And 47 Miles of Rope (Trace 2) by Warren Murphy Page A

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10
     
    Trace had just finished dressing and reloading his tape recorder when the telephone rang. It was Dan Rosado.
    “Trace, is your father in town?”
    “Yes, why?”
    “I met him today.”
    “Oh?”
    “Yeah. He came down to headquarters. He said he wanted to register his hands as deadly weapons.”
    “Was he drinking?”
    “I don’t think so. I think he just wanted to look around. I think he misses being on the job,” Rosado said.
    “He misses being out of the house. He’s with my mother. Did you meet her?” Trace asked.
    “No.”
    “If you do, register her mouth as a deadly weapon.”
    “I’ll give her a wide berth. Anyway, Trace, I thought you’d just like to know.”
    “Thanks, Dan.”
    Trace was at the front door when the telephone rang again.
    “Trace, this is Bob,” Swenson’s voice growled. “Where are you?”
    “On my way to that reception.”
    “Get here fast. There’s a woman here that you won’t believe.”
    “I know her,” Trace said. “She’s into donkeys.”
    “Hee haw, hee haw,” Swenson said. “Will that do?”
    “That and maybe your checkbook if you’re interested in financing fuck films.”
    “As long as I don’t have to be in them,” Swenson said. “Oh, by the way.”
    “I hate your by-the-ways. They always mean trouble for me,” Trace said.
    “I think I figured out what Marks is up to,” Swenson said.
    “What’s that?”
    “The insurance company that had those jewels insured? I was talking to the president today and he told me they’ve got a big fancy detective here to investigate the theft.”
    “So what?” Trace asked.
    “I think Marks figures that the guy will show you up and you’ll look like an idiot.”
    “What change would that effect? I always look like an idiot.”
    “You know that and I know that,” Swenson cheerfully agreed. “But I think what Walter has in mind is that if you are really made to look like an imbecile, he can come at me and complain about why I keep you on retainer when, for the same amount of money, we could get somebody really good.”
    “So this is the way it is,” Trace said. “Tossed aside like an old shoe after years of service. Your faithful watchdog. Now I’m old and my teeth are going and my breath is bad, so it’s off to the city dump. That’s it, huh?”
    “Are you rehearsing for the school play or what?” Swenson asked. “How could I ever let you go? You mean too much to me.”
    “Old friendships are best,” Trace said.
    “Not really. I just want you around to introduce me to this blonde with the knockers.”
    “What about Flamma?”
    “Next to this one? Flamma could incinerate herself in my fireplace and I wouldn’t bother getting a cup of water from the kitchen.”
    “I’ll be over in a little bit,” Trace said. “By the way, what’s the guy’s name?”
    “What guy?”
    “The big insurance detective who’s going to make me look bad.”
    “That’s an interesting part,” Swenson said. “Nobody knows. He works in secret for a lot of companies but no one knows his name or who he is. They say he’s bagged a lot of jewel thieves in Europe. Just gives the information to the cops and then splits, and no one knows anything about him.”
    “When’s he coming? Maybe I can get done fast,” Trace said.
    “I’m told he’s already here in town. Hurry up over.”
     
     
    It didn’t really matter, Trace told himself as he walked from his condominium down the broad Las Vegas Strip toward the Araby Casino and Hotel four blocks away. What did he care if the ghost of Sherlock Holmes was trudging the Las Vegas streets right now, ready to swoop down on the jewel thief and murderer? No skin off his nose.
    Right?
    Definitely not right, he admitted to himself. Screw Groucho. He was just not about to be shown up, not by Sherlock Holmes, not by anybody. It didn’t have anything to do with any longing for justice or any overriding sense that murderers and jewel thieves should be brought to