Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

Wallace waited, drumming fingernails against the typewriter, then said, “Wednesday and Thursday next week? Let’s see, you boys are on a rotation schedule. That’d mean he had Tuesday and Wednesday off this week, right?”

The newspaperman listened, frowned. The frown became a scowl.

“Okay, Bryant, thanks.” He put the phone together, looked up at Shayne. “McKeever traded out days off this week so he could have Monday and Tuesday. I don’t like this, Shayne. Not one goddamn little bit, but McKeever could have been in Florida. Monday night and back here sometime Tuesday. What’s it mean?”

“McKeever is at headquarters?”

“Yes, of course.”

“See you.”

“See, hell. This is my bailiwick.”

McKeever was alone in an office cubicle off the squad-room. There was a desk and two straightback chairs in front of the desk. Nothing on the walls. McKeever sat behind the desk, munching half of a sandwich. The other half remained in an open wax wrapper on the desk. Beside it was a small carton of milk. His face showed nothing, but his eyes were wary as he looked up at Shayne and Wallace. He looked like he didn’t want to be disturbed.

Shayne plunged. “You want to take me to the half million or do we play cat and mouse games, McKeever?”

The cop sat like stone for a second, the sandwich halfway to his mouth. Then he put down the sandwich slowly and sat back in his chair. Shayne watched where he kept his hands. He wanted the drop if McKeever decided to go for a weapon.

McKeever said finally, “Painter told me you could be a wild man.”

“But he didn’t tell you about the Bastone brothers, Renfro Bastone in particular. He didn’t know about them until this afternoon. So how the hell did you know Renfro was in Miami Beach earlier this week?”

McKeever took a few seconds, eyes narrowed. “Shayne, it’s my business to know about guys like Bastone, where they are at all times.”

It was possible; McKeever could be that kind of cop. But Shayne refused to accept that possibility. Somebody in Las Vegas had killed Flora Ann Perkins, somebody with a strong motive.

McKeever said. “Lay it out for me, Shayne,” in a voice that had ice on the edges. “Just how you think it is.”

Smart, Shayne thought. Lay it out, expose his thinking, his theories, his speculations. McKeever was smart, a man who had listened to thousands of explanations. You listen to the explanations and then you have its holes and you rip it apart at the seams.

“I will, pal,” Shayne said in a hard voice, “to your chief. Wallace, get Amster in here. If he isn’t in the building, find him.”

“Hold it, Max,” McKeever said sharply. He stood behind the desk, looked straight at Shayne. “Let me see if I have this straight. We’ve all heard the rumors that Melody Deans was carrying a half million dollars in skim money. Shayne, are you saying that I now have that half million?”

“I’m saying.”

“I see.” He came around the desk. Shayne was alert, waiting for a fast move. But McKeever remained at a distance. “All right, Mr. Shayne, where do I have it?”

“Wherever you live.”

McKeever lifted an eyebrow slightly. His eyes were brittle. “Not buried in the desert and not put away in a safety deposit box?”

“It’s possible to get a court order to look in a bank box,” Shayne said, “and I don’t think you’d take that chance with a half million. You aren’t going to bury it in the desert, either. A half mill is too much. You’d be going out to the burial grounds every five minutes, checking. Winds play tricks with sand. But more important, I figure you’re planning to fly, McKeever. I figure you’ve got it mapped out to sit around for a few weeks, maybe a couple of months or so, then resign for one concocted reason or another and vanish with the bread.”

McKeever nodded. “As Painter said, you are wild, Mr. Shayne. I live in a duplex. Shall we go? You may look all night, if you wish.”

“I’ve got all kinds of time, pal.”

“You drive, Max,” McKeever said.

Outside, McKeever got into the front seat beside Wallace. Shayne sat in back. McKeever looked straight ahead, didn’t twist a muscle. Shayne frowned. Was he wrong about this dude? He’d expected McKeever to make a break once the were outside the station. McKeever had stopped Wallace before the newspaperman could summon Chief Amster.

The duplex was in a quiet neighborhood. Both sides of the squat house-looked empty. The doors were closed, drapes were drawn, and there was nobody in the yard.

“I live on the right side, Wallace,” McKeever said.

Wallace braked at the curbing out front. Shayne saw a two-year blue convertible in the drive next to the right unit of the duplex. McKeever used a key to open the front door. “My landlord lives next door, but he’s gone down to Mexico.”

McKeever entered, and Shayne saw the movement of the cop-detective’s right arm. He slammed Wallace out of his path and shot his palms against McKeever’s spine, sending him stumbling across the room.