"Elizabeth used to work for me at Lloyd & Wagon's. She was my secretary."
Mason tucked the cigarette back between his lips and turned his back on the man, reached a hand towards the filing cabinet and picked up the small 6mm. "Yes, the name rings a bell. If I'm not mistaken, though, the department already has its suspect. All you have to do is get your hands on him."
"Exactly."
"Then why hire a private investigator for a case that only needs the word 'finish'? Is your wallet weighing you down?" he said slipping the revolver under his raincoat, behind his back.
"They're not doing enough."
"Really?" Mason turned to look at him, amazed.
"You know the police have bigger problems to deal with these days, too!" Lloyd snapped, as if Mason had just slapped him.
"The fight against smuggling is an invention of the mayor and a press affair, even the walls know it but that's no reason to take your frustration out on me. Do you remember the promise you made to me? I'm going to have a very bad day ahead of me so now you sit there and tell me why Papa Stone has to take this cat into the bag. That's a good boy." Mason patted Lloyd's cheeks a couple of times and pointed to one of the chairs opposite the desk. Now that he had rattled him, the man was ready to talk. Mason treated his clients like the scum he hunted. It served to strip them of the masks they wore. "Would you like a tonic, Andrew? I'd offer you something stronger but these are the times."
Lloyd refused with a wave of his hand. Once he had sat down Mason resumed.
"Why are you convinced that the police aren't doing everything they can in the Elizabeth Perkins murder?" the detective leaned back against the filing cabinet, his fist on his temple lifting the brim of his hat a few inches.
"First of all, I don't think the culprit is her husband, Samuel."
"Do you know him?"
"No, and Elizabeth didn't talk much about his private life but I know they were happy."
"Human nature is as treacherous as a mother-in-law, you should know that. I'd advise you not to put your hand in the fire for anyone, especially a stranger."
"I need you to do what the detectives aren't doing."
"And that would be?"
"Investigate."
"What if they're not overlooking anything? What if they're doing everything in their power to bring justice to the girl?"
Then I will accept it but I need the evidence, Mr. Stone. I need to know."
"Your bond must have been very strong for her, and not someone from Elizabeth's family, to come to me."
"From what I know she had no one but Samuel."
"That is a very sad thing but nevertheless it does not answer the question."
"It was very important, to us." he said, and his eyes searched the floor beneath his top-of-the-class shoes. "About the office." he then added.
"If you're hiding something from me coming to me won't help you."
Andrew Lloyd raised his head sharply, "Does that mean you accept?"
"I don't like splashing in other children's puddles."
"You'll be handsomely paid," Lloyd promised, rising to his feet.
"Talk it over with my secretary."
"Fine, thank you!"
"Wipe off your sweat before you go that way, or the girl will think I've mistreated you. Save me this trouble."
The precinct
"Stone, what the hell are you doing here?"
"Peterson, get the hell out of here."
"You know what'll happen if Martelli catches you snooping around."
"Oh, so you're here for me? Whatever you say. I'll take my coffee bitter, like life. Thanks."
Mason continued walking down the precinct corridor. Peterson stopped him after ten paces. It didn't seem like five years to the freshman he had mentored: the authority of a whipped dog and the stench of milk still on him. For Mason, those five years seemed like twenty. Time had spared him nothing. For too long he had defied risk and too many times he had managed to fool him.
"Get out of here, Stone."
"Or what? You'll slap me around like a whore?"
"No, man, I'll have to arrest you."
"I got a case."
"Let's not talk about ongoing investigations."
"Elizabeth Perkins."
"Good luck. The case is Matthews'."
"Matthews? He wouldn't even catch a cold, that one."
"Yeah, and he's pissed, so forget it."
"Peterson, how long have you had your balls in your wife's jewellery box?"
"Hand over the gun."
Mason looked at the old partner. Peterson stepped back just enough to let him know he trusted him but that it wasn't convenient to betray him. The private investigator brought a hand to his coat and held out the revolver by the butt end.
"Now let me talk to the coroner."
"No way."
"Can I take a look at the report?"
"If it's okay with Matthews."
"Hey, come on! For old time's sake!"
"You're getting old. They weren't so good."
"Piss off."
"Get out!" with a gentle nudge Peterson pointed the way.
"Don't make me put you to sleep."
"You've always been good with words."
"I punched the mayor in the face, don't think I'd lose any sleep over you."
"You sound frustrated, I understand, but you're picking on the wrong man. Your wife wasn't my type."
Behind Mason's fist, Peterson's face crumpled into a grimace of pain. Stunned, the detective staggered and darted to the side to retreat from a possible double. But Mason did not strike again, picked up his gun, which had escaped from his former partner's hands, and holstered it. He adjusted his hat and watched Peterson spit and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He then motioned for the two agents who had come to his aid to escort Mason out of the building. Mason did not resist.
"If I let you go this time, it's only because of Adele," Peterson shouted before the precinct doors slammed shut.
Back when real men didn't still reek of imported tobacco and bloody fish-egg canapés, the likes of Mason got to decide the good and the bad. Now he was just a man on the pavement, the renegade bastard of a town that had purged its sins and disowned its rebellious sons.
Stone adjusted his collar and slipped into the alley, engulfed in the dust of a world everyone thought was dead. The iron groan of an old door tore away the echo of his footsteps.
"Don't kid yourself, old man: I barely heard it." Peterson.
"Your Irish pig face lies but your eyes say you cried like a little girl."
Mason's wife's name was Wendy, not Adele.
And that's what she still calls herself, wherever she wants to take her ambitious ass. Los Angeles? Northern California? A sleazy small-town casino?
Adele's was the old Polish bar next to the district. In fact, in those days it was nothing but a lousy dump full of memories no one wanted. A cop bar when cops weren't supposed to go near a bottle of booze except to get it down the