In the police HQ interrogation room I asked, “Who you workin for?”

The big goon that I had cold cocked in the bar earlier, sat silently staring at me, his lip bloody and his nose broken.

Finally he decided to speak, in a nasal tone he said, “I don gotta tell you notin.”

Sergeant Hammet looked at me, excused himself from the room and shut the door.

“Is that so tough guy?,” I said while boxing in his ears.

“Yo dat hurts, stop it, geez Louise, giva guy a break, I aint gettin that much dough to put up wit dis,” he said.

“Now you’re talkin my language. Spill,” I said.

“Dis guy, I dunno his name, he pay me, tell me to call you up tell you I got info, I’m like supose ta kill ya,” he said.

“Go on,” I said impatiently.” What did this guy look like?”

“He was short, had red hair,” the goon said.
Red hair, like his mother, Congresswoman Schweiz, I said to myself. I should have known.

Her son had been missing a year, the case O’Hanely and I were on when O’Hanley was killed.

So her kid killed my partner.