Free Swan Dive by Jeremiah Healy Page B

a cop from another lieutenant’s squad.
    Murphy was sitting on the couch, Guinness standing close to the front door, hands in pockets.
    I said, ”Now, what’s this all about?”
    Muiphy said, ”There’s been a killing. They want to talk with you.”
    ”Who was killed?”
    Murphy addressed Guinness. ”You listen to what I tell this man so Holt hears it the same from both of us.” Then to me, ”Roy Marsh ended up dead last night. With a hooker.”
    I shook my head.
    Murphy said, ”When Marsh’s name came up, I told Holt that I checked around on the guy at your request. Including my talk with Ned Dawkins from Narcotics.” Guinness seemed about to speak when Murphy said, ”That’s all I can tell you.”
    ”Can I make a phone call first?”
    ”When we get there,” said Guinness.

    * * *

    Murphy left us at the elevator. Guinness took me down the hall, slowing his pace near a couple of older guys who watched us from a bench. One wore thick glasses and seemed washed out and boozy. The other one had a black patch tied over one eye but appeared alert.
    Guinness shunted me into an interrogation room. Green metal table, three chairs, no window. A tall, slim black lolled in one of the chairs. He was dressed in street clothes, as in living-on-the-street clothes.
    Guinness said, ”This is Sergeant Dawkins. He’s gonna be present while we talk. Wait here till 1 get the lieutenant.” Guinness closed the door behind him.
    ”John Cuddy,” I said to Dawkins.
    ”No surprise there.” He tipped his head back till the top ridge of the seat supported his neck, then let his arms hang limply.
    A long two minutes later, Guinness swung open the door and held it for a shorter, thickset guy in his late forties. He had steel gray hair cropped so short that it seemed to be growing upward over his ears. ”He had his rights?”
    ”In the car, Lieutenant.”
    Looking at me, the new arrival said, ”My name’s Holt.” He laid a file folder on the table. Some documents were in it but there was no labeling on it. It appeared he wasn’t going to wait for a stenographer. A good sign, meant to show me we were all just allies here, debriefing each other informally. Right.
    Holt said, ”I hear Murphy told you that Marsh and a hooker are dead.”
    ”No.”
    ”What?”
    ”I said, no. All Murphy told me was that Marsh was found dead with a hooker. Nothing about her being dead, too.”
    Holt squared his shoulders. ”I’m tired, Cuddy. And I don’t want any shit from you.”
    ”You want anything from me, you better talk nicer.”
    Guinness came forward, Holt stopping him with a palm on the chest. Dawkins looked as bored as an usher at a long-running movie.
    ”Murphy says you’re a wiseass but that you’ll cooperate.”
    ”Ask your questions.”
    ”Where were you last night, seven to nine p.m.?”
    ” Sleeping against a Dempster Dumpster.”
    ”What?”
    I explained about the mugging.
    Guinness said, ”Who saw you?”
    ”Far as I know, nobody.”
    Holt said, ”Let me get this straight. You leave your office at five-ten, when Tremont Street looks like fire drill time at the fucken anthill, and nobody sees you get hit?”
    ”Like I said, my car was parked around back, in the alley, in the shadows.”
    ”The only car there when you got to it.”
    ”Right.”
    ”And this mugger was waiting for you.”
    ”Right.”
    ”Only one car there, the guy musta been waiting for you in particular.”
    ”Maybe. Maybe just for the one person he could nail at that time of day without attracting attention.”
    ”Why didn’t you report the gun?”
    ”I told you, I was punchy, still a little sick. When I got home, I just fell into bed.”
    Guinness said, ”You didn’t go to the hospital.”
    ”No.”
    ”Or call a doctor.”
    ”No.”
    ”Why not?”
    ”I’ve been hit before. My coordination and all seemed okay.”
    Holt said, ”Let’s have a look at the head.”
    I touched my chin to my chest as he examined behind my ear. I jumped