"Got some kid back in the tank, or somewhere," the patrolman said.
"Asking him a couple of questions, that's all." He added, "Hey,
listen, buddy, what do you want to see the lieutenant for? I mean, you
can't just go charging in to--"
Malone was down the stairs before he'd finished. He went, up to the
desk.
The desk sergeant looked down. "What's it this time?" he said. "A
track meet?"
"I'm in a hurry," Malone said. "Where are the cells? I want to see
Lieutenant Lynch."
The desk sergeant nodded. "Okay," he said. "But the lieutenant ain't
in any of the cells. He's back in Interrogation with some kid."
"Take me there," Malone said.
"I'll show you, anyway," the sergeant said. "Can't leave the desk on
duty." He cleared his throat and gave Malone a set of directions that
took him around to the back of the station. He was repeating the
directions when Malone left.
There was a door at the end of a corridor at the back of the station.
It was a plain wooden door with the numeral _1_ stenciled on it.
Malone opened it and looked inside.
He was staring into a rather small, rather plain little room. There
were absolutely no bright beam lights burning, and there didn't seem
to be any rubber hoses around anywhere. There were only four chairs.
Seated in three of the chairs were Lieutenant Lynch and two other
police officers. In the fourth chair, facing them, was a young boy.
He didn't look like a tough kid. He had wavy black hair, brown eyes,
and what Malone thought looked like a generally friendly appearance.
He was slight and wiry, not over five feet five or six. And he wore an
expression that was neither too eager nor hostile. It wasn't just
blank, either; Malone finally pinned it down as receptive.
He had the strangest impression that he had seen the boy somewhere
before. But he couldn't remember when or where.
Lieutenant Lynch was talking.
"...all we want, Mike, is a little information. We thought you'd be
able to help us, if you wanted to. Now, how about it?"
"Sure," Mike Fueyo said. His voice was a little high, but it was well
controlled and responsive. "Sure, Lieutenant. I'll help if I can, but
I just don't dig what you're giving me. It doesn't make sense."
Lynch stirred a little impatiently, and his voice began to carry a new
bite. "I'm talking about Cadillacs," he said. "Red Cadillacs, 1972
models."
"It's a nice car," Mike said.
"What do you know about them?" Lynch said.
"Know about them?" Mike said. "I know they're nice cars. That's about
it. What else am I going to know, Lieutenant? Maybe you think I own
one of these big red 1972 Caddies. Maybe you think I got that kind of
money. Well, listen, Lieutenant. I'd like to help you out, but I'm
just not--"
"The Cadillacs," Lynch said, "were--"
"Just a minute, Lieutenant," Malone said. Dead silence fell with great
suddenness. Lynch and all the others looked around at Malone, who
smiled apologetically. "I don't want to disturb anything," he said.
"But I would like to talk to Mike here for a little while."
"Oh," Lynch said sourly. "Sure. Sure."
"I'd like to ask him a couple of questions," Malone said. "Alone."
"Alone." Lynch said. "Oh." But there was nothing for him to do, Malone
knew, except bow to the inevitable. "Of course," he said. "Go right
ahead."
"You can stand outside the door," Malone said. "He won't get away. And
you'd better hold this." Malone, knowing perfectly well that staying
armed and alone in a room with a suspect was something you just did
not do, unstrapped his .44 Magnum and handed it to the lieutenant.
He left reluctantly with his men. The door closed.
Malone could understand Lynch's attitude. If Malone solved the case,
Lynch would not get any credit. Otherwise, it might go down in his
personal record. And of course the NYPD would rather wrap the case up
themselves; the FBI was treated as a necessary interference.
Unfortunately, Malone thought, Lynch had had absolutely no choice. He
sighed gently, and turned his attention to Mike Fueyo, who was still
sitting in his chair.
"Now, Mike--" he began, and was interrupted.
The door opened. Lieutenant Lynch said, "If you need us, Malone, just
yell."
"You'll hear me," Malone promised. The door shut.
He turned back to the boy. "Now, Mike," he began again. "My name is
Malone, and I'm with the FBI in Washington. I'd like to ask you a
few--"
"Gee, Mr. Malone," Mike broke in eagerly. "I'm glad you're here. I'm
really glad about that."