Some Like It Hawk(52)

Dad frowned, but didn’t press the subject. Then again, he knew he could make inroads on all that empty space with his presents of books for the boys. I hoped they turned out to be readers, since Dad had already given them an extensive library, including every Caldecott or Newbery Medal-winning book ever published. Now he was hunting down all the children’s books that had ever won a National Book Award, an Edgar, an Agatha, a Nebula, a World Fantasy Award, or any one of a dozen other honors.

“Evening, everyone.” Randall strolled in, helped himself to pizza matter-of-factly, and leaned against the table, ready to call the meeting to order.

“Awesome!” Rob bounced in. “You got a supreme!” He transferred three overloaded slices of his favorite pizza onto a plate that would probably have given way under the weight if he hadn’t set it on the table, plopped down on a nearby chair, and dug in. Ms. Ellie smiled indulgently and put the stack of napkins within reach.

“Good evening.” Chief Burke entered and slumped into an armchair.

“I asked the chief to join us, under the circumstances,” Randall said.

“There’s pizza,” Rob said.

The chief shook his head.

“Minerva would have my hide if I put even a bite of pizza in my stomach at this hour.” And he winced slightly, as if the day’s events had already been a little hard on his digestion. “Maybe we could get this started? It’s been a long day.”

“We’re expecting one more—ah, there he is now.”

Horace sidled into the room murmuring, “Sorry,” and probably would have remained lurking by the door if he hadn’t spotted the pizza.

“Help yourself,” Randall said.

Horace lunged at the pizza and retired to an armchair to devour his two slices.

“So what is it you’re hoping to accomplish tonight?” the chief said.

“Maybe see just how big a problem we have, and what we can do about it,” Randall said. “And I don’t just mean the murder. Though let’s start with that—we know Phineas Throckmorton didn’t do it, because he’s alibied.”

“Mostly alibied,” the chief said. “Rob wasn’t with him at the most critical few minutes.”

“But what are the chances he could actually have done anything in those few minutes?” Randall asked.

“Slender,” the chief said. “But not impossible.”

“Damn,” Randall said. “Of course, even if his alibi was ironclad, we wouldn’t want to reveal it and give away the secret of the tunnel just yet. So what are you going to say if the Evil Lender asks you to haul him out and arrest him?”

“They already have,” the chief said. “And I have already pointed out to them that if we arrested Mr. Throckmorton on the slender evidence we have so far he’d undoubtedly hit the county with a massive false arrest suit that we can ill afford.”

“Excellent!” Randall said. “That should work, even if they start demanding his arrest.”

“They can demand all they like,” the chief said. “I’m not obliged to arrest anyone just because a citizen thinks I should.”

“And they’re not even citizens,” Randall said. “Not of Caerphilly County, anyway. You could mention that if they bother you again.”

“I’ll let you mention it,” the chief said. “Because I told them if they weren’t happy with me, they should talk to you.”

“Wonderful,” Randall said. “Well, it comes with the job.”

“I’m not worried about what to do if FPF demands Mr. Throckmorton’s arrest,” the chief said. “But if they whip the press up to a frenzy, or succeed in convincing state or federal authorities that we’re being negligent in not arresting him, that could be a problem.”

“It’s also my job to keep that from happening,” Randall said. I hoped he really was as confident as he looked.

“And if FPF tries to make us look inept, you might point out that if their security officers had done their jobs properly, we might have a mite more evidence to work with,” the chief went on. “Not a single one of them stayed at his post when the shooting started. If they had, they might have noticed if someone was seen coming from the basement or leaving the building or taking off a bloodstained shirt. But instead, they were all running around like chickens with their heads cut off.”

“So you think there’s a chance the real killer could have fled the building undetected before you secured it?” Randall asked.

“The whole New Life choir could have marched out of the building singing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ without those fools noticing,” the chief said. “If someone does put Mr. Throckmorton on trial—and it wouldn’t be any DA who listens to me—I will make sure his defense attorney knows how bad the building security was.”