“Everything seems to be in order,” Costanza said to me. “Congratulations. You caught yourself a Munchkin.”
Big Dog examined the doorjamb. “You know there's a slug in here?”
Costanza looked at me.
“Well, I didn't have a key—”
Costanza put his hands over his ears. “I don't want to hear this.”
I limped into Briggs' apartment, found a set of keys on a hook in his kitchen, and used one to lock his door. Then I collected his shoe, which had been left on the landing, gave the shoe and the keys to Briggs, and told Carl I'd follow him in.
When I walked back to the Buick, Bunchy was waiting for me. “Cripes,” he said. “You beat the bejeezus out of that little guy. Who the hell was he, the Son of Satan?”
“He's a computer operator who got picked up for carrying concealed. He really isn't such a bad guy.”
“Man, I'd hate to see what you do to someone you don't like.”
“How did you know where to find me? And why weren't you in my parking lot when I needed you?”
“I picked you up leaving the office. I overslept this morning, so I tried hitting your usual haunts and got lucky. What's new with Fred?”
“I haven't found him.”
“You aren't giving up, are you?”
“No, I'm not giving up. Listen, I have to go. I have to get my body receipt.”
“Don't drive too fast. There's something wrong with my transmission. It makes this real bad sound when I do over forty.”
I watched him walk to his car. I was pretty sure I knew what he was, and he wasn't a bookie. I just didn't know why he was tagging after me.
COSTANZA AND BIG Dog brought Briggs through the back door to the docket lieutenant.
The docket lieutenant looked over his desk at Briggs. “Damn, Stephanie,” he said, smiling, “what'd you do to the poor little guy? What, are you on the rag today?”
Juniak was passing through. “You're lucky,” he said to Briggs. “Usually she blows people up.”
Briggs didn't look like he thought that was funny. “I've been framed,” he said.
I got my body receipt for Briggs, and then I went upstairs to Crimes Against Persons and gave my report on the Sloane Street shooting. I called Vinnie and told him I brought Randy Briggs in, so America could rest easier tonight. Then I drove over to RGC with Bunchy close on my bumper.
It was a little after three when I got to Water Street. Clouds had rolled in late in the day, thick and low, the color and consistency of lard. I could feel them pressing on the roof of the Buick, slowing my progress, dulling down the firing of brainy synapses. I cruised on autopilot, my thoughts sliding from Uncle Fred to Joe Morelli to Charlie Chan. Life was good for Charlie Chan. He knew freaking everything.
Two blocks from RGC I snapped out of the stupor, realizing there was something going on in the street ahead. There were cops in front of RGC. Lots of them. The medical examiner's truck was there, too, and this was not a good sign. I parked half a block from RGC and walked the rest of the way, Bunchy trailing after me like a faithful dog. I looked for a familiar face in the crowd. No luck. A small knot of uniformed RGC employees huddled on the fringe. Probably had just come in with the trucks.
“What's going on?” I asked one of the men.
“Somebody got shot.”
“Do you know who?”
“Lipinski.”
The shock must have shown on my face, because the man said, “Did you know him?”
I shook my head. “No. I was just coming to settle my aunt's bill. How did it happen?”
“Suicide. I was the one who found him,” another of the men said. “I brought my truck in early, and I went inside to get my paycheck. And there he was with his brains blown out. He must have put the gun in his mouth. Christ, there was blood and brains all over the place. I wouldn't have thought Lipinski had that much brains.”