Dick Tracy (14 page)

Caprice moved through the reporters to his limousine, where Itchy was behind the wheel; Flattop, who’d also been riding in front, got out to open the door for his boss.

“Don’t any of you boys miss the grand opening of the new Club Ritz,” Big Boy called out by way of farewell. “Tomorrow night! You’re all my personal guests.”

He bowed, making a sweeping gesture with his hat, and climbed in back of the limo. Shutting the door for his boss, Flattop wore a tiny smug smile on his perpetually puckered lips.

Up at the top of the stairs, behind the statue of blind justice, Tracy said to Fletcher, “Those reporters aren’t going away. We’d better brave it.”

“You take the side exit,” Fletcher said tightly, his eyes cold behind round-lensed glasses. “Have my driver bring the car around.”

Tracy nodded and went back inside.

D.A. Fletcher waited while Tracy got a head start, then moved down the stairs, the reporters swarming back up to meet him.

“Mr. District Attorney,” a reporter said, as the cacophony of questions finally died down into one decipherable one, “will you be taking disciplinary action against Chief of Detectives Tracy for making this false arrest?”

Fletcher smiled gently and raised a benedictory hand. “Please. Gentlemen—please. Detective Tracy is the most honored, decorated officer this town has ever seen. He has a reputation, highly justified, for his scrupulous procedural approach. It’s ludicrous for you to suggest that his actions would be anything but by-the-book.”

“But isn’t this a personal matter?” Bush asked. He could be just as tough with those representing the law as he was with criminals. “Doesn’t Tracy blame Big Boy for the murder of his girlfriend’s father, Emil Trueheart?”

“Yeah,” Charet said, “isn’t this starting to look a little like a vendetta on Tracy’s part?”

“Detective Tracy,” Fletcher said, quietly, mustache twitching, “is indeed under a good deal of strain. But I have the utmost confidence in his good judgment.”

“Mr. D.A.,” Masterson called out, “what’s the story on Frank Redrum’s escape?”

“Yeah,” Bush said, “if Redrum returns to our fair city, the bullets could really start to fly!”

“I have no more facts on that matter than you do,” Fletcher said. The D.A. gave them his most ingratiating smile. “All I know, gentlemen, is what I read in the papers.”

And Fletcher, nodding his thanks to the press corps, moved down the steps through the throng to where a black sedan, with a police driver behind the wheel, had drawn up to the curb. Fletcher joined Tracy in back as the sedan pulled away, leaving the frustrated faces of reporters behind.

“Shall I drop you at headquarters?” Fletcher asked, as they settled into the backseat.

“I’d appreciate that,” Tracy said.

The D.A. frowned. “Tell me—what’s this ‘Frank Redrum’ business the pressboys are so worked up about?”

“I spoke to Inspector James Trailer of the F.B.I. this morning,” Tracy said easily. “Apparantly Redrum escaped . . . or attempted to escape . . . from Alcatraz Prison last night. He was using a homemade raft, made of shirts from the laundry and scrapwood from the prison shop. The raft was found washed up, in pieces, on the island’s shore. He would seem not to have made it.”

“The wire services say he’s assumed dead. What do you think?”

Tracy shrugged. “There have been no successful escapes from the Rock that I know of. On the other hand, his body hasn’t been found.”

“If he survived,” the D.A. asked, “would he come back here?”

“I doubt it,” Tracy said. “I think, whether Redrum is at the bottom of Frisco Bay or not, we’ve seen the last of him.”

Fletcher seemed pensive. “I didn’t prosecute that case.”

“It was just before your term of office began, Mr. D.A. Redrum was a grotesque-looking character—a regular Phantom of the Opera, unmasked. He ran a gang in the twenties, they betrayed him, he did time, got out, kidnapped and bumped ’em off one at a time. Strictly revenge. No pieces left here for him to pick back up.”

“I remember it vaguely,” Fletcher said, nodding. “The newshounds had fun with it, didn’t they?”

“They sure did. Like they’re trying to have fun with this. Listen, I heard most of that from the car—and I appreciate you sticking up for me back there.”

Fletcher looked sideways at Tracy and the look was a hard, unfriendly one. “You think that was for
you?
I only did that to minimize the embarrassment of my going into court with so little.” He shook his head. “You told me you could deliver fingerprints.”

“I know.”

The lab had tried both the iodine transfer and the silver nitrate—twice—and could not pull Big Boy Caprice’s fingerprints off the walnut shells. Like Sam said, it had been a gamble. And Tracy had lost.

“The newshounds are right, Tracy, and so is Big Boy: You’re out of control. You’re on a vendetta. And I won’t stand for it.”

“I’m in complete control.”

“I don’t think so. Listen, I’ve got a good shot at becoming Mayor, coming election. And you’re in line for Chief of Police. Don’t mess it up for the both of us. Back off. Cool off.”

“It was a good bust, Fletcher,” Tracy insisted. “I had sufficient evidence at the scene to—”

“You had nothing. You had less than nothing. When you go around beating up private citizens, kidnapping them, making false arrests, throwing them in jail . . .”

Tracy’s mouth was a thin line as he said, “Private Citizen Caprice is responsible for seven deaths so far this week, including Officer Moriarty. Go back any farther, you’ll start losing count, quick.”

Fletcher’s eyes softened; he shook his head, wearily, regretfully. “I’m sorry about Miss Trueheart’s father.”

“Thank you.”

His face turned stern again. “But if you can’t control yourself,” Fletcher continued, “I’ll direct Chief Brandon to remove you from the Detective Bureau. And I’ll be forced to prosecute you for misconduct. And do you know something, Tracy?”

“What, Fletcher?”

“That’s a case I guarantee you I won’t lose.” The car drew to a stop. “Here’s headquarters. Go on in and see if you can get from here to your office without tearing a hole in the Constitution.”

Just after dark, Tracy slid onto a stool at Mike’s Diner and ordered a cup of coffee; Sam Catchem had dropped him off here. The Major Crimes squad had spent a frustrating, unfruitful afternoon examining the evidence from both the garage and warehouse shootings.

Mike set the steaming cup of black liquid before the detective.

“Back so soon, Tracy?” the counterman said. “You working a case in this neck of the woods?”

“Naw,” Tracy said. He sipped the coffee; it was bitter and near scalding. He took another sip. “Meeting somebody here.”

“That girl of yours?

“Yeah, and our little friend. He thinks your meat loaf is a miracle.”

“Well, this is everybody’s lucky night—that’s the Blue Plate Special again.”

Tracy smiled and sipped his coffee. He felt tired, and he felt discouraged. Big Boy was sprung, Mumbles was apparently in hiding, and Tracy felt his own job being threatened.

Nonetheless, he had managed, at several points today, to connect up with Tess and the Kid. They’d called from Marshall and Bradbury’s Department Store, where Tracy had to intermediate when Tess and the boy clashed over clothes. In fact, Tracy had chased the Kid down the street, when the urchin—clad only in his underwear—made a break for it.

Tracy had rounded the boy up, telling him, “if you don’t want to wear that suit, march back in that store and tell her you don’t. Are you going to run away every time somebody tries to make you do something you don’t want to do?”

Later, he had joined with them again, at the northside florist’s shop where Tess worked, and had accompanied them to the zoo and aquarium, albeit fitfully, and for that long-promised if ultimately brief ride in the country. He’d even found time to buy the Kid a baseball and glove. But he’d been called back to headquarters and/or the courthouse five different times.

Plus, he’d dropped by the funeral home to pay his respects to Officer Moriarty’s family. Chief Brandon had offered a full police funeral, but the Moriarty family had wanted to keep it small, simple, private. But the line of cops who’d come for visitation today seemed never-ending.

Now Tracy sat at the counter in the diner, sipping his coffee, enjoying a few moments of solitude. But he was glad when, a few minutes later, Tess and the Kid came bustling in. The Kid was dressed up in the little red suit Tess had selected for him—short checked pants with argyle knee socks, a blue shirt and black-and-white polka dot tie, and a little red cap, under which his reddish hair sprouted like weeds. He looked clean and vaguely miserable.

“Dick!” Tess said. “What a wonderful day we’ve had.”

Tracy got off the stool, gave her a hug, a peck on the cheek, helped her off with her coat.

“You have a good time, too, junior?” Tracy asked him.

“Swell,” he said, noncommittally.

Tess excused herself to wash up and Tracy and the Kid took their places at the booth from the night before.

“Decided to wear the clothes, huh?” Tracy said.

The Kid nodded and sighed. He gestured to himself; to his little polka dot tie, to his short pants. “Look what she done to me!”

“Yeah, I can see. Pretty tough, huh?”

“Yeah. You wear clothes like this, first thing you know,
pow
—you wind up in school.”

“Wouldn’t that be awful.”

The Kid nodded vigorously. “I feel like a doggone sissy.”

Tracy clicked in his cheek. “Yeah. Rough one.”

The boy looked sharply at Tracy. “But don’t say anything to Miss Tess.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

Tess came back, and she and the Kid ordered Blue Plate specials while Tracy stuck with the chili. Tracy got filled in on what he’d missed of their adventures. Then pie for the grownups and ice cream for the Kid followed. It was a pleasant replay of their evening here last night. And was the happiest Tracy had been in some time.

Tracy drove, Tess snuggled against his shoulder. The Kid was in the backseat, curled up like a fetus, asleep. Pretty soon Tracy pulled up in front of Tess’s three-story brownstone apartment building. They sat and talked in the parked car, neither of them anxious to disturb the sleeping boy.

“I could call in sick tomorrow,” Tess said.

“You know, you can’t call in sick everyday,” Tracy said.

“I had this afternoon off, legitimately.”

“But not tomorrow. You better behave yourself. You need that job.”

“I know,” she said. “But one little day can’t hurt . . .”

“Little crimes lead to big crimes,” Tracy reminded her.

She laughed and elbowed him gently. “Look who’s talking. I saw the papers. I heard the radio. They’re saying you’re a maverick cop. Running around making false arrests, bullying people.”

“What do you think?”

“Sounds just like you.”

He looked sideways at her, gave her a crooked smile.

“Seriously, Dick—be careful about this. I know your heart’s in the right place. I know you’re thinking about . . . about Papa.”

He nodded somberly.

“But, Dick—you’ve got a career to think of. You’ve got . . . the
future
to think of.”

“I know, dear.”

She sighed; her eyes tightened in concern. “We’re going to have to turn that little boy over to the system, aren’t we? He’ll be in an orphanage before he knows it.”

“Maybe he’ll find some parents to adopt him.”

“Dick . . . do you mean . . . ?”

“I’m not sure what I mean. Look,
I’ll
take the Kid tonight. You got to get to work in the morning. He can hang around with me at headquarters tomorrow, till I get somebody at the Welfare Department to come over and process him through the proper channels.”

“That sounds so cold.”

“We can still see him. But we both have lives. We both have jobs.”

“Yes, and we both live alone. I don’t
mind
living alone.” She glanced back tenderly at the slumbering boy. “But you know—I liked having company for a couple days.”

He touched her hair. “I’ve got six hundred bucks saved up, Tess. Tidy little nest egg.”

“What are you saying, Dick?”

“Look,” he said, “maybe it’s about time . . .”

“Yes?”

“We’ll talk about it—as soon as this craziness with Caprice is behind me.”

She sighed, shook her head, nestled against his arm. “Will it ever really be over?”

“Sure, Tess. Then maybe I can think about that . . . that other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“You know—the Chief of Police slot.”

She looked at him, her eyes shining. “Oh, Dick . . . that would be wonderful, but I wouldn’t want you to do it just because . . .”

“Hey, the extra money would be awful nice.”

She squinted in near-irritation. “I don’t
care
how much money you make. That’s not why I want you to consider that job.”

“Why do you, then?”

“Because it would be a way for you to pursue the work you love without having to run around the streets, risking your life, every day and night.”

“Tess—that
is
the work I love. The streets. The risk. The game.”

“I know.” She sighed. “I know, dear. Please don’t think I’m a terrible nag. I’ll stand behind you
—beside
you—whatever you decide. It’s just . . . I’d like to have you around for a few years.”

They kissed. Tracy couldn’t help but think of his encounter with Breathless Mahoney yesterday; it lingered in his mind, and elsewhere in his body, a guilty pleasure.

“Is something wrong, dear?” she asked him.

“No, Tess,” he said, and he kissed her again, and banished Breathless from his heart and his mind, if not his soul.

“Where are we?” the Kid said from the backseat.

Embarrassed, Tracy pulled away from Tess and said to the barely wakened boy, “Dropping Miss Tess off, is all. Go back to sleep.”

He got out of the car, walked around and opened the door for her. They walked hand in hand up the steps to the doorway of the building.

He was looking into her eyes when a voice, the Kid’s voice, rang out: “Hey! Tracy! Look out!”