62. The Friends of Mr Cairo

Half-way back to the orphanage, we saw the sleepy cop on patrol with her partner. She was driving, the older guy beside her was sleeping. She gave us a wave, then a blue light flash, but kept the siren silent. I could see her laughing when the other cop woke up anyway. It was after a half of six by the time we reached St Margaret’s. The Feeb’s car was still there. Ours wasn’t. It might have been boosted by local boys. We couldn’t ask the Feds. Agents K and Snodgrass were wearing the Sicilian scarf. At least the blood was dry.

‘Reckon they’ll fit in the trunk,’ Sam was picking some sausage out of her teeth. I was pretty sure they might, but that would depend on what else they had in it, by way of arms and ammunition.

‘Let’s check for ID, first.’

Sam rolled her eyes. ‘You can search the pockets, I don’t care if they are dead, I ain’t puttin’ my hands in their pants.’

I found the credit-card sized plastic in their inside coat-pockets. The pictures showed a Kowalski and Snodgrass. They looked legit, but the Snodgrass belonged to a woman. We pocketed the appropriate identification and their handguns, which were too small for Government Issue, but just about right for a charge of carrying a concealed weapon.

By the time I’d heaved both corpses to the rear, Sam had the trunk open.

‘No problem with ammunition.’ I looked down at the real Agents K and Snodgrass and figured it must have taken a good quarter hour to get them in there.

Sam looked at the lightening sky, ‘It’s going to be a hot one today, anyhow. Let’s put the imposters in the back seats and see if we can find somewhere to leave ‘em all.

‘Is there a drive-in entrance to the park?’ I asked.

‘No, but the Oak Hill Cemetary has a parking lot.’

‘Reckon that’ll have to do.’

The automobile was sluggish. Sam’s pale face discouraged me from any comment about the dead weight over the rear axle. It was a quiet 15 minutes. I hoped we didn’t see any more patrol cars as the car really was riding low. The parking lot was empty. I was counting on no-one living on site. Though there was a sexton’s lodge at the gate, it was most likely just a reception room and some offices.

We gave the Feebs first lift out of the car. Sam managed a fireman’s lift for Ms Snodgrass. There wasn’t much blood. A double tap from a smallbore weapon. We’d have to get rid of the weapons the fake Feebs had been carrying after all. Inside the graveyard proper I asked if there was anybody famous under the turf.

‘Ex-editor of The Washington Post. That’s about it.’

‘That’d be a story huh?’ I said.

‘I ain’t lookin’ for no tombstone for these guys. Let’s just dump ‘em.’

‘We’ll leave ‘em all in the same place. With the guns. Wish we had a knife to leave.’
We dropped our burdens at the side of a nice stone with wild flowers growing between it and the next two markers. Rigor had set in and we didn’t have time to wait for it to wear off. I carried both of the other corpses from the vehicle to the same graveside. I arranged the fake Feds so it looked like they’d been surprised in the act of dropping off their victims. I put the guns in their hands after wiping our prints off.

Sam tossed a bloody knife on the floor between the four bodies.

‘Where d’ya get that?’

‘It was in the glove box. Wouldya believe it had some gloves in too?’

She held up her nitrile-clad hands. Then laughed.

‘Good place to leave our friends.’ She pointed at the headstone.

‘Joel Cairo’, it read.