Rough Cut – A Moe Gafferson Mystery
Written by Desdmona. Edited by Poison Ivan
Chapter 18
It was 10:48 PM. The chances of Detective Jansen still being at work were slim to none. Those odds didn't keep Moe from driving straight to Station House Number One after leaving Boch's den of perversion. The street lamps on Central Parkway lit up the front of the Romanesque police house like it was opening night at the Albee Theater. The forty-eight-starred red, white and blue flapping on its pole in front gave Moe a momentary stab of patriotism. He told himself he wasn't here just because Boch was a threat to him, but because Boch was a threat to America. Bad guys had to be stopped no matter what the cost. It was the American way.
Moe tucked his Brownie and Roscoe under the car seat and locked the Buick up tight. The short walk to the entrance left him cold, inside and out. He tried to shake the feeling from deep in his bones. He hated going to the police. Half of them were as crooked as the criminals they prosecuted. But this caper had already gotten out of hand. People were dropping like flies around him. So far, the dead didn't include a good guy, but who knew when Boch would cross that line? The man had to be stopped. A last glance up at the flag was enough to push Moe through the front door.
It was a slow night in the precinct. A couple of second-hand Sues were parked on a scratched up bench, waiting for processing. The two prostitutes shared similarities, beyond just the paint and rags, that reminded Moe of a before and after picture. They could pass for a mother-daughter act. 'Look out sister, that could be you in fifteen years,' Moe wanted to tell the younger one. Keeping them company was a bozo vying for the cackle factory. The gee kept banging his head against the side of the bench and mixing his words like he was making a salad instead of a sentence.
Moe walked over to the only desk with a working boy in blue behind it. A portrait of somebody's mother was the desk's main attraction. "Any chance Detective Jansen's still around?" Moe asked.
The copper replied, but his eyes and nose stayed pinned to his copy of
Outdoor Life
. "Who wants to know?"
"The name's Gafferson. Moe Gafferson."
John Law lifted his eyes and shot a glimpse at Moe. Apparently, he saw nothing to take him away from fly-fishing, and he went back to reading. As an afterthought, he added, "Yeah, he's here. Up the stairs and to the right."
Moe knew the layout: flatfoots shared the first floor while the suits camped out on the second. The stairwell separating the two floors circled upwards in an ornate scroll like it should be hosting debutantes instead of criminals and fat detectives. The handrail sported large gaps in the varnish, rubbed off from years of use. And the paint job on the walls peeled more than a dried up sunburn. Also upstairs was the goldfish room where Moe spent most of his last trip to Station Number One. It was a left turn. Moe went right.
Jansen had put in enough years to have a door with just his name on it, but for some reason his name shared the glass with three others: Jansen, McPherson, Braxton, and Havrum. At least the old cop had top billing. A quick rap on the opaque glass and Moe opened the door. Jansen's desk was the only one occupied.
"Got a second?" asked Moe.
Detective Jansen looked like he'd been dancing with an electric fan. His shirt was open at the collar and missing a tie. Half a shirttail was tucked in; the other half flapped over his beltline. Buttons strained against his gut with the bottom two missing in action. The only thing keeping his hair in place was pomade - there was enough of it to grease a Cadillac.
Jansen tossed his newspaper and pen onto his cluttered desk. He was halfway through the daily crossword. "I heard some dogs clipping across the hall floor," the old cop said. "I never expected them to belong to you, Gafferson. Come to confess, have you?"
"And make your job easy? Not a chance." Moe glanced around the room. "Don't you have a home?"
Jansen's chair was on wheels - he used them to swing out and face Moe directly. "My private life ain't your business, Gafferson." He peered up at the only thing on the wall that wasn't dirt - a white-faced clock with big black numbers. "But speaking of a private life, shouldn't you be at home boffing a nurse?"
Something about the lonely, envious look in Jansen's eyes let Moe forgive the crass remark about Mona. "I came to talk about Karl Boch."
Jansen swiveled his chair back toward his desk, his belly keeping him from getting too close. "You got a political beef, take it to the polls," he grumbled. He picked up the newspaper and pen. Tapping the pen against his mouth, he left dots of ink on his lower lip.
"This is more than just me not liking slimy Isolationists," Moe said.
"The man's a jerk, but it ain't my department." Jansen screwed up his brow. "What's a five letter word for seraglio?"
"Harem."
He shook his head. "Nah, starts with an 's.'"
"Serai."
"By goddamned, you're right. I've been trying to figure that out for twenty minutes." Jansen smirked. "Figures you'd know about women slaves."
"Listen, Jansen. I'm not here to play word games. I'm trying to report a crime. Does murder and diamond smuggling figure anywhere in your department? Or should I try the rookie down behind the desk?"
Detective Jansen leaned back in a familiar pose: arms folded across his chest and resting on his gut. "All right, you got my attention, Gafferson. Make it worth my time."
Moe crooked his head toward an empty chair on the opposite side of Jansen's desk. "I feel like sitting."
Jansen scratched at the day's growth of beard on his chin and yawned like he was too tired to consider Moe's request. Finally, he said, "Be my guest."
Moe settled into the chair and gathered his thoughts. Jansen was a no-nonsense sort of man, and Moe respected the cop's hard-boiled attitude even if it bordered on pig-headed. Straight up seemed the best way to blow the works. "Peter Schmidt and Rolf Metzger were involved in a diamond smuggling scheme. Boch was the butter and egg man."
Jansen's stony face didn't react. "If you're trying to fry my wig, you'll need a little more fuel," he said, absently rubbing his balding head. "You got any proof?"
"Schmidt's sister. She knows the setup."
Jansen perked up. "A sister you say? Funny she never showed up at Routsong's for Schmidt's cold meat party."
Moe shrugged. He had no idea why Danja would miss her brother's funeral. She seemed devoted to him. The most likely reason was she was unable to, thanks to Boch.
"In fact," continued Jansen, "the funeral parlor said he had no next of kin."
