Murder in Haste

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As the powerful radio-equipped Cadillac slowed for the exit onto one of the smallest of the Bay Harbor islands, Chief-of-Detectives Peter Painter leaned forward and told his driver to shut off the siren. He was calling on a lady, and he thought it might be considered bad taste to arrive with his siren wailing. The neighbors might think she was being arrested.

He removed a cigarette from his filter holder and crushed it in the back-seat ashtray as the Cadillac drifted to a stop before a rambling stucco house. There was another Cadillac in the driveway, this one a white convertible. The rear lawn sloped off gently to a private dock and a boathouse.

Painter got out, giving the back of his jacket a smart tug to get rid of wrinkles. “Now don’t just sit there,” he told Heinemann, his driver. “Move around. Stay under cover and keep your eyes open.”

“Sure, Chief,” Heinemann said. He was a short, balding detective with overlong arms and grease-blackened fingernails. “How do I move around and stay under cover at the same time? And it might help if I knew what I was supposed to keep my eyes open for.”

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