Free The Brink of Murder by Helen Nielsen Page B

You know how those business lunches are.”
    The boy had finished pumping the gas. He came to the doorway of the office with the keys in his hand. “Lew, it’s one of those foreign jobs. I can’t get it locked.”
    Morely took the keys and went out to lock the gas tank while Simon gave the boy his credit card and watched him write up the sale. When his card was returned, along with a sheaf of redeeming stamps, he walked out to the Jaguar and found Morely chewing furiously on the cigar.
    “Hey, how come you knew Amling was in here at all?” he asked. “Are you some kind of detective?”
    Simon shook his head. “Barney told me,” he said. “Recommended the service. Triple Blue Chip stamps.”
    He climbed into the car and drove away before Morely could develop too much curiosity. His own was acquiring a keen edge. He checked the odometer on the Jaguar and then drove by the most direct route to the Pacific Guaranty building. He parked on the street opposite the garage entrance and checked his odometer again. Three miles. He took a note book from his pocket and jotted down some figures.
Mileage on Continental at LAX lot:
6,582
Mileage at service (1.30 p.m.):
–6,508
 
74
Mileage to office
–3
 
71
    He was two hours and fifty minutes and 71 miles away from knowing what Barney Amling had done before leaving his car at the airport parking-lot.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    E MILIO’S LOOKED FORMIDABLE . Lunch would be a ritual requiring an hour and a half to consume and including enough pasta to put Simon back to work in Hannah’s gymnasium for a month. He drove on a few blocks to a delicatessen where he could get a knockwurst sandwich and a beer with no wait at all. He was almost finished when a hand with the grip of a weightlifter fastened on his shoulder and a familiar growl said:
    “Hello, lawyer. Mind if I sit down?”
    There were four chairs at the table. Lieutenant Wabash didn’t wait for an answer. He dropped heavily into an opposite chair and began to take huge bites from the steaming hamburger on his tray.
    “Were you following me?” Simon asked.
    “Not exactly. I was cruising around looking for a cheap place to eat when I saw your car pull into the parking lot here. You should get a nose trim on that crate. The hood’s so long you need hinges so you can park around corners.”
    “And have the traffic division slip a ticket under the wipers? No way! Can I buy you a beer?”
    “Not while I’m on duty. Thanks.”
    Wabash, still wearing the tan raincoat over what might have been a mail-order suit, got up long enough to pour himself a mug of coffee from the service table urn. He returned to the table and sat down. “Lawyer,” he said wearily, “how well do you know this Bernard Amling?”
    “I knew him in college,” Simon said.
    “And since?”
    “We conducted a little business now and then. Not much social contact.”
    Wabash sighed. “That’s the trouble. Captain Reardon did know him socially. The captain’s a good man, lawyer. The hardest working, smartest all-around piece of fuzz I know. You might not think of it to look at the dude way he dresses, but that’s his style. He’s not married. He can afford to live high on the hog.” Wabash took a long draw from the coffee and grinned. “I’ve got a wife and three kids,” he added proudly, “and no complaints.”
    “Each to his own,” Simon said.
    “Exactly the way I feel. The captain has his life-style and I have mine. So long as we both do our jobs it’s no matter. But I’ve never seen Reardon so uptight over any case as he is about Amling. You would think the guy was some saint we have to find before he gets crucified. I think the captain feels guilty.”
    “How do you mean?” Simon asked.
    “I don’t know exactly. Maybe because he was such a good friend but he couldn’t see this thing coming in time to stop Amling. He says things like: ‘Amling must be sick. He may have amnesia.’ If any other man took a powder with a million dollars in