“Of course,” he said. “Just so long as we understand one another.”
We did that! I rode the elevator down to the fifth floor in a cloud of outrage, where I soon discovered I was not alone. Every detective in Homicide was pissed. They all figured like I did that Pickles was getting a bum rap. He was within months of being able to pull the plug and get a pension. If IA somehow made a homicide charge stick against him, he would be out on the street with nothing.
Pickles remained hospitalized for the next ten days. Captain Tompkins found me some inane busywork checking inventories in the Evidence Room. That’s what I was doing a week later, when I made it a point to track down the McCaffey murder case file. Among the items in evidence I located the piece of paper—the blank order form—Bob Murray had used to write down the names of potential witnesses in the case. A quick check in the murder book revealed that not one of those folks had been singled out for additional interviews beyond my brief questioning of them in the bar at the Doghouse the day the shooting happened. Unbelievable! Pickles Gurkey was being railroaded fair and square.
It was almost time to go home. I had stopped by Pickles and my cubby on my way out. Pickles’s desk was awash in cards and flower and balloons. I was sitting there wondering if I should drag all that stuff up to the hospital before I went home, when my phone rang.
“Hey,” Bob Murray said. “I’ve been calling and calling. How come you never answer your phone?”
“Because I haven’t been at my desk,” I said curtly. “Did you ever think of leaving a message?”
“Is it true Internal Affairs is out to get Milton?” Bob asked.
Police departments are a lot like families. We can say whatever we like about other people inside the organization, but outsiders aren’t allowed the same privilege. I wasn’t about to badmouth Lieutenant Tatum or what he was doing.
“Internal Affairs is handling the investigation,” I said evenly.
“Yes, I know, and you can take it from me that Lieutenant Gary Tatum is an arrogant asshole,” Bob Murray responded. “He came in here for a steak once and sent it back to the kitchen because he said it was too tough to eat. I wouldn’t give him the time of day.”
That made me laugh outright. The Doghouse menu says right there in black and white that the tenderness of steaks can’t be guaranteed.
“So he thought you were what, the Canlis?” I asked.
“Do you want to be cute or do you want me to talk to you?” Bob growled.
“Talk to me,” I said. “What have you got?”
“I was talking to my produce guy the other day,” he told me. “He says the same thing that happened to Lulu has been happening to a lot of people in different restaurants all over town. Two guys come in, order, eat, and then do the old dine-and-dash bit. One minute they’re there. The next minute they’re gone without a trace and their bill is still on the table. Nobody ever sees ’em drive off in a vehicle. They just disappear into thin air.”
“A tall guy and a short guy?” I asked.
“From what he told me, the tall guy is always there—the one with the light-colored hair. The problem is, he doesn’t always seem to hang out with the same guy.”
“So the second guy varies?”
“That’s my understanding,” Bob said.
“Has the produce guy talked to Lieutenant Tatum?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Murray said. “Listen, this is my produce guy. I’m the one he talks to.”
“And these other dine-and-dash incidents,” I said. “Has anyone ever reported it?”
“Probably not. Guys like me don’t want to get involved in all that police report crap, and we don’t want the names of our restaurants showing up in local police blotters that may be sent along to the media. They figure it’s like shoplifting—it’s all part of the cost of doing business.”
“It is shoplifting,” I corrected. “What they’re lifting is your food.”
“Yes, but the amounts are small enough that it doesn’t make sense to make a huge issue of it. Lulu, may she rest in peace, was a hothead, and she always raised absolute hell about it. That’s how come she chased those guys out into the parking lot, acting like the price of their meal was going to come out of her hide. I’ve never once dinged one of my servers because somebody skipped. It’s not the waitress’s fault if the customer turns out to be a dick, pardon the expression. Why should they take a hit for it?”
Lots of people call detectives dicks. I try not to take it personally.
“Would your produce guy talk to me?” I asked.