Page 174 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case

Jury-rigged

“When I talked to him after the first killing, it was also at his office,
and he didn’t like being called away from his desk to meet with the
police—it’s in a big bullpen and the gossip must be vicious. I recall
that he had been very polite but tried to cut it as short as he could.
This time was different. Fonik gave every sign of relief at seeing me.
The Rainger murder had been on the radio news already, and he said
he regretted the guilty verdict the jury had brought in against
Sherman. It was almost as if he wanted to apologize to the Simulians
through us in order to deflect their retribution. Then he told us he
had not always been sleeping in his own bed since Wanda Lustig’s
death. And he would not tell us where, just that he intended not to
spend the night in the same place twice during the week.”
More data entry with teletype rapidity. If Labelle Gramercy had a
musical instrument in her possession—highly unlikely, I know—it
would be a player piano.
“Ms. Bokay, juror number four, was asleep in bed.”
“Yes, a sitting duck.”
“No one else with her?”
“Not even a dog. Allergic.”
“But not particularly worried about nocturnal assassins?”
“Hedy keeps a loaded .32 in her nightstand. It’s registered. I
checked.”
Labelle frowned in her minimal way. Cops had to be ambivalent on
the subject of gun control. Most of us had our own little domestic
armories in a closet or cabinet, well secured under lock and key, and
it was not uncommon for us to carry our service handguns between
home and work. As for the general public, the slightest hint of a
firearm on anyone was usually sufficient cause for us to don flak
jackets and call out the SWAT team. Even Ms. Fearless had to pause
for a moment when the subject was raised. I took the advantage of
the hiatus to stand up and head for the coffee room with my mug.
“Sit down, Sergeant Donat. We need to sort this out.”
God, I hate it when she pulls rank! How could anyone have
sympathy for a woman like that? All right, I told myself: coffee can
wait. When her ponderous thought processes at long last lead her to
the conclusion that I have this case all wrapped up and tied in a bow
she’ll find something or someone else to engage her monomaniacal
attention.

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