The Diehard by Jon A. Jackson Read Free Book Online Page B

“It involved a lot of computer diddling, a lot of fast talking and a lot of smart planning. The federal grand jury has indicted a whole shitpot of them, but they haven't been able to touch Clippert yet, even though the U.S. Attorney hinted to me that the Flying Clipper was the biggest fish of them all.”
    “What makes him so golden?” Mulheisen asked.
    “I'm glad you asked,” McClain said. “You know what the take was over there? No? The feds don't know either. They haven't been able to untangle the computer yet. But so far, they think it might go to twenty million dollars.”
    “Dollars?”
    “Moola, mazooma, gelt, shekels, bucks. Twenty million. And no one—I repeat, no one—will say a word against the chief counsel of the corporation, the honorable All-American. The federal attorney says, but not out loud, that the reason no one will implicate Clippert is because Clippert is the bagman.”
    “So,” Mulheisen said, “a number of people are looking at jailterms and the only guy who can bankroll their defense is Clippert, and nobody wants to annoy his banker.”
    “Plus,” McClain said, “they know they won't be in the can forever and when they come out—in six months, eighteen months, five years, whatever—the twenty big ones will still be there and their faithful banker will be making discreet deposits in discreet accounts—”
    “If he's still around,” Mulheisen said.
    “Oh, he'll be around. It's a two-way street. If he doesn't come through for his clients they could have him inside so fast the snow wouldn't melt on his galoshes. But for now, they're like a deaf-and-dumb choir. And don't think the feds haven't been on them. They've got some promising candidates, about twenty of them. They've got executives, secretaries, a computer programmer—he was the genius, I guess. The feds have offered immunity, reduced sentences, everything. The grand jury is going nuts. Not a sound from the choir.”
    Mulheisen lit a cigar.
    “That the only one of them things you got?” McClain asked.
    Mulheisen dug out another one.
    “But we still have a murder, Lad,” Mulheisen said. “What's the connection between Fidelity Funding and the murder? Or are you still thinking it was a simple burglary that went haywire?”
    “Twenty million dollars is a very strong motive for murder, Mul. Say you stage a fake burglary and then score Clippert's old lady . . .”
    “But why, Lad?”
    McClain shrugged. “Who knows, at this point? Maybe somebody knows that Clippert is trying to pull a fast one, skip country or something. Maybe it's a shakedown by the Mob. The Mob hears about an unattached twenty million floating around, they'll get on it quick, like Tom Mix on Tony.”
    “And what if Clippert is innocent in the Fidelity Funding case?”
    Laddy McClain's face was contorted in scorn. “Shit. And double shit.” He laid his hands palms down on the littered desk and puffed out a billow of cigar smoke. “Here's what we got,” he said.“We got a corpse, a ton of unfinished lab work, no autopsy yet, and no witnesses. But we think it was just one guy did it.”
    “How do you figure that?” Mulheisen asked.
    “Footprints in the snow. A single set of them in fresh snow leading out the back door of the garage, across the yard and down the alley. He fell down at least once and there was blood. He was headed toward Kercheval. The boys are canvassing up there. There's a drugstore, a restaurant, a couple of record shops. Somebody must have seen something. He had to hail a cab, or take a bus, or maybe he had a car there.”
    “Or maybe he lived around there,” Mulheisen said.
    “That too,” McClain said.
    “By the way, where is Clippert?” Mulheisen asked.
    McClain looked at his watch. “He's home,” he said, “waiting for us.”

Eight
    There was still blood on the wall of the living room, where Jane Clippert had staggered through en route to the Mercers’. But the lights had been turned low in that room and there was