The Old Blue Line: A Joanna Brady Novella (Joanna Brady Mysteries)

I did exactly that—brought him his double order of crisp bacon. In the process, I told my crew downstairs that I was taking the day off. Then, after delivering Harold’s breakfast and a fresh pot of coffee, I hit the hay. And slept. A bare three hours later, when Harold Meeks shook me awake, he was totally transformed. Yes, he was still pounding the floor with his walker, but he was dressed to the nines—suit, starched white shirt, and properly tied bow tie. The moccasins had been replaced by a pair of highly polished Johnston & Murphy loafers. His mane of flyaway white hair had been tamed with a layer of gel. He seemed to have shed twenty years overnight and have had a voice transplant.

 

“Showtime,” he announced. “Up and at ’em. I just had a call from a friend of mine who volunteers at the local cop shop. He tells me the search warrant crew is on their way. That’s what held everything up—obtaining the warrant. First the cops from Las Vegas had to negotiate a peace treaty with Peoria PD and let them find a warrant-friendly judge, which must not have been very easy bright and early on a Saturday morning. So get a move on. They’re probably going to take you into custody, so don’t take along anything you don’t want stuck in a property locker at the lockup. And remember, I talk, you listen. Do not say a word. Not one. Not to anyone. Not here, not in the patrol car, and not in that jail. Got it?”

 

I nodded. “What if they try to take your notes?”

 

He grinned a yellow-toothed grin. “Can’t touch ’em,” he said. “Attorney/client privilege and all that. Besides, they couldn’t read my notes if they tried. It’s my own brand of shorthand. I’ve only had one secretary who could translate it. When Gloria Gray died of a heart attack thirty years ago, that’s when I threw in the towel and stopped practicing law. I was too damned lazy to go to the trouble of training someone else.”

 

By then I could hear people storming up the wooden stairway. I sleep in my underwear. Taking my attorney’s good advice to heart, I slipped into a set of sweats and a pair of tennies. Then after a quick pit stop, I went to face my doom.

 

When I came into the hallway, Harold was stationed at the top of the steps, effectively barring any entry. “I’m Mr. Dixon’s attorney of record,” he told the people waiting outside. He spoke in the stentorian voice that had replaced his earlier squeak, and it was enough to make believers of the new arrivals as he bellowed his instructions. “There is no need for drawn weapons. My client is fully prepared to surrender peacefully as long as you have both a properly drawn arrest warrant as well as a search warrant. Mr. Dixon, by the way, has invoked his right to an attorney. That means you will not be allowed to speak to him outside my presence.”

 

There was a brief pause while documents were exchanged. Harold took his own sweet time examining them.

 

“Very well,” he said at last. “You’re welcome to search Mr. Dixon’s residence, but everyone involved in the search is required to wear gloves while doing so, lest evidence that might serve to exonerate him be disturbed in any fashion. In addition, anything you take away from here must be treated as evidence. I expect all items to be placed in properly bagged and tagged evidence containers. I’m particularly concerned that any files taken from Mr. Dixon’s office be examined for prints. If there is even the slightest indication that the chain of evidence hasn’t been properly maintained, there will be hell to pay. Is that understood?”

 

The response must have been in the affirmative. Having said his piece, Harold pulled his diminutive figure out of the way, and a crowd of cops rushed inside. At the head of the pack were two uniformed Peoria officers, guys who had been in and out of the Roundhouse often enough that I knew them by name without having to peer at their badges. Behind them were two plainclothes Peoria PD guys—one I knew and one I didn’t. Bringing up the rear were my old pals, Detectives Jamison and Shandrow.

 

“Frederick Dixon,” the first cop said. “We’re placing you under arrest for the homicide of Katherine Melcher. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

 

While my rights were being read, the second officer went around behind me to fasten the cuffs. “Sorry about this, Butch,” he murmured in my ear as he pulled my arms together. “Those guys from Vegas are a pair of pricks.”

 

We certainly agreed on that score, but I took Harold’s advice and said nothing. This was serious. Someone was trying to send me up, and my part of the bargain was to keep my mouth shut.

 

“They’ll be taking you to booking, Butch,” Harold counseled as we went past. “Again, mum’s the word. Trust me. It’s gonna be fine.”

 

I nodded, and the two uniformed officers led me down the stairs. The alcove below was crowded with people I knew, workers and customers both. Matty stood in the foreground. With her hands on both hips, she looked like she was ready to take on the cops single-handed.

 

“It’s okay, Matty,” I assured her. “This won’t take long. You’re second in command. It’s your job to keep things running until I get back.”

 

“But—” she began.

 

“Not buts,” I said. “Just do it.”

 

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