Donk was sitting up moaning, one hand pressed against his broken jaw, the other against his stomach. The detective laughed and said, “It’ll heal in a few weeks, maybe,” and went through the bronze gates to his car.
Dave Preston’s address was one side of a small double house on an inconspicuous side street. A baby came toddling to meet Shayne when he rattled the knob and pushed the door open. An anemic woman followed the baby into the hall and caught the child up into her arms. She pushed stringy hair back from her face and demanded, “What is it?”
“I’m looking for Dave Preston.”
“He’s asleep. You’d better—”
“This is police business,” Shayne said.
Panic showed in the woman’s eyes. She compressed her lips and said, “He’s in the back bedroom. This way.”
Shayne followed her through a littered living-room to a bedroom darkened by drawn shades. The man on the bed was snoring. Before closing the door Shayne said gently, “There’s nothing for you to worry about. Your husband isn’t in any trouble — yet.” He closed the door, shutting her out.
Going to the windows, he jerked the shades up. The sleeping man rolled over and stopped snoring when sunlight flooded the room. He raised himself on one elbow and blinked at the tall redheaded figure.
Shayne sat down on the foot of the bed. “Remember me?”
“Yeah. What d’yuh want here? You’re the bird that was mussed up last night — claimed it was an accident. I heard later Donk had bounced one off you.”