“Why in Christ’s name didn’t you tell Gentry? You let him go out of here hating your guts. You know he’s almost like a father to Phyllis.”
“Gentry’s a cop,” Shayne reminded the reporter patiently. “A cop is required to go through a certain routine when he discovers a murder.”
“But he’d listen to you. He’d give you a break.” Rourke flung his lean body into a chair and ran nervous fingers through his black hair.
“Sure. He’d listen to my story. He’d probably even believe it. But that wouldn’t change the routine, Tim. Gentry is still a cop. And the election is day after tomorrow.”
“Who is she? What’s it all about?”
“You guess awhile,” he answered wearily. “I found her like that when I got back from putting Phyl on the train.” In a few words he gave Rourke the facts in his possession.
“I threw her on the bed after she passed out,” he concluded grimly. “I figured she’d have important information when she woke up — something about Burt Stallings.”
“And somebody else figured the same thing,” Rourke guessed, his nostrils flaring with the scent of headlines, his slate-colored eyes gleaming oddly. “Somebody who didn’t want that information to get out.”
“Looks that way. Murdering her in my office was a nice stunt any way you look at it. The scandal would defeat Marsh at the polls.”
Rourke poured himself more Scotch. “What are you going to do with her?”