From the Heart

book,” he said. Absently, he fingered his small, scrolled tie pin. “We’re sorry to lose you.” Saying nothing, Slade waited for the pleasantries to be over. “In any event”—Dodson leaned forward to tap his cigar ash—“your last case is wrapped up, by all accounts tightly. I don’t doubt we’ll get a conviction. You’re aware that Michael Adams had made a full confession?”
    He sent Slade an arch look and got no reply. “The domino theory seems to be working very well in this case—one name leads to another. As far as Chambers himself goes, we’ve got enough on him to put him away. Conspiracy to commit murder, accessory to murder, attempted murder—perhaps murder one on that business in Paris—not to mention the robberies and smuggling. No . . .” Dodson regarded the tip of his cigar with interest. “I don’t think we need worry about him for quite some time.”
    He waited for a full thirty seconds, then went on as if he were engaged in a two-way conversation. “You’ll give your evidence, naturally, when the time comes, but it shouldn’t interfere too much with your new career.” Stubborn young fool, he thought as he puffed on his cigar. He decided to test the younger man’s iron control by saying a name. “Jessica told me she gave Michael several thousand dollars to aid in his escape.”
    Watching for a reaction, he caught the faintest flicker in Slade’s eyes—here then gone. It was all he needed to confirm the notion that had seeded in his mind when he had seen hisgoddaughter. “She felt that made her an accessory. Strange, Michael never mentioned her giving him any money—and I spoke with him myself. There’s a rumor that you saw him too, right after he was brought in . . . .” Dodson let the sentence trail off suggestively. When Slade didn’t rise to the bait, Dodson went on, undaunted. He’d cracked a few tough eggs in his own career, on the street and behind a desk.
    “I imagine a few choice words were sufficient to keep Michael quiet, and of course, Jessica can afford to lose a few thousand. We might have a bit of trouble keeping her quiet, though.” He smiled. “That conscience of hers, you know.”
    “How is she?” The words were out before Slade could stop them. Though he swore under his breath, Dodson gave no sign of hearing.
    “She’s looking very well.” He swiveled gently in his chair. “I’ll tell you, Slade, I was shaken when I visited her in the hospital. I’ve never known Jessica to be ill in her life, and . . . well, it was quite a shock.” Slade pulled out a cigarette, lighting a match with sharp, controlled violence. “She’s bounced back,” the commissioner continued, pleased with the reaction. “Drove the doctor crazy until he’d let her out, then she went right back to work.
    “That shop of hers.” He gave Slade a quick grin. “I don’t suppose the notoriety will do her business any harm.” Noting the tension in the set of Slade’s shoulders, Dodson paused long enough to tap out his cigar. “She speaks very highly of you.”
    “Really?” Slade expelled a long stream of smoke. “My assignment was to keep her safe—I did a remarkably poor job of it.”
    “She is safe,” Dodson corrected. “And as stubborn as ever. David and I both tried to persuade her to go to Europe, take a little time off to get her bearings. She won’t hear of it.” He settled back in his chair as a faint smile flickered on his lips. “Says she’s going to stay put.”
    Slade’s eyes flew from the view out the window to pin Dodson’s. Emotions smoldered in them, fiercely, quickly, then were suppressed. “Hard to believe,” he managed. “She never did before.”
    “So she tells me.” Dodson steeped his fingers. “She’s givenme a full report—with a great many details you omitted from yours. Apparently,” Dodson commented as Slade narrowed his eyes, “you had your hands full.”
    “Full enough,” Slade returned.
    Dodson pursed his lips, in speculation or agreement, Slade couldn’t tell. “Jessica seems to think she handled the entire business badly.”
    “She handled it too well,” Slade disagreed in a mutter. “If she’d fallen apart, I could have gotten her out.”
    “Yes, well . . . differing points of view, of course.” Dodson’s gaze fell on the triple-framed photos of his wife and children. He’d had a few . . . differing points of view with that lady from time to time. He remembered the look in