With his left hand Hacklin reached around to his hip pocket, brought out a wallet, flipped it open, in one smooth, practiced movement.
From his manner I guessed he was flashing a buzzer, one of those gold-plated items which get plain-clothes men through many a door where they aren’t welcome. But it wasn’t that. It was an identification, complete with photo. Fat type across the top said: Office of the District Attorney, City of New York. Typed-in letters said that Hacklin, Byrd A., was a duly-authorized special assistant to the Prosecutor in charge of homicide investigations.
It only took a couple of seconds, that inspection of credentials. But I did some high-speed cerebration in that brief space.
Something a lot bigger than a video guessing-game was going on, for certain. Special assistants to homicide prosecutors don’t go a-squiring beauteous babes just because a choice sum is at stake!
Hacklin stalked to the closet. Standing in the living-room door he could have seen the body, but I hadn’t been sure he had, until I saw there was no change of expression on his wide, stolid face.
“We been workin’ together six years.” Hacklin’s voice was flat, emotionless. He surveyed the body for a long breath. “He stood up for my kid’s christening, last month.”
“Tough.” I meant it.
“Any idea who gave it to him?”
I said, “Somebody with a steak knife. All we know.”
“Who found him?”