Free Winter at Death's Hotel by Kenneth Cameron

and lit cigarettes.
    In his office, Cleary sat but let Dunne and Cassidy stand in front of him while Grady, hands joined over his crotch, stood by the closed door as if he thought one of them was going to try to escape. Cassidy was a smaller, younger version of Dunne, only a plainclothes detective. He, too, to everybody’s disgust, was honest.
    Cleary said the same things he had said in the squad room. Then he added, frowning at Dunne, “I don’t want you getting ideas, get me? I’m giving this job to you because you’re not pulling your weight here; you’re not closing cases. This one is all closed but the paperwork. Your job is to close it and nothing else. I’m doing you a favor. Get me?”
    â€œWho killed her?”
    Cleary looked threatening. “How the fuck would I know? It’s unsolvable. Write it up that way and put it on the shelf.”
    â€œSo what am I supposed to do?”
    â€œYou’re supposed to do nothing! You don’t try to identify the victim, that’s a dead duck; you don’t advertise for leads; you don’t see what your snitches say. Just do the paperwork and close it out.”
    â€œClose it out.”
    â€œNow you’re talking. Take Finn and the Wop.”
    Dunne groaned. “If there’s nothing to be done—”
    â€œDo like I tell you and shut up. Cassidy?”
    â€œI get you, Lieutenant.”
    Cleary pushed a brown accordion file across his desk. “Then get outta here.”
    Out in the squad room, Dunne walked a few steps—enough to get where Grady couldn’t hear them through the door, because he’d be listening—and he said, “It’s fixed.”
    â€œThat’s the message I get, yeah.”
    Dunne and Cassidy shared the cynicism common to all cops, plus a little extra because of what they’d learned trying to stay honest. Dunne gave Cassidy a conspirator’s smile. “So what are we going to do?”
    â€œCan’t we get rid of the Wop?” The Wop was one of the few Italians in the force, a quiet young man named Forcella. Nobody wanted him around.
    â€œNot if Cleary says we gotta take him.”
    â€œHe’s a fucking Dago!”
    â€œNot as bad as a rat-faced Mick like Finn.”
    â€œCleary puts his hand on a fly button, Finn puckers up. He’ll carry everything we do to Cleary.”
    â€œThat’s the idea. Well…” Dunne looked around the sordid room. “We’ll have a meeting every morning to feed Finn some eyewash he can peddle to Cleary. I’ll find him something to do to keep him out of our hair—maybe send him down to the Tenth to copy all their paperwork. He’ll take at least three days just to chew the rag with his pals down there. Then he’ll take two hours for the free lunch at Shankey’s, and he’ll come back sozzled and take a nap. Hell, maybe we can make it last a week.” He grinned at Cassidy. “You ever think police work was going to be important? Like… important ?”
    â€œHa-ha.”
    Dunne shook his head. “Cleary’s got some kind of boodle going, so we gotta find out what it is. If we don’t, we’re waxed. But if we do and he knows it, we’re fucked.” He opened the accordion file. Inside were two pieces of paper, one a blank form, one a copy of the patrolman’s statement. Dunne laughed. He tucked the file under an arm and headed for the door. “I’m off to the crapper to have a think. Don’t close any cases while I’m gone.”
    ***
    â€œArthur?”
    She felt for his warm, comforting body with her left hand. The hand got caught in the counterpane; she whimpered. She thought she was back on the ship because she felt herself pitching slowly back and forth, but sometimes it was side to side and sometimes it was end to end, a motion that made her feel as if she would be sick.
    â€œMrs. Doyle?”
    She tried to open her eyes.