have a go at the girl. Left to him, the poor kid would confess to