“Heller,” I said. “Chicago P.D.”
He just looked at me. Didn’t glance at the badge. Then, slowly, the gash where his mouth should be turned up at one corner—in amusement, or disgust, or both.
“I’m here to see the Colonel,” I said.
“We have several colonels here, sonny boy.”
I let that pass. Put away my shield. “Are you in charge?”
“Colonel Schwarzkopf is in charge.”
“Okay. Let me talk to that colonel, then.”
“He’s in conference with Colonel Lindbergh and Colonel Breckinridge.”
“Well, tell them Colonel Heller’s here.”
He tapped my chest with a hard forefinger. “You’re not funny, sonny boy. And you’re not wanted here, either. You’re not needed. Why don’t you go back to Chicago with the rest of the lowlife crooks?”
“Why don’t you kiss my rosy-red ass?” I suggested cheerfully.
The tiny eyes got wide. He started to reach out for me.
“Don’t put your hands on me, old man,” I said. I lifted one eyebrow and one forefinger, in a gesture of friendly advice.
The eyes of thirty-some state cops were on me as I stood toe to toe with one of their own, probably a fucking inspector or something, getting ready to go a few rounds.
A bad moment that could get worse.
I raised both my hands, palms out, backed up and smiled. “Sorry,” I said. “I had a long trip, and I’m a little washed-out. Everybody’s under the gun here, everybody’s nerves are a little ragged. Let’s not have any trouble, or the press boys will make us all look like chumps.”
The inspector (if that’s what he was) thought that over, and then said, “Just leave the command post,” stiffly, loud enough to save some face. “You’re not wanted here.”
I nodded and picked up my bag and found my way out.
Shaking my head at the inspector’s stupidity, and my own, I knocked at the door adjacent to the big garage. I was about to knock a second time when the door cracked open. A pale, pretty female face peeked out; her bobbed hair was as dark as her big brown eyes, which bore a sultriness at odds with her otherwise apple-cheeked wholesome good looks.
“Yes, sir?” she asked, in a lilting Scots burr tinged with apprehension.
I took off my hat and smiled politely. “I’m a police officer, here from Chicago. Colonel Lindbergh requested…”
“Mr. Heller?”
“Yes,” I said, brightly, enjoying being recognized as a human being, and a specific one at that. “Nathan Heller. I have identification.”
She smiled wearily but winningly. “Please come in, Mr. Heller. You’re expected.”
Taking my topcoat, hat and gloves, she said, “I’m Betty Gow. I work for the Lindberghs.”
“You were the boy’s nurse.”
She nodded and turned her back, before I could ask anything else, and I followed her through what was apparently a sitting room for servants—though no one was using the magazines, radio, card table or comfy furnishings, at the moment—into a connecting hall. Following her shapely rear end as it twitched under the simple blue-and-white print dress was the most fun I’d had today.
In a kitchen larger than my one-room apartment back home, a horse-faced woman of perhaps fifty, wearing cook’s whites, was doing dishes. At a large round oak table, seated with her hands folded as if praying, sat a petite, delicately attractive young woman—perhaps twenty-five—with beautiful haunted blue eyes and a prim, slight, sad smile. A small cup of broth and a smaller cup of tea were before her, apparently untouched.
I swallowed and stopped in my tracks. I recognized her at once as Colonel Lindbergh’s wife, Anne.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Mrs. Lindbergh,” Betty said, gesturing formally toward me. “This is Mr. Nathan Heller, of the Chicago Police.”
Betty Gow exited, while Anne Morrow Lindbergh stood, before I could ask her not to, and extended her hand. I took it—her flesh was cool, her smile was warm.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Heller. I know my husband is looking forward to meeting you.”
She wore a plain navy-blue frock with a white collar; her dark hair was tied back with a blue plaid scarf.
“I’m looking forward to meeting him,” I said. “And it’s an honor meeting you, ma’am. I wish it were under happier circumstances.”
Her smile tightened, bravely but not convincingly. “With the help of men like yourself, perhaps happier circumstances will find us.”
“I hope so, ma’am.”
There was a sudden sparkle in the sad eyes. “You needn’t call me ‘ma’am,’ Mr. Heller, though I do appreciate the sentiment. Are you tired from your trip? You must be. I’m afraid you missed lunch…we’ll have to get you something.”