False Negative (Hard Case Crime) by Joseph Koenig Read Free Book Online

doorstep...the mailbox was full... he let himself in, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary... till he noticed the drawing of the dead girl in the Press .”
    The pauses were becoming longer, invitations for Jordan to pick up his marbles and go. He pulled up a chair. “The husband have a first name?”
    “In a few days I’ll call back all the reporters for another heads-up.”
    “All of us are here now,” Jordan said. “Van Pelt was pinch-hitting.”
    Day gave him a sour look. Jordan decided that van Pelt was entitled to part.
    “Susannah Chase’s husband is Hub Chase.”
    “Should I know him?”
    “He does some pinch-hitting, too. For the Newark Bears. He’s an outfielder, a .300 hitter with some power.”
    “You like him for killing her?”
    Day shook his head.
    “How come? The husband’s always guilty till proven innocent. Estranged husbands are the gold standard of homicide suspects.”
    “He was with his club at the time of the murder.”
    “This much I do know about minor league baseball,” Jordan said. “The season ended two months ago.”
    “The Bears were barnstorming with the Havana Sugar Kings. Hub’s teammates, coaches, manager, a batboy, several batting practice pitchers, and about two hundred thousand fans will swear he was playing ball in Cuba while his wife was gettingherself strangled. He says he still loved her. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
    Jordan scribbled in his notebook. When he looked up, Day was watching the door.
    “I talked to the Chase broad’s sister,” Riley said as he came in. “Nice piece of tail, but she doesn’t have anything we don’t—” His expression changed several times before settling on a sorry look that was entirely for Jordan. “What’s he doing here?”
    “Don’t mind him,” Day said. “I’m tossing him a few bones.”
    “Yeah, but why?”
    “It’s the price for having him say nice things about us in the Press .”
    “You won’t get much,” Riley said. “He doesn’t work there any more. You didn’t hear they canned him for making stuff up?”
    Day’s hand slapped against his side. To Jordan it almost looked like he was going for his gun. Not to shoot the messenger.
    “I’m covering the case for another publication,” Jordan said.
    “What other?” Day said.
    “It doesn’t make a difference. The story’s the same.”
    “Don’t tell me what makes a difference to me,” Day said.
    “ Real Detective magazine.”
    “Those rags don’t print anything real,” Riley said. “They’re whaddayacallit, fiction.”
    “I’m just as careful with the facts.”
    “What’s that worth?” Riley said.
    “I’m not giving up on a good story because you don’t approve of the publication I work for.”
    “A writer for one of those magazines came through right before the war,” Day said. “He picked a young cop’s brains on a big murder, and stiffed him for the pictures. It cost the cop his job, and I should know. He was my old man. Get out of my sight before I toss you in a cell.”
    “This isn’t Russia. You can’t threaten me.”
    “It is till I stand corrected. Who’s going to read me the FirstAmendment riot act now that you don’t have the Press behind you? A fancypants New York editor?”
    Jordan didn’t have answers but was ready to argue. Riley hauled him out of his seat with an arm bent behind his back, and he was waltzed down the corridor smoothly and without a lot of pain except when he struggled hard. Outside, in the fresh air, it didn’t seem like a bad argument to have lost.

CHAPTER 3
    Jordan swung back around Atlantic City for the road through the salt marshes to Brigantine. Summer’s grassy tangle had decayed into muck, and he lit up against the rotten egg smell. On the horizon, the picturesque Brigantine lighthouse, erected as a tourist draw, warned the new money toward Cape Cod and the east end of Long Island. Jordan, without money of any kind, shied away