The C.I. by Les Roberts

Author:Les Roberts
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down & Out Books

County Commissioner Frances P. Murgatroyd was discombobulated. Why did Bria Harstad make him dig up all the bad stuff he about an unknown punk named Jericho Paich? Marshall Ruttenberg—an international fence who imported or smuggled everything that could eventually turn an extra buck for him—suddenly was showing a rabid interest in some kid so fresh out of college that he never heard of Kung Foo Fighters and still whacked off every night reading Hustler. And why was Detective Mayo involved all of a sudden? He was a cop. Was he on Ruttenberg’s team or on that of Jerry Paich—on the off-chance Paich had a team?

Franny didn’t really do much work. The three Cuyahoga County commissioners had to run around attending meetings, weddings and funerals, and every so often get together and sign orders to fill up the tire-busting potholes on a residential street, or something else that cost the taxpayers money. Now, things were different, and he didn’t know why—but his gut was telling him to find out more about Mayo and about Jericho Paich. Going over Detective Mayo’s head to someone higher up in the CPD might not be a good idea—but he was, after all, a commissioner with a much bigger venue than the city of Cleveland, and he had lots of buddies to deal with every day.

His next call was to Cuyahoga County Sheriff Murray Janssen.

The fact is, Francis Murgatroyd had no idea what a sheriff did for a living, either. He knew they were elected by the public who often had no idea for whom they voted. He’d grown up thinking all sheriffs shoot down outlaws who refused to take their guns off when they rode into town, especially if they were portrayed by Henry Fonda.

Almost every county in the United States had a sheriff, and most of them enforced the law, ran a jail of their own, served warrants and court-ordered subpoenas, and hung out with mob guys, as did Murray Janssen. No one remembers the last time Janssen actually busted someone from Murray Hill.

The sheriff was behind his desk in shirtsleeves, wearing a very muted tie and sporting bifocals on the end of his nose. He didn’t look like a sheriff in a Randolph Scott western, but more like the guy who ran the local general store and probably got killed when the outlaws ride into town. He wasn’t allowed to smoke cigarettes in the building, so he chewed on a toothpick—also a gross habit but, unlike smoking, didn’t cause cancer.

“Franny Murgatroyd!” Janssen tried to sound happy as hell, but he made no effort to shake hands. “What brings you over here? You’re usually busy driving everyone in the county nuts—and all I do here is catch bad guys and lock ‘em up.”

“I was hoping to chat with you.” Murgatroyd sat down in one of the visitor chairs. “Murray,” he said carefully, “I wonder whether you know all the bad guys in Cuyahoga County.”

Janssen shifted his toothpick from the left corner of his mouth to his right.

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