Free The Body Looks Familiar by Richard Wormser Page A

This about ties up the case.”
    Harry Weber said, “That’s right. Never hit a man when he’s down; wait till someone else comes along to hit him first.”
    “The guy’s already a criminal,” Jim Latson said. “You can’t expect us to exactly make love to him. It’s not what the people pay policemen for.”
    “Oh, lay off,” Harry Weber said. “What you’re saying is, the guy’s likely to confess to save himself getting deported.”
    Jim Latson laughed. “Think again,” he said. “He’s going to get deported any way you look at it. It’s a question of whether he does time first or not.”
    “Or gets electrocuted first.”
    Jim Latson’s careless voice said, “Oh, Dave Corday won’t ask first degree. You never get it without a witness.”
    Harry Weber stared. Cap Martin had told him, just before they started down to Guild’s house, that a man had brought Hogan DeLisle home, had been there when she was shot. It seemed funny he hadn’t told the chief.
    Latson’s voice was sharp. “Or was there a witness?”
    Cap Martin said, “Yeah. Man brought her home.”
    The car stopped at headquarters then. The homicide captain and the newsman waited politely for the deputy chief of all the city’s policemen to get out. He did, fast.
    “I won’t have time to see your federal man, Marty,” he said. But he said it over his shoulder and was gone.

 
Chapter 11
     
    DAVE CORDAY sat in his nice office, and wrote careful words on a sheet of fine bond. The district attorney’s suite was high in the County Building, and, as chief deputy, he had the corner that faced north and west. The district attorney himself had chosen the south and east exposures, one for the sun and the other for its magnificent view of approaching storms.
    Next year, Dave Corday could have that office. The district attorney had announced this morning that he was running for governor. He hadn’t put a hand on Dave Corday’s shoulder to tap him as successor, but the party would do that; there hadn’t been a chief deputy yet who hadn’t been offered the top job when it became vacant.
    Dave Corday was writing his platform, his declaration of how he would run the office when he got it.
    Once in office, he’d be the equal, the superior of the Jim Latsons. He’d get the good tables at the restaurants, the salutes of the doormen, the invitations to speak at luncheon clubs. He—
    His phone rang. He frowned at it. A good secretary ought to know better than to interrupt her chief when he was thinking.
    But he picked up the phone and the girl’s voice said, “Chief Latson, Mr. Corday.”
    “Put Mr. Latson on.”
    “He’s not on the phone. He’s out here.”
    “Send him in.” Well, she’d been right not to use the box; he didn’t want Jim Latson hearing everything he had to say.
    He didn’t get up as the policeman ambled in. He waved a hand at the straight chair next to his desk that he used to interview witnesses, defendants.
    But Latson picked up one of the heavy side chairs that sat by the couch and carried it across the room with one hand, no easy feat. He slouched down in it and shoved his hands deep in his pants pockets, his suit coat and topcoat open over an immaculate white shirt. “We’re in the soup, Dave.”
    Dave Corday split his lips in a polite smile. “You are, Jim.”
    “We, boy, we. Your frame never got off the ground. If I’m in, you’re in.”
    “Don’t growl at me, Latson. What’s your trouble?”
    Jim Latson got up, his coat bunched over the clenched fists in his pockets. He walked to the west window, stood looking down at the river and the traffic that ran alongside it. “That Martin,” he said. “He’s got it established that a man brought Hogan home.”
    Dave Corday laughed. “Of course. A man did.” The laugh faded. “But he hasn’t said anything to me. After all, I’m the one supposed to be working up a case on this.” He took the folded handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dried his