Amerikan Eagle

“We’re cooperating,” Hanson said gruffly. “Which is the smart thing to do, so we don’t piss off the wrong people and the FBI and Long’s Legionnaires leave us alone. I know this was your first homicide, and you wanted to see it through. But I also know what your caseload is like. If you spend more time on your caseload and less time worrying about a matter now belonging to the Germans and the feds, then I’ll be happy, the people of Portsmouth will be happy, and so will the police commission. Got it?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Fine. Now, about the other night. I was glad to see you at the Party meeting. Have you thought about what I said—about becoming more active?”

“No, I really haven’t. With this John Doe investigation, I haven’t considered it much.”

“Do you think I was joking, Sam? This is no longer a request. Soon I’ll be putting in your name for the county steering committee. There’s a vote, but it’s just a formality. And I expect a return favor from you concerning your father-in-law.”

Sam felt as if the day and everything else were slipping away from him; he thought about what Sean had said. Nats versus Staties. “But the mayor, he’s said something similar about me—”

“Divided loyalties, Sam? Or do I have to remind you who signs your time sheet?”

“No, you don’t have to remind me.”

“I didn’t think I’d have to,” Hanson said, looking triumphant. “What’s ahead for you?”

“I told the FBI they could have copies of my reports later today. And that Mrs. Walton would type them up for them.”

Now Hanson didn’t look happy. “Since when you do start making commitments for my secretary?”

Sam stood up and pushed the chair back toward the desk. The legs squeaked gratingly against the wooden planks. “Since you told me to cooperate, that’s when,” Sam replied.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Sam spent a few minutes at his desk, staring at the piles of paperwork. Then, restless and irritable, he headed for the stairs. Mrs. Walton—frowning because of the extra typing—called, “Inspector?”

“Off for a walk,” he called back.

She smirked. “A walk.”

“Sure. Put it in your log. W-A-L-K. A walk.”

He went down the wooden stairs two at a time, through the lobby, and then outside. It was cloudy, and the salt smell from the harbor was strong.

His very first homicide, taken away from him. And not by the state police; no, by Hoover’s own SS, the FBI. With the assistance of the Gestapo. And the assistance of his boss. Who would have thought?

Dammit.

He started walking away from the police station, heading south. Before him, a small gang of truant boys were huddling around something in the gutter. When they saw him approach, they looked up but kept at work, each holding a paper sack. Cig boys, picking up discarded cigarette butts to strip out the tobacco and then roll their own, selling them for a penny apiece on the streets.

Not much of a crime, but still.

“Beat it, guys,” Sam said. “You’re blocking traffic.”

They scattered, but one boy with a cloth cap and patched jacket and black facial hair sprouting through his pimples said, “Screw you, bud,” and lashed out with a fist.

Something struck Sam’s right wrist. He grabbed at his arm and stepped back, but by the time he reached for his revolver, the boys were gone, racing down a trash-strewn alleyway. He looked at his wrist. Part of the coat sleeve was torn; the little thug had sliced at him with a knife! He pushed the tattered threads together and looked down the empty alleyway, holding his arm.

A few feet in another direction… could have been buried in his chest.

He lowered his arms, kept on walking. He couldn’t do anything about those little bastards. Too much was going on. Damn Tony for breaking out and making everything even more dangerous. To add to the fun, he had been drafted twice this week: for the state National Guard, and now the county steering committee for the Party. What would Larry Young do when he heard his political rival was sponsoring his son-in-law?

Crap. Where the hell was he going?

Up ahead was the Portsmouth Hospital on a slight rise of land. It was as if his mind were directing him where to go.

Sam found William Saunders sitting at his desk, smoking a cigarette. The doctor looked up from a sheaf of papers. “Inspector Miller, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Looking to see if you’ve had any special visitors lately.”

Saunders tapped some ash from the cigarette. “Alive or dead?”

“Alive, of course.”

“Yeah, I have,” he said. “Two thugs. One working for a gangster called Hitler, the other working for a gangster called Long. Charming visitors.”

“Mind if I ask what they did here?”

“Hell, no,” Saunders said. “The usual crap about autopsy, cause of death, that sort of thing. Stayed all of five minutes and then went on their way. But one interesting thing… They didn’t want the body or his clothing. Funny, huh? You’d think a murder case that has the interest of the feds and the Gestapo would mean they’d want the body. At least to have another autopsy done by a fed coroner. Nope. Our John Doe stays with the county.”