Shoot to Kill (Prologue Books) by Wade Miller

Author:Wade Miller [Miller, Wade]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781440540585
Publisher: Adams Media
Published: 2012-02-14T12:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 17

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 3, 6:00 A.M.

Thursday sank into his chair again, suddenly dog-tired as if he had been climbing for hours against a summit still hidden in swirling mists. Vaguely, lost in gray thoughts, he understood Clapp was continuing to rib him. “… . single brilliant connection between Casey Lee and Joyce Shafto. Lee was buried in prison because nobody claimed the body. Now if somebody doesn’t claim the redhead’s body pretty soon, I’ll have her stuffed and presented to you by the mayor. Say, where’s your sense of humor?”

“Yeah, where’s yours?” Thursday asked with a fish-eyed pitying glance. “I’m not beat yet. So Gasman Lee is dead and buried. That doesn’t mean his methods are. He was in the pokey, he had cellmates. Maybe the Gasman passed along his modus operandi, his spray gadget idea and all, to a friend. Leavenworth’ll know who his friends were.”

Clapp looked at the five-dollar bill Thursday had laid on the desk. “Just what do you think that’s for?”

“I know you — you won’t burden the taxpayers. That’s for the long telegram you’re going to send Leavenworth.”

“Send it yourself.”

“They’ll answer you faster. Who were Gasman’s buddies and what about them.”

Clapp began to laugh it off. Then he regarded Thursday gravely. “You’ve gone off your rocker on this whole thing — you know that, don’t you, son? Okay, it’s your dough.” He thumbed the five into his watchpocket, massaged his ear wryly, then put the receiver to it again. “I’ll charge it to my home phone.”

He was spelling out names to the girl at the telegraph office when Jim Crane sauntered in, mouth tight and disgusted, a dirty-blue swelling on his forehead. He gingerly removed his panama, landed it on the hat tree and lounged against the wall. Though peeved, the white-haired detective-sergeant seemed fresher than the other two men.

“How’s the head?” Thursday asked him.

“Great. But you ought to see that windshield.”

Clapp finished the phone call. He told Thursday, “There’s five bucks shot,” and asked Crane what luck.

“None. I laid off ten blocks on every side of Ranchers Market and searched every gutter, trashcan and vacant lot. No sign of her shoes and purse.”

“As it turns out, the shoes don’t matter anyway,” said Thursday.

“Oh, you’re way behind, Jim,” Clapp said sarcastically. “Our boy Max has cracked the whole deal. He got a spirit message.” Thursday grinned weakly and reeled off the reconstruction of the second murder for Crane who listened closely. The telephone rang into the conversation. Clapp said, “Bet it’s Western Union calling back to see if it’s a gag or …” But it turned out to be business, according to the change in Clapp’s voice. “Yeah. Good. When’ll she get here? Thanks.” Hanging up, he announced, “Pensic has verified identification with the Tijuana police.”

Thursday couldn’t work up any interest in that. He played halfheartedly with a half-dollar, attempting the trick of making the coin walk across his knuckles.

“Ana Maria Zagal, sixteen years old, on their books as a semi-pro hustler. Tijuana’s checked her address on Avenida Cinco de Mayo, she’s not home, her mother doesn’t know where she is.

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