Silent Thunder by Loren D. Estleman Page A

of that, we got federal men poking around the house where the murder took place and they won’t even tell us why. Doesn’t matter that we know. And that’s another thing: Where are the local authorities when a private individual is busy amassing the largest arsenal west of Fort Dix in his basement?”
    “Riding horses?”
    “Taking a piss, busting drunks for throwing up on a cop’s shoes, it don’t matter.” His grammar was failing, a stormy sign. “There’s an election in November and the spirit of reform is in the air. The sanctimonious little twerps smell blood. As if things would be any different six months after they took office.”
    “Another set of dirty underwear is still a change,” I said.
    That got to him. “You need our goodwill, you cheap son of a bitch. Who wants to hire a private eye who keeps getting doors slammed in his face?”
    “I think I will have that drink.”
    He didn’t move. I got up and went over and poured myself one, using the fizz. “My face is on every door between here and Port Huron,” I said. “I’d rather be thrown down the back steps at Detroit Police Headquarters than invited into the Iroquois Heights city hall. This is good whiskey.”
    “I’d like to throw you down a few steps myself.”
    “Nice shack. Is it paid for?”
    “It was a gift. From the grateful citizens of Iroquois Heights.”
    “In other words, Doyle Thayer.”
    “He’s a citizen.”
    “Congratulations. Cecil Fish only got a boat, I heard. What about your boss the chief, or does he rate? He’s been sick a long time.”
    “We’re all friends here,” he said. “Sure, I’m bought. Show me someone in public office who isn’t, if not for money then for the promise of power. A lot of important work gets done anyway. Just because I’m not your idea of a servant of the people don’t mean I don’t do my job. Nobody’s paying me to spring a murderer.”
    “Somebody’s paying you plenty to see it doesn’t happen.”
    “Where’s the harm, if justice is served?”
    “You political cops are always talking about justice when you mean the law,” I said. “Every election you run ads promising equal justice, as if there were any other kind. You can’t serve justice, and you sure as hell can’t sell it. Whenever you try it turns into something else. Either it’s there or it isn’t. Iroquois Heights is where it isn’t.”
    He straightened to his full height. It pushed out his paunch a little. He needed the horse. “You ought to be more grateful. I had you in jail once. Inmates have been known to hang themselves in their cells.”
    “I’m supposed to thank you because I didn’t?”
    “It could still happen.”
    “Romero told me I wasn’t under arrest. Okay, what’s the beef so I can order the rope?”
    “I didn’t mean now. Right now you’re under safe conduct because it’s in my best interest to keep you that way. I meant later. These charges they got against me are so much chickenshit.”
    “If I were you I’d worry about hanging my self. Some of the people who’ve been paying you for all this good police work you’ve been doing might not want you to turn state’s evidence against them.”
    That hadn’t occurred to him. He scowled down at his glass, but he didn’t like the fortune he read there. He emptied it and set it down.
    “What were you doing at Thayer Junior’s place yesterday?” he said.
    “Trying to keep from being blown clear to Lansing, mostly. You ought to get in on the auction. The department could use another fifty-caliber machine gun, I bet. For interrogations.”
    “Jesus Christ. Don’t you ever quit?”
    “Not unless the job quits me first.”
    “I’ll see they put that on your headstone.” The doorbell rang. “That’s Thayer Senior. Ever met him?”
    “Never.”
    “He’s a corker.”
    The maid came in and announced the corker.

12
    H E CAME IN SLOWLY, but without hesitating; he hadn’t entered anyplace uncertain of his welcome in more than