“Fine.” The bartender set a mug of coffee in front of Louis. Louis stirred in three sugars and took a sip. He grimaced and pushed it away.
“Okay, what’s with the secrecy?” Delp asked. “Don’t tell me you’re ashamed to be seen with me.”
“I need a favor,” Louis said.
Delp studied him for a moment. “What?”
“Do you know anyone at a newspaper in Chicago?”
“Got a buddy at the
“Somebody who’s been around a while, maybe on the police beat?”
Delp leaned forward. “This is about Gibralter, isn’t it?”
Louis tightened. He sure hoped he could trust this asshole. “I want to know why he left Chicago.”
“Why?”
“Can you do it or not?”
“Where you going with this?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Not yet, you mean.”
Louis hesitated. “All right. Not yet.”
Delp shook his head. “Promises, promises.”
“Look, Delp, can you help me or not?”
Delp shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Louis started to get off the stool. “I have to get back.”
“Hey, wait,” Delp said. “I got something for you.”
“What?”
Delp hoisted a beat-up leather briefcase onto the bar and pulled out a manila envelope. “The photos you asked for, the leftovers from the raid. I found some extras in the morgue.”
Louis slid back onto the stool. He opened the envelope and sorted through the black-and-white photographs. It was just standard newspaper stuff – shots of the cabin, the backyard, a sliding glass door, a broken window. There was a photo that showed an indentation in the snow that looked like a snow angel splashed with black that he recognized finally as the spot where Johnny Lacey fell after being shot.
“Nothing here,” Louis said, setting them down.
“Try these,” Delp said, holding out a second envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Postmortems.”
“I already saw them,”
Delp slipped out a stack of photos. “Not all of them. I found some stuff that didn’t get printed the first time.”
“How do you know?”
“Photographers use a hole punch to notch the edge of the negatives they want to print,” Delp said. “These weren’t notched.”
Louis sifted slowly through the photos. Many were just different angles of those he had already seen but he paused at one. It was a close-up of a hand, life-size but still small and delicate, obviously Angela’s hand. It was palm down, fingers splayed, and across the back between the first set of knuckles and the wrist, was a half-circle bruise. He knew he had not seen this picture in the case file. Why had it been left out?
“That one’s weird, isn’t it?” Delp said, sipping his coffee. “What you think that bruise is?”
Louis said nothing.
“Looks like maybe someone stepped on her hand with a boot heel,” Delp said. “Or maybe it’s a horseshoe?”
Louis started to stack the photographs but Delp laid a hand on them. “Something else,” Delp said. “Did you notice the initials on the raid photographs?”
Louis picked up a print and turned it over. He hadn’t bothered to look at the initials the first time. “A.R. Who’s A.R.?” he asked.
“Arnie Rogers.”
“So what?”
“So don’t you think it’s strange that Arnie took the crime-scene photos?”
“Common in small towns.”
Delp shook his head. “I checked other files. Gibralter always had his men do the pics, before the raid and after.”
Louis was silent, remembering that Ollie had been the photographer at the Lovejoy scene.
“And get this,” Delp said. “I found out a local doc by the name of Boggs did the autopsies. Don’t you think that’s strange, too?”
Louis slipped the photographs into the envelope, not wanting Delp to know that he did think it was strange. Why hadn’t Gibralter called in Ralph Drexler, the country medical examiner?
Picking up the envelope, Louis slid off the stool and tossed a five on the bar. “Listen, Delp,” he said, “Don’t call me at the station.”
“What’s the matter? Things getting rough there?”
“Just don’t call.”
“What if I get something on Gibralter?”
“I’ll call you. When?”
Delp shrugged. “Can’t say, man. Haven’t talked to my bud in Chicago in a long time. He might have forgotten all about me.”
Louis resisted the urge to say something smart. He started for the door.
“Hey, Kincaid,” Delp called, and nodded toward the envelope in Louis’s hand. “A thank-you would be nice, you know.”
“You’ll get your thanks,” Louis said.
“Promises, promises,” Delp mumbled.
Louis sifted again through the autopsy photos then slipped them back in their manila envelope. He placed the envelope in his desk drawer under some other papers and locked it.
He glanced up at the clock. Four-thirty, still a half hour until shift end. His first day back and he was already going crazy from riding a damn desk. He glanced down at the cardboard box. But no matter what Gibralter threatened to do, he wasn’t going to take down the damn Christmas crap.
He looked at Gibralter’s door. The office was locked and dark. Gibralter had gone home early for once.
“Jim!”
Louis swung around at the sound of Steele’s voice. He was standing at the wall map. An aide hurried to his side.
“How many men we have out there today?” Steele asked.
“Three dozen, sir.”
“Is Chopper One up?”
“Not yet. Fuel line problem.”
