Leopold's Way (28 page)

Leopold turned to see Sergeant Turner of Missing Persons standing in the doorway. “I'll be right there, Jim.” Turner seemed to linger just a bit too long before he turned and walked away. Leopold looked back at Gibson. “That him?”

“I can't talk now, Captain.”

“Where'd you hide it?”

“Over by the tree. It's safe.”

“Stick around till after my talk. Then we'll get to the bottom of this thing.”

Leopold left him pouring another pitcher of beer and walked out through the crowd. With the end of the afternoon shifts the place had filled rapidly. There were perhaps sixty members of the force present already, about evenly divided between detectives and uniformed patrolmen. Several shook his hand or patted him on the back as he made his way to the dais next to the tree.

Herb Clarke, president of the Detective Bureau Benevolent Association, was already on the platform, holding up his hands for silence. He shook Leopold's hand and then turned to his audience. “Gather around now, men. The beer'll still be there in five minutes. You all know we're not much for speeches at these Christmas parties, but I thought it might be well this year to hear a few words from a man we all know and admire. Leopold has been in the Detective Bureau for as long as most of us can remember—” The laughter caused him to add quickly, “Though of course he's still a young man. But this year, in addition to his duties as Captain of Homicide, he's taken on a whole new set of responsibilities. He's now head of the entire Violent Crimes Division of the Bureau, a position that places him in more direct contact with us all. I'm going to ask him to say just a few words, and then we'll have some caroling around the piano.”

Leopold stepped over to the microphone, adjusting it upward from the position Herb Clarke had used. Then he looked out at the sea of familiar faces. Carol Fletcher and the other wives hovered in the rear, out of the way, while their husbands and the others crowded around. Fletcher himself stood with Sergeant Riker, an old friend, and Leopold noticed that Lieutenant Williams had moved over near Tommy Gibson. He couldn't see Jim Turner at the moment.

“Men, I'm going to make this worth listening to for all that. You hear a lot at this time of the year about Christmas being the season for kids, but I want to add something to that. Christmas is for kids, sure—but Christmas is for cops, too. Know what I mean by that? I'll tell you. Christmas is perhaps the one time of the year when the cop on the beat, or the detective on assignment, has a chance to undo some of the ill will generated during the other eleven months. This has been a bad year for cops around the country—most years are bad ones, it seems. We take a hell of a lot of abuse, some deserved, but most of it not. And this is the season to maybe right some of those wrongs. Don't be afraid to get out on a corner with the Salvation Army to ring a few bells, or help some lady through a puddle of slush. Most of all, don't be afraid to smile and talk to young people.”

He paused and glanced down at Tommy Gibson. “There have always been some bad cops, and I guess there always will be. That just means the rest of us have to work a lot harder. Maybe we can just pretend the whole year is Christmas, and go about righting those wrongs. Anyway, I've talked so long already I've grown a bit thirsty. Let's get back to the beer and the singing, and make it good and loud!”

Leopold jumped off the platform and shook more hands. He'd meant to speak longer, to give them something a bit meatier to chew on, but far at the back of the crowd some of the younger cops were already growing restless. And, after all, they'd come here to enjoy themselves, not to listen to a lecture. He couldn't really blame them.

Herb Clarke was gathering everyone around the piano for songs, but Leopold noticed that Tommy Gibson had suddenly disappeared. The Captain threaded his way through the crowd, searching the familiar faces for the man he wanted. “Great talk, Captain,” Fletcher said, coming up by his side.

“Thanks. We have to find Gibson.”

“Did he tell you any more?”

“Only that he had to hide the tape near the Christmas tree. He said the other guy was here.”

“Who do you make it, Captain?”

Leopold bit his lower lip. “I make it that Tommy Gibson is one smart cookie. I think he's playing for time, maybe waiting for Freese to get him off the hook somehow.”

“You don't think there's another crooked cop in the Detective Bureau?”

“I don't know, Fletcher. I guess I don't want to think so.”

The door to the Men's Room sprang open with a suddenness that surprised them both. Sergeant Riker, his usually placid face full of alarm, stood motioning to them. Leopold quickly covered the ground to his side. “What is it, Riker?”

“In there! My God, Captain—in there! It's Gibson!”

“What?”

“Tommy Gibson. He's been stabbed. I think he's dead.”

Leopold pushed past him, into the tiled Men's Room with its scrubbed look and disinfectant odor. Tommy Gibson was there, all right, crumpled between two of the wash basins, his eyes glazed and open. A long pair of scissors protruded from his chest.

“Lock all the outside doors, Fletcher,” Leopold barked. “Don't let anyone leave.”

“Is he dead, Captain?”

“As dead as he'll ever be. What a mess!”

“You think one of our men did it?”

“Who else? Call in and report it, and get the squad on duty over here. Everyone else is a suspect.” He stood up from examining the body and turned to Riker. “Now tell me everything you know, Sergeant.”

Riker was a Vice Squad detective, a middle-aged man with a placid disposition and friendly manner. There were those who said he could even make a streetwalker like him while he was arresting her. Just now he looked sick and pale. “I walked in and there he was, Captain. My God! I couldn't believe my eyes at first. I thought he was faking, playing some sort of a trick.”

“Notice anyone leaving before you went in?”

“No, nobody.”

“But he's only been dead a few minutes. That makes you a suspect, Sergeant.”

Riker's pale complexion seemed to shade into green at Leopold's words. “You can't think I killed him! He was a friend of mine! Why in hell would I kill Tommy Gibson?”

“We'll see,” Leopold said, motioning him out of the Men's Room. The other detectives and officers were clustered around, trying to see. There was a low somber hum of conversation. “All right, everyone!” the Captain ordered. “Keep down at the other end of the room, away from the tree! That's right, move away from it.”

“Captain!” It was little Herb Clarke, pushing his way through. “Captain, what's happened?”

“Someone killed Tommy Gibson.”

“Tommy!”

“One of us. That's why nobody leaves here.”

“You can't be serious, Captain. Murder at the police Christmas party—the newspapers will crucify us.”

“Probably.” Leopold pushed past him. “Nobody enters the Men's Room,” he bellowed. “Fletcher, Williams—come with me.” They were the only two lieutenants present, and he had to trust them. Fletcher he'd trust with his life. He only hoped he could rely on Williams too.

“I can't believe it,” the bony young Narcotics lieutenant said. “Why would anyone kill Tommy?”

Leopold cleared his throat. “I'll tell you why, though you may not want to believe it. Gibson was implicated in the District Attorney's investigation of Carl Freese's gambling empire. He had a tape recording of a conversation between Freese, himself, and another detective, apparently concerning bribery. The other detective had a dandy motive for killing him.”

“Did he say who it was?” Williams asked.

“No. Only that it was someone who got here fairly early today. Who was here before Fletcher and I arrived?”

Williams creased his brow in thought. “Riker was here, and Jim Turner. And a few uniformed men.”

“No, just detectives.”

“Well, I guess Riker and Turner were the only ones. And Herb Clarke, of course. He was here all day with the ladies, arranging for the food and the beer.”

“Those three,” Leopold mused. “And you, of course.”

Lieutenant Williams grinned. “Yeah, and me.”

Leopold turned toward the big Christmas tree. “Gibson told me he hid the tape recording near the tree. Start looking, and don't miss anything. It might even be in the branches.”

The investigating officers were arriving now, and Leopold turned his attention to them. There was something decidedly bizarre in the entire situation, a fact which was emphasized as the doctor and morgue attendants and police photographers exchanged muted greetings with the milling party guests. One of the young investigating detectives who'd known Tommy Gibson turned pale at the sight of the body and had to go outside.

When the photographers had finished, one of the morgue men started to lift the body. He paused and called to Leopold. “Captain, here's something. A cigarette lighter on the floor under him.”

Leopold bent close to examine it without disturbing possible prints. “Initials. C.F.”

Lieutenant Williams had come in behind him, standing at the door of the Men's Room. “Carl Freese?” he suggested.

Leopold used a handkerchief to pick it up carefully by the corners. “Are we supposed to believe that Freese entered this place in the midst of sixty cops and killed Gibson without anybody seeing him?”

“There's a window in the wall over there.”

Leopold walked to the frosted-glass pane and examined it. “Locked from the inside. Gibson might have been stabbed from outside, but he couldn't have locked the window and gotten across this room without leaving a trail of blood.”

Fletcher had come in while they were talking. “No dice on that, Captain. My wife just identified the scissors as a pair she was using earlier with the decorations. It's an inside job, all right.”

Leopold showed him the lighter. “C.F. Could be Carl Freese.”

Fletcher frowned and licked his lips. “Yeah.” He turned away.

“Find any sign of the tape?”

“Nothing,” Williams reported. “I think Gibson was kidding you.”

“Nothing
in
the tree? It could be a fairly small reel.”

Leopold sighed and motioned Fletcher and Williams to one side. He didn't want the others to hear. “Look, I think Gibson was probably lying, too. But he's dead, and that very fact indicates he might have been telling the truth. I have to figure all the angles. Now that you two have searched the tree I want you to go into the kitchen, close the door, and search each other. Carefully.”

“Bu—” Williams began, and then fell silent. “All right, Captain.”

“Then line everybody up and do a search of them. You know what you're looking for—a reel of recording tape.”

“What about the wives, Captain?”

“Get a matron down for them. I'm sorry to have to do it, but if that tape is here we have to find it.”

He walked to the center of the hall and stood looking at the tree. Lights and tinsel, holiday wreaths and sprigs of mistletoe. All the trappings. He tried to imagine Tommy Gibson helping to decorate the place, helping with the tree. Where would he have hidden the tape?

Herb Clarke came over, nervous and upset. “They're searching everybody.”

“Yes. I'm sorry to spoil the party this way, but I guess it was spoiled for Gibson already.”

“Captain, do you have to go on with this? Isn't one dishonest man in the Bureau enough?”

“One is too many, Herb. But the man we're looking for is more than a dishonest cop now. He's a murderer.”

Fletcher came over to them. “We've searched all the detectives, Captain. They're clean. We're working on the uniformed men now.”

Leopold grunted unhappily. He was sure they'd find nothing. “Suppose,” he said slowly. “Suppose Gibson unreeled the tape. Suppose he strung it on the tree like tinsel.”

“You see any brown tinsel hanging anywhere, Captain? See any tinsel of any color long enough to be a taped message?”

“No, I don't,” Leopold said.

Two of the sergeants, Riker and Turner, came over to join them. “Could he have done it himself?” Turner wanted to know. “The word is you were going to link him with the Freese investigation.”

“Stabbing yourself in the chest with a pair of scissors isn't exactly common as a suicide method,” Leopold pointed out. “Besides, it would be out of character for a man like Gibson.”

One of the investigating officers came over with the lighter. “Only smudges on it, Captain. Nothing we could identify.”

“Thanks.” Leopold took it, turning it over between his fingers.

C.F.

Carl Freese.

He flicked the lever a couple of times but it didn't light. Finally, on the fourth try, a flame appeared. “All right,” he said quietly. Now he knew.

“Captain—” Fletcher began.

“Damn it, Fletcher, it's your wife's lighter and you know it! C.F. Not Carl Freese but Carol Fletcher!”

“Captain, I—” Fletcher stopped.

Leopold felt suddenly very tired. The colored lights of the tree seemed to blur, and he wished he were far away from here, far away in a land where all cops were honest and everyone died of old age.

Sergeant Riker moved in. “Captain, are you trying to say that Fletcher's
wife
stabbed Tommy Gibson?”

“Of course not, Riker. That would have been quite a trick for her to follow him into the Men's Room unnoticed. Besides, I had to give her a match at one point this evening, because she didn't have this lighter.”

“Then who?”

“When I first arrived, you were helping Carol Fletcher with a balky lighter. Yes, you, Riker! You dropped it into your pocket, unthinking, and that's why she didn't have it later. It fell out while you were struggling with Gibson. While you were killing him, Riker.”