Free You Know Who Killed Me by Loren D. Estleman Page B

detective named Benteen, one of the younger breed, who wore his shirttail out under a gray suitcoat, no hat or overcoat. He shaved his temples so that his head looked like a mushroom growing straight up from his collar.
    The lieutenant turned his back on the stained sheet and bent over the windowsill.
    â€œOffhand I’d say the body didn’t go out this way. No rope marks. I’d like to think our local criminal element’s too smart to dump one out freestyle.”
    â€œMake a hell of a smack,” said the detective. “Not to mention the mess.”
    â€œNo wonder they promoted you to plainclothes. What’d you say to Yako?” Henty was looking at me now.
    â€œWhere was he, and yada-yada,” I said. “First pass stuff. He didn’t rattle.”
    â€œSomeone did. Let’s ring Detroit in on this. They’ve got more experience.”
    â€œThey’ve got their hands full with another FBI investigation,” Benteen said. “I’d like a crack at this solo.”
    â€œI thought the feebs closed that down sometime back,” the lieutenant said.
    â€œThis one’s new. I’ve got a girl with Dispatch there. Couple of beat cops are under hack for moonlighting. Not ripe enough yet for public consumption.”
    â€œThat’s pissant stuff. Internal business.”
    â€œDid I mention they were heavy-lifting for the mob?”
    â€œNo, Benteen, you didn’t. Which mob?”
    â€œSearch me, L.T. They’re keeping it wrapped tight.”
    â€œUkrainian.”
    This voice belonged to a fresh card in the deal. A trim young woman stood in the bedroom doorway, wearing a tan suede coat with fake fur trim and a red knitted hat that flopped over on one side like an artist’s in a cartoon, ankle boots on her small feet. Her presence on a crime scene did wonders for it, like a spray of fresh flowers on a city bus.
    Benteen stepped toward her. “This is a closed set, lady. No civilians allowed.”
    She stopped him with a practiced wrist flip, showing off a gold star pinned to a leather folder.
    â€œMary Ann Thaler, Deputy U.S. Marshal. Hello, Amos. I heard you retired.”
    â€œI tried. Math didn’t work out. I thought you’d be moled in deep with Al-Qaeda by now.”
    â€œThey don’t take women unless they’re combustible. There wasn’t much room for advancement. I’m with WitSec now.”
    â€œWhat’s WitSec?”
    â€œWitness Security.”
    â€œI thought that was WitPro: Witness Protection.”
    â€œThat was two name-changes ago. Try and keep up.”
    Henty said, “Start again. I want to get this clever bullshit on my smart phone. What’s the Marshals’ Service want with a dead computer programmer in the Heights?”
    She glanced toward the manager, lurking outside in the living room.
    â€œNot here. You boys done playing detective?”
    Car doors slammed, a volley. Henty looked out the window. “Forensics outran the uniforms. I’m scheduling drills.”
    â€œGood thinking. If there’s anything we don’t need in a hurry, it’s the ghouls.” Benteen scowled at Thaler. “Washington taking over?”
    She smiled. “Assisting; now isn’t that a friendlier way of putting it?”
    *   *   *
    It wasn’t my first time in that office. The last time, a chief had been sitting behind the plain desk, playing with a set of brass knuckles that hadn’t always been used as a paperweight. Last I’d heard he was wearing an electric anklet in the prison town of Milan.
    The bulletin board with its album of plug-uglies and their aliases was gone, also the large-scale city map and confiscated weapons in a glass display case. The original decorator had worked from pictures taken in J. Edgar Hoover’s office in Washington; the one he used for work, not the plush barn where he’d greeted the press. The government green hid