The Cooperman Variations by Howard Engel Read Free Book Online Page A

it was announced.”
    “Is your office any safer?” I asked in a whisper as we headed down the corridor on the twentieth floor.
    “Your guess is as good as mine, Benny. Of course, I don’t trust Sally. She comes with the space, like the air conditioning. Her loyalties go with the twentieth floor. I don’t know who she’s talking to.”
    “I want you to get someone to move your desk, Vanessa. When your door is open, I can see you behind your desk from the elevator. Nice target. Nice furniture. What’s her full name?”
    “Sally’s?”
    “Who else have we been talking about?”
    “Sally is Mrs. Gordon Jackson. She lives in Richmond Hill, north of the city.”
    “Good,” I said, making a note. Vanessa slipped out of her jacket and slid it over the back of her chair. “What’s next on your schedule?”
    “One hour and a half from now a meeting’s taking place down the hall. All of the people under me will be there, except for those out of town or in a body cast. Wanna meet ’em?”
    “I guess I’d better. What are you up to in the meantime?”
    “I’m having a massage, and you’re cordially not invited.”
    * * *
    Before paying a courtesy call on the cops in charge of Renata Sartori’s murder investigation, I phoned home, left word with my answering service and had a laugh with Frank Bushmill about where my much-needed holiday had taken me. At least it wasn’t Buffalo. I gave him my number at NTC in case he needed to get in touch.
    I had never visited 52 Division, City of Toronto Police, before. I was impressed by the brightness of the place: lots of glass and windows and overhead lighting. Glass brick from the sixties or earlier. The man at the reception desk looked more like a hotel clerk than a desk sergeant. I told him that I wanted to see Staff Sergeant Jack Sykes, who was in charge of the Renata Sartori case. I had my name taken and was shown where I could sit down and wait.
    I had not researched many of last year’s periodicals when I heard my name called in a brisk, metallic voice. I closed the magazine, immediately forgot what I had been reading in it and got to my feet. Watching me was a body that could have belonged only to a big-city policeman. He stood six foot two and was carrying about seventy pounds of extra weight around his waist, which even a heavy belt couldn’t disguise. This effect was strengthened by his narrow hips and tiny butt. His hair was straight and sandy, tending to fall across his right eye. Blue eyes and a firm jaw set in a ruddy face completed the first impression. He held out his hand and showed a double row of even, friendly teeth.
    “Mr. Cooperman. Glad you dropped in.”
    “Staff Sergeant Sykes?” I asked.
    “Boyd,” he said and amended it to “James Boyd,” giving me the feeling I’d heard the combination before. “Jack’s on the phone; with luck he may be finished by the time we get there.” He turned and left the reception area without looking over his shoulder. I followed him to a room at the back without getting a glimpse of holding cells or suspects in handcuffs. It must have been a slow day.
    Sykes’s door stood open. He was leaning back in a swivel chair, in some danger of overbalancing. He was still on the phone, but waved James Boyd and me into the room. In front of him lay a thick Toronto phone book, with “VICE” written in felt pen along the open edge. The desk was a mess of paper. I liked him already.
    “… Go look it up in the transcript of the trial. Don’t ask me. Listen, Sheldon, I’m a working stiff, okay? Why don’t you go down to the Police Museum and talk to Les Mayhew. He knows all that ancient stuff. He was there , which I wasn’t.” He cupped his hand over the phone and said he’d be with us in a minute. I could see that he had long ago grown tired of this call. “Sheldon, you get credit on the cover for writing your books, right? In your past three books did I see a word about the time I’ve given you? What I’m