“Whiskey. Whiskey and soda.”
“It’s the first time I ever tasted it.” He tried to remember how much a bottle of whiskey cost. There was almost none being made now because of the grain shortage and each year the stored supplies grew smaller and the price increased. At least two hundred D’s a bottle, probably more.
“That was very refreshing, Shirl,” Santini said, placing his empty glass against the arm of his chair where it remained, “and you have my most heartfelt thanks for your kind hospitality. I’m sorry I must run along now, Rosa is expecting me, but could I ask you something first?”
“Of course, Judge—what is it?”
Santini took an envelope from his side pocket and opened it, fanning out the handful of photographs that it contained. From where he sat all Andy could see was that they were pictures of different men. Santini handed it over to Shirl.
“It was tragic,” he said, “tragic what happened to Mike. All of us want to help the police as much as we can. I know you do too, Shirl, so perhaps you’ll take a look at these pictures, see if you recognize any of these people.”
She took the first one and looked at it, frowning in concentration. Andy admired the judge’s technique for talking a lot and really saying nothing—yet getting the girl’s cooperation.
“No, I can’t say I have ever seen him before,” she said.
“Was he ever a guest here, or did he meet Mike while you were with him?”
“No, I’m sure of that, he’s never been here. I thought you were asking if I had ever seen him on the street or anything.”
“What about the other men?”
“I’ve never seen any of them. I’m sorry I can’t be of any more help.”
“Negative intelligence is still intelligence, my dear.”
He passed the photographs to Andy, who recognized the top one as Nick Cuore. “And the others?” he asked.
“Associates of his,” Santini said as he rose slowly from the deep chair.
“I’ll keep these a while,” Andy said.
“Of course. You may find them valuable.”
“Must you go already?” Shirl protested. Santini smiled and started for the front door.
“Indulge an old man, my dear. Much as I enjoy your company, I must keep sensible hours these days. Good night, Mr. Rusch—and good luck.”
“I’m going to make myself a drink,” Shirl said after she had shown the judge out. “Can I liven up that one for you? If you’re not on duty, that is.”
“I’m on duty, and I have been for the last fourteen hours, so I think it is about time that duty and drink mixed. If you won’t report me?”
“I’m no ratfink!” She smiled, and when they sat opposite each other he felt better than he had for weeks. The headache was gone, he was cool and the drink tasted better than anything he remembered.
“I thought you were through with the investigation,” Shirl said. “That’s what you told me.”
“I thought so then, but things have changed. There is a lot of interest in getting this case solved. Even people like Judge Santini are concerned.”
“All the time I knew Mike I never realized he was so important.”
“Alive, I don’t think he was. It is his death that is important, and the reasons—if any—for it.”
“Did you mean that, what you said this afternoon about the police not wanting anything moved from this apartment?”
“Yes, for the present. I’ll have to go through everything, particularly the papers. Why do you ask?”
Shirl kept her eyes on her glass, clutching it tightly with both hands. “Mike’s lawyer was here today, and everything is pretty much like his sister said. My clothes, my personal belongings are mine, nothing else. Not that I expected anything more. But the rent has been paid here until the end of August—” she looked up squarely at Andy, “and if the furniture is left here I can stay on until then.”
“Do you want to do that?”
“Yes,” she said, nothing more.
She’s all right, Andy thought. She’s not asking any favors, no tears or that kind of thing. Just spreading her cards on the table. Well, why not? It doesn’t cost me anything. Why not?
“Consider it done. I’m a very slow apartment searcher, and an apartment this big will take until exactly midnight on the thirty-first of August to search properly. If there are any complaints refer them to Third Grade Detective Andrew Fremont Rusch, Precinct 12-A. I’ll tell the parties concerned to get lost.”
“That’s wonderful!” she said, jumping happily to her feet. “And it deserves another drink. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t feel right about, you know, selling anything from the apartment. That would be stealing. But I don’t see anything wrong with finishing off the bottles. That’s better than leaving them for that sister of his.”