Frings sat in a booth at an all-night diner, waiting for Piet Westermann, a cop. The bright lights showed the place’s filth. Frings couldn’t imagine eating here, but the coffee was strong. The only other customer was an older man wearing a tweed suit despite the heat, mumbling manically to nobody. Frings half-read a flyer someone had left on the table.
Truffant for Mayor
End the Communist Threat
Restore Christian American Values to the City
He rolled the flyer up and then twisted the roll until it was tight. He’d just met with part of the “Communist Threat.” He was aware that in Truffant’s eyes, he might even be part of the Threat. But it was hard to imagine Washington, Eddings, and Askins posing much danger to the City. He thought about the humiliation—maybe even anger—they must have felt coming to him for help. It made him uncomfortable; put real urgency into this meeting.
Looking over the opposite side of the booth, he saw Westermann push through the door. Frings tossed the twisted flyer into the empty booth behind him.
Westermann, foggy-eyed, slid onto the bench across from Frings, looking wrung out, his sweat-damp hair pushed back, showing a creeping widow’s peak. He was a big guy, lean, movie-star looks, but with a softness about him, too. Frings couldn’t put his finger on it exactly—maybe it was what Frings knew about Westermann rather than what he saw—but it was unusual for a cop.
“Frank, I’m eager to hear what would compel you to get me out of bed at this time of night.” Westermann also had the movie-star baritone.
Frings laughed cynically. “You’ll like this.” Frings laid out the scenario that he’d heard earlier at the Palace, leaving out the request to move the body. Westermann sat relaxed, listening with his arms spread across the back of his bench. When Frings was done, Westermann was silent, thinking.
“Awake yet?” Frings asked.
“Getting there, Frank. This couldn’t wait?”
“Let’s walk this through, okay? First, on its face, do you think this crime was probably committed by someone in the Uhuru Community?”
“Doubtful, but possible, I guess. Look, there’s almost no reported crime in the Uhuru Community. They are either basically crime-free or they don’t call the police. I have my guess about which one’s true, but either way, we don’t get out there much. If they have crime—and they must have some—it’s contained within the Community population. That doesn’t mean Community people don’t commit crimes outside the compound, but it just doesn’t make sense to bring this woman or I guess maybe her corpse back to the shanties. Why ask for trouble? That’s hardly rock solid, but at first glance, I’d say it’s more likely not to involve someone from the Community.”
“So the body ends up in the Community compound either by chance—washing up onshore—or someone puts it there deliberately, probably trying to implicate the Community.”
Westermann nodded. “That sounds right.”
“The second consideration,” Frings said, motioning to the waitress for more coffee, “is what happens if this situation goes public.”
“Right. I think the Community would be in a lot of trouble. A lot.”
“I think there’s a consensus on that point. Mel Washington and his people wanted me to talk to you, to convince you that we need to take steps to prevent any connection between the Community and the body.”
The old man at the counter barked out a short, wicked cackle and returned to his mumbling.
Frings made sure he had Westermann’s eyes. He needed Westermann to see how serious he was. “They want the body moved. But they don’t want to do it.”
Westermann smiled—or maybe grimaced. “Jesus. Listen, you know Mel Washington is communist, right? I mean, it’s one thing to be tampering with a crime scene. It happens. But for Mel Washington?”
Frings kept eye contact, letting Westermann protest enough to satisfy his conscience, but knowing he’d acquiesce eventually. Frings would leave him no choice. He let Westermann keep talking.
“I have no issue with Mel Washington. But the force … he’s not real popular.”
Frings nodded dismissively, thinking, Neither are you. “Look, the other piece of this is that they want an investigation. Not a sham investigation, but a real one. They think this is a provocation and I’m inclined to agree with them. They need this person, these people, to be caught.”
Westermann nodded. Frings watched him think, Westermann rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, still trying to chase away the fog of sleep.
“This is a hard one, Frank. I don’t know.”
“It sounds queer now. It did to me, too. But it grows on you.” “Yeah …”
Westerman was deep in thought.
Frings leaned forward, ratcheting up the pressure.
Westermann said, “What’s this to you, Frank? You’ve got a thing for the Uhuru Community?”
“Sure,” Frings said, not wanting to let Westermann change the focus.
“People trying to get a little taste of freedom. That a problem?”
Westermann closed his eyes. Frings knew that Westermann didn’t really have a choice, didn’t even have time to see what he was getting into.
Westermann opened his eyes, looked wearily across the table. “All right, let’s go take a look.”
As they walked out, Frings tossed a couple of dollars in front of the old-timer. This seemed to jar him from his mumblings and he started yelling in some language Frings didn’t know.