A Knife in the Heart. William W. Johnstone

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СКАЧАТЬ this inmate . . .” He looked to Jackson for a name.

      “Delmonico,” Jackson said. “Carlos Delmonico.”

      “Carlos Pablo Diego,” Fallon corrected. “Delmonico is a restaurant.” He wasn’t sure if the jab at the warden’s obesity registered with M. C. Jackson, but the grin on French’s face said at least one of the visitors understood.

      “Yes, yes, yes. Diego.” Jackson had to find a handkerchief to wipe his sweaty face.

      “The Fourth,” Fallon added.

      “What do you have, Hank?”

      Fallon slid the papers to the center of the desk. Jackson tried to stand, but couldn’t without effort, and by the time he had pulled himself halfway out of the chair—it had arms, and the fat lout barely managed to squeeze between them—French had taken the stack and was finding his spectacles.

      “He pled guilty, Hank.” French looked over his bifocals.

      “I know,” Fallon conceded.

      “You can argue points of law,” French said, “look at improper evidence, perjury, bits of law. But a confession. . . a guilty plea. What brought all this about?”

      “His kid asked me to look into it,” Fallon said. “He’s a student at the Abraham Lincoln Academy here in town.”

      “And you did, of course.” French grinned, shook his head, and found another document.

      “Heck,” Fallon said. “To be honest with you, I thought it would be a waste of my time. Figured I’d check it out, realize the man was behind bars for a good reason, and go about my business. But the more I looked into the matter, the more I smelled a rat.”

      “I resent that remark, sir,” the fat man whined.

      “I was not talking about you,” Fallon said quietly.

      “You’re talking about taking away one of my prisoners!”

      “Shut up,” French said. He scanned the page, slid it back to the desktop, and looked at another paper.

      “Have you interviewed Diego?” French asked. The warden guffawed. “He doesn’t even speak English, the damned greaser.”

      The room turned quiet. Hector French removed his eyeglasses and slipped them back inside his vest pocket.

      “Exactly,” Fallon said, and slid two signed affidavits in front of the attorney general. The spectacles came out of the vest pocket, and this time French sat down to read. When he finished, he leaned forward and put the papers back on Fallon’s desk.

      “These men did not testify?” French asked.

      “Diego pled guilty, ending the trial.”

      “The interpreter?”

      Fallon shook his head. “From what Christina and I have learned, you and I speak better Spanish than he does.”

      French grinned. “Christina’s working on this one with you?”

      “Once a private detective . . .” Fallon shrugged and smiled slightly.

      M. C. Jackson tried to squeeze out of the chair, which Fallon hoped the fat man did not break.

      “What’s your next step?” French asked.

      “Cross some T’s and dot some I’s,” Fallon said.

      “Find an interpreter and head down to Laramie to visit Diego in the Big House. See what he has to say. If it feels right, then I bring it to you.”

      French nodded, then shook his head. “Ten-year sentence. For horse theft. After a guilty plea. Must have been a damned fine horse.”

      “That’s what Christina and I thought.”

      French stood, helped pull the obese warden out of the chair, and shook Fallon’s hand. “Keep me posted on this, Hank,” French said. “I don’t like thinking of innocent men behind bars.” His eyes locked on Fallon. “Do you ever think about that, about the men you arrested?”

      “I didn’t,” Fallon answered. “Until I wound up in Joliet.”

      “Yeah.”

      Jackson decided to say something. “Well, Diego won’t be my problem once I get the job in Leavenworth.”

      “And you won’t be my problem, either,” French said, and moved to the door, opened it, and called out, “Let me know if you need anything, Hank. Jackson, I suppose you’ll be joining me for dinner.”

      “By all means,” the warden said, and lumbered through the door.

      “My lucky day,” French said, and closed the door after the fat man exited Fallon’s office.

      * * *

      During his forced, and, thankfully, brief, employment —or imprisonment—with the American Detective Agency, Fallon had been an undercover officer, not a detective, but now he kept putting together evidence—hoping he might have enough to present to a judge and the attorney general, and see about getting Carlos Pablo Diego IV out of the Big House Across the River in Laramie.

      Four days later, he decided it was time to travel to Laramie, meet with the warden, get an interview with Diego, and see what he would tell. Christina had found an interpreter, a cook at one of the small cafés in Cheyenne that catered mostly to cowboys. Two round-trip train tickets to Laramie and back for Fallon and Señora Rodriguez. They could do this on the cook’s day off, no hotel, since Fallon was paying for this on his own.

      He stood before Helen in the outer office, asking his secretary if she could telephone the train depot, see about getting those tickets for Monday, when the door opened, and Attorney General Hector French removed his bowler.

      “Hank,” he said. “Helen.” His face was grim. “Got a minute?” he asked Fallon, and already was moving to Fallon’s office.

      “Would you like a cup of coffee, Hec?” Helen asked.

      “ No.”

      Fallon frowned, entered his office, closed the door, and saw the yellow telegraph paper that the attorney general held out for him to read.

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      “It stinks,” French said. “And I hate to bring it this way. But I figured . . .” He sighed.

      Fallon leaned against his desk, shaking his head.

      He looked at the telegraph, read it again, felt his stomach turn over, his heart sink, and he wondered if God was playing another joke on him or cursing him.

      Carlos Pablo Diego IV, Convict Number 4231, was dead. Knifed in the back, throat slashed, in the exercise yard at the state prison in Laramie on Thursday afternoon.

      “It stinks, all right,” Fallon СКАЧАТЬ