Chapter 7

Newkirk's ass wiped out his tracks as he shuffled slowly into his office the next morning. He had a bandage on his forehead and a beauty of a purple bruise under his right eye.

Ray Dillon rubbed his partially bald head, looked at Mark and grinned. "What the hell happened to you?"

"You aren't going to believe this.. .I got beat up by some guy in my garage last night. I don't know who the hell he was, but he told me to leave his woman alone. Can you beat that?"

Dillon roared with laughter. "You better keep your dick in your pants, or somebody's gonna do you in."

"Maybe I'll have to spend more time with you," Mark said, giving Ray a limp-wristed wave.

"Oh, you're a real comedian this morning!"

"Well, enough of that. Let's get down to business. I've been thinking.. .I have a funny feeling that our Mister Bailey wasn't telling us the whole truth in front of his wife."

"Yeah, I had the same feeling. I think he knows something he doesn't want wifey to know. How do you want to handle it?"

"Let's go to his office. Catch him by surprise. If he still won't talk to us, we can be pretty sure he's trying to hide something important."

"Sounds good to me. Let's go see what he has to say for himself."

Hank Bailey kept the detectives waiting fifteen minutes, which made them even more suspicious. Then he surprised them with his friendly cooperation.

"Sit down," Bailey said cordially. "Sorry to keep you waiting. The boss was here, and I couldn't just throw him out. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Sure," Newkirk replied. "Black, no sugar."

"The same," Dillon said.

Bailey ordered the coffee and sat back in his chair. "I expected you to pay me a visit," he said. "You can understand why I didn't talk openly in front of my wife. My buddies and I had a couple of girls at the house last Sunday after the game. You suspected as much, didn't you?"

"We knew you were hiding something," Newkirk said. "Friends of yours or your buddies?"

"Neither, actually. Just a couple of girls. I met one of them in a bar the other night. We went to my car, and later I asked her if she wanted to come by Sunday. She not only wanted to, she brought along a friend. My wife doesn't know, so please keep this confidential. If she found out, she'd divorce me and clean me out!"

"We aren't interested in your marital problems," Newkirk said. "Describe the women."

"Young, in their mid-twenties, I'd say. They called themselves Penny and Ginger. Penny was about, oh, I don't know, maybe five-one or so. Nice tits and ass. Ginger was a little taller, bigger tits and more ass."

Newkirk looked at Dillon and shook his head. "Did they have hair? Was it long or short? What color? Any distinguishing features? Scars, tattoos, that kind of thing? A mustache, maybe? Something we can see without asking them to undress."

"Ginger was a brunette, with pretty brown eyes. Very expressive. Penny was a redhead. Well, I say she was a redhead. Jeff and Ed said she's a blonde."

"What would you call your wife? A blonde or a redhead?"

"Sylvia? Oh, she's a blonde." Newkirk shook his head again. This guy couldn't tell the difference between blondes and redheads. Well, he could understand. Half the women he'd encountered lately were redheads. "Do these girls have last names?"

"Probably," Bailey said flippantly. "We all do. I didn't ask. I don't think they used their right names anyway. You know, Penny, red hair, and Ginger, brown hair."

"Were they hookers?" Dillon asked.

"Don't think so. They didn't ask for money. I think they were just a couple of wild girls who like to have a good time."

"Did they?" Newkirk asked. "Have a good time?"

Bailey grinned. "Yeah. We all did."

"Any idea where we can find them?"

Bailey shrugged. "As I said, I don't know their names."

"What's the name of the bar where you met the one who called herself Penny?" Dillon asked.

"God, I don't know. I just wandered into the place. Sylvia went to her health club, and I was sort of at loose ends. It's in one of those strip shopping centers in the suburbs. Those places are as thick as fleas on a dog's back, you know. The redhead didn't call herself Penny that night anyway. Angela, or something. I don't remember."

"And they never said anything that would help you identify them?" Newkirk asked.

"Naw," Bailey said. "Look, we just fucked them, okay? Why are you interested in them anyway? I thought you were looking for some guy you call a cat burglar."

"We thought they might be working for the burglar," Dillon said. "Maybe picking up a married guy on the prowl, swapping a little pussy for the chance to case his house, then passing the information to the burglar."

"Naw, not those girls," Bailey said. "They waltzed in, undressed and got down to business right away. They couldn't have cared less about the house."

"Did either one leave the room at any time?" Newkirk asked.

"Not that I remember."

"Did they drive or take a taxi to your place?"

"They drove. An older car. One of those little foreign things. I can't tell them apart."

"And I suppose you don't happen to remember the license number."

Bailey shook his head. "Sorry, fellas. I don't notice that sort of thing. I never expected to see them again anyway. I don't think they had anything to do with the burglary, though. They were there Sunday afternoon, and the robbery took place that night. Hardly enough time to plan anything."

"Well, thanks for your time," Newkirk said. "If you think of anything that might help, give me a call." He gave Bailey his card, shook his hand, and left.

Driving back to the station, Dillon said, "Well, you were right. He was hiding something from his wife. Unfortunately, he didn't give us anything that helps. He could probably describe their pussies in detail, but he can't tell us what they look like."

"Yeah, he can't even tell the difference between a redhead and blonde. His wife is a strawberry-blonde. One of my neighbors is a true redhead. Cute girl. And hot as a firecracker. Maybe we should put his wife in a line-up with blondes and redheads so he can see the difference. Anyway, maybe he's right. Maybe the girls don't have anything to do with the robberies. Even if they do, we couldn't find them in a million years. The description he gave us, such as it was, fits at least half of the young women in the city. But let's be sure."

"How?" Dillon asked doubtfully.

"Interview the last ten victims. See if any girls visited the house shortly before the robberies. We'd better split up to save time. Drop in on the men where they work. We know they won't talk in front of their wives."

"Might turn up something," Dillon said. "We don't have anything else to go on, and the lieutenant will be all over our ass if we don't do something."