The Copper Frame (17 page)

“I know what you mean,” Kettle said glumly. “All he'd have to do is get one witness to admit the mug shots resembled the woman in the cell, then stress to the jury that police photography is notoriously poor. We'll have to get hold of Ann Lowry in order to build an unbreakable case.”

Saxon said, “Cutter already has her under wraps. She'll probably end up at the bottom of the lake if we have Morrison arrested.”

“Hmm,” Kettle said. “What do you suggest?”

“Let's quietly ask the Buffalo police to hunt down Ann Lowry. And just sit on what we have until she's safely in custody.”

“That sounds sensible,” Ben Foley said.

“All right,” Kettle agreed. “I'll give the Buffalo police a ring. Temporarily we won't take any other action.”

Saxon said, “Even if the Buffalo cops manage to pick her up, I wish you'd discuss it with me before you move against Morrison, Arn.”

The district attorney raised his eyebrows. “All right. But why?”

“Even if Morrison breaks and tries to implicate Cutter, I doubt that we could get Cutter on conspiracy to murder in Grace Emmet's case. He could admit the whole plot to frame me and still deny knowing anything of Morrison's plan to kill his prisoner after she had served her purpose. I suspect we'd end up, at most, with my getting a civil judgment against him for defamation of character. And I want him in the electric chair for conspiracy to murder.”

“How are you going to get him there? You just argued down your own case.”

“Just so far as Grace Emmet is concerned. You forget that Cutter's guilty of arranging another murder.”

When Kettle looked at him blankly, Ben Foley said, “Andy, Arn. It's obvious that Ted's father was murdered on Cutter's order.”

Saxon said, “Let's not settle for the small fry. I'd rather hold off until we can build ironclad cases against everybody who had a part in both crimes. And that means not only Larry Cutter, but the gunman who actually killed my dad.”

chapter 21

Aside from Ben Foley and the district attorney, Saxon discussed the new evidence he had uncovered with no one except Emily. And he impressed on her the need to keep it to herself.

“Don't even mention it to Julie,” he said. “You know what a hotbed of gossip the hospital is. She'll impart it in confidence to one of the other nurses, and in twenty-four hours it will be all over town that we know the woman in jail New Year's Eve wasn't really Grace Emmet. The moment Adam Bennock hears it, Larry Cutter will know. And Ann Lowry will probably end up on the bottom of the lake.”

“I won't say a word to anyone,” she promised.

This conversation took place at her apartment Sunday evening before she went to work. Saxon was nursing a beer and Emily had his overcoat spread across her lap, mending the bullet hole near the lower hem.

“I don't think it will show unless you look close,” she said, taking a final stitch, breaking the thread and smoothing the cloth. “Is it all right?”

Setting his beer down, he rose from his chair and crossed to the sofa to examine the job. She had stitched it from the inside with blue thread of the same shade as the overcoat and he had to search closely to detect the small dimple in the cloth.

“A professional seamstress couldn't have done better,” he said, leaning down to kiss her on the nose. “Just for that, I'll stay long enough to drive you to work.”

“You'll have to,” she said, dimpling. “When you phoned that you were coming over, I canceled my taxi.”

When he got home at eleven that night, he looked at the mending job again. And suddenly a thought struck him. After he was in bed, he brooded over the thought for a long time.

Monday morning he phoned his insurance agent to report the car accident. Then he drove downtown to police headquarters. Sam Lennox was on the desk.

“Morning, Chief—uh, Ted,” the veteran patrolman said.

“Morning, Sam. Art's still keeping you on regular day duty, is he?”

“Yeah, he ain't changed anything yet.” Lennox looked a trifle embarrassed. “I never did have a chance to thank you for what you did last week, Ted.”

“What was that?”

“Covering up for me that day I got drunk.”

Saxon frowned. “I didn't exactly cover up, Sam. I just didn't press it. I told you it was the last time I'd put up with it.”

“You don't have to worry about that,” Lennox said quickly. “I'm going on the wagon for good.”

Saxon studied the man. The veins in his lined face seemed even redder than they had a week ago and his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. If he were going on the wagon, he hadn't stepped on it yet, for he had all the symptoms of a hang-over from the night before.

“Just stay on it during duty hours and nobody will kick,” Saxon said dryly. “It would be too bad if you got bounced now and had to take a twenty-year retirement, when you can make full retirement if you hold out two more years.”

The door of the chief's office opened and Art Marks stepped out with a sheet of paper in his hand. He looked a little startled when he saw Saxon.

“How are you, Ted?” he asked with a touch of reserve.

“Fine, Art. Beginning to get the feel of things yet?”

Marks emitted a forced chuckle. “It's not as easy as it looks from the squad room. As a plain cop, you can forget this place when your duty trick ends. Nobody told me the chief had to take tomorrow's problems home with him every night.” He handed the sheet to Sam Lennox. “Here's the new duty roster, Sam. Type it up and get it on the bulletin board.”

Lennox said, “Sure, Chief. Right away.”

Marks regarded Saxon contemplatively for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. “Want to step in the office a minute, Ted?”

“Sure.”

He followed the acting chief into his private office and closed the door as Marks rounded the desk to sink into the swivel chair. Saxon took a seat in front of the desk.

Marks cleared his throat and looked past Saxon's left shoulder. “I hope you aren't sore at me for moving into your job, Ted.”

“Why should I be?” Saxon asked with raised brows. “You didn't push me out. That female prisoner did.”

With effort Marks looked him in the face. “Was that really a frame, Ted?”

“It was a frame,” Saxon assured him.

“I kept thinking it had to be. I've known you since you were a kid, and it just didn't make sense for you to go off your rocker like that. Do you have any idea what was behind it?”

“Uh-huh. But I'm not ready to talk about it just yet.”

“Oh.” There was a lengthy pause before Marks asked, “Think you'll ever be able to prove you were framed?”

“I think so.”

Marks looked relieved. “Then you'll be reinstated as chief, I suppose.”

Saxon studied him curiously. “What's the matter, Art? Don't you like the job?”

“I think it's a little beyond me,” the acting chief said frankly. “I'm no desk cop. But even if I liked it, I think I'd be leaving in a few months. I've got a better offer.”

“Oh?” Saxon said in surprise.

“It's contingent on the race-track deal going through. I've been offered the chief security guard spot at ten thousand a year.”

Saxon formed his lips into a silent whistle. “How about your pension?”

“I could take two-thirds. All I'd lose is credit for my last four years' service. And I could build up another twenty-year retirement credit with the racing association by the time I reached sixty-five.”

Larry Cutter was going to take no chances at all when he moved in to take over Iroquois, Saxon thought. He wasn't willing to settle for a dumb chief who could be hoodwinked into co-operating with a puppet mayor. He wanted a man in office over whom he had absolute control. Andy Saxon had been murdered, his son framed out of office, now Art Marks was being lured out by the offer of a better job.

He thought about whom that left next in line. The answer was no one. Vic Burns
could
be put in as chief and would be accepted by the general public simply because he was the only remaining lieutenant on the force. But not being an Iroquois native and having only seven years' seniority on the local force—less than many of the patrolmen—no one would make an issue of his being bypassed. It would be simple to bring in some outsider with police experience.

Sergeant Harry Morrison, for instance.

“You've decided to take the offer?” Saxon asked.

“How could I afford to turn it down?”

Saxon felt a little sorry for the man. He hated to disrupt his rosy dream of the future, but it wouldn't have been very kind not to let him know there was a distinct possibility the local race track would never develop. He decided to tell Marks as much of the story as Larry Cutter must be aware Saxon knew anyway.

He said, “You know who's behind this race-track deal, Art?”

“Sure. The Upstate Harness Racing Association.”

“That's just a front. It's Larry Cutter's money.”

Art Marks looked at him blankly. “The guy who was run out of Saratoga Springs?”

“Uh-huh. He's decided to land here. And he wants his own chief in office. Dad would have tied a can to his tail, so Dad was murdered. I would have done the same thing, so I was framed out of office. You're too honest a cop to suit his fancy, so you're offered a better job in order to induce you to resign. Then they bring in an outsider who's in Cutter's pocket. Get the picture?”

Marks stared at him with his mouth open. “You mean the offer to me wasn't serious?”

“Oh, sure. If the track ever opens, no doubt the job will be waiting for you. But don't count on the track's opening.” Saxon rose to his feet. “Sorry to throw cold water on your plans, Art, but that's the way it is. A few of us are making plans to keep Cutter out of Iroquois along with both his legitimate and his illegal operations.”

Art Marks rose, too. The expression on his face suggested he was still trying to absorb what Saxon had just told him. After a time he thrust his hand across the desk.

“Any way it goes, I hope you clear yourself and come back as chief, Ted. I won't mind going back to lieutenant, if it's under you. I called you in here mainly to make sure there weren't any hard feelings between us.”

Outside in the waiting room, Saxon stopped at the desk again. Sam Lennox rose from his chair and came over to the counter.

Saxon said, “I really came in to talk to you, Sam, but Art sidetracked me before I got to the point.”

“What's on your mind?” Lennox asked.

“I want to ask you something about the night Dad was killed.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“When this man in the stolen car pulled over at your siren, you parked just behind him. That right?”

Lennox nodded. “That's S.O.P. You always pull in behind instead of in front.”

“I know. Then Dad and Vic got out of the back seat? From opposite sides, I assume.”

“No. There was a snowbank on the right side. The chief was sitting on the left, so he got out first and waited for Vic. Vic slid over and got out the same side. They started for the car together and the guy opened up.”

“How close were they to him?”

Lennox looked thoughtful. “They were about even with me, where I was sitting in the front seat, when he started shooting. The guy was seated in his front seat, so I'd say the range was no more than ten or twelve feet. He could hardly have missed.”

Saxon gazed at him for a long time. “That far? Both of them were that far away when he fired?”

“At least. I told you they were right together. Practically side by side. Why?”

“I just wanted to get the picture straight,” Saxon said. “See you around, Sam.”

“Sure, Ted. See you.”

From police headquarters Saxon drove to the county courthouse. He found District Attorney Kettle in his office. The D.A. waved him to a seat and offered a cigar.

Saxon shook his head. “Have you called Buffalo yet?”

“Last night after you left. No kickback so far.”

“I have a feeling they won't turn her up,” Saxon said.

“Why not? I didn't explain the real reason we wanted her. I was afraid some cop might let it drop while questioning her friends, and it would get back to Larry Cutter.”

“What excuse did you give?”

“I told them you claimed you'd been waylaid and taken for a ride when you visited her apartment. That shouldn't get Cutter excited. He must have expected you to make a complaint.”

“It may not get him excited, but it isn't going to make him want the cops to get their hands on her. If she isn't already in Canada or dead, Cutter will probably arrange one or the other.”

Kettle frowned. “It was your idea to handle it this way.”

“I've had some second thoughts,” Saxon said. “We're going to have to throw a block into Cutter fast Arn. I just found out that Art Marks has been offered the job of chief security guard at the new track when it opens.”

“So?” the district attorney asked puzzledly.

“Marks will be the third chief boosted out of office by one means or another. It leaves the way wide open for Adam Bennock to recommend some experienced outsider to the Common Council. Such as Sergeant Harry Morrison.”

After thinking this over, Kettle said slowly, “Yes, I suppose there's no longer much doubt that our new mayor is in cahoots with Cutter. What are you second thoughts?”

“I'd like to try something that might net us everyone involved, including Larry Cutter, providing it works. Will you be party to a frame?”

“A legal one?” the district attorney asked cautiously.

“I wouldn't ask you to risk disbarment even to nail my father's killers. But it's still a frame.”

“Turnabout's fair play, I suppose,” Kettle said. “Cutter framed you. Just what do you have in mind?”