The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [56]
“Things,” I said, trying to be profound, “aren’t always what they seem.”
“For sure,” said Jake. “Like that cartridge case we found in our vacuum bag. I never would have guessed that in a million years.”
There was a stunned silence on my end.
“Hey, Carl, you there?”
“Yeah. Did you say you found a casing from the Borglan crime scene?”
“Sure. Didn’t Art tell you? I told him this morning.”
Well, in his favor, Art had been a bit distracted by other things.
“No, he must have forgotten. Good news, though. Now, all we have to do,” I said, “is match it to one of a million .22s in the world …”
“No problem,” said Jake. “It isn’t a .22.”
“Pardon?”
“Not a .22, although you’d think it was. It’s a 5.45 mm PSM cartridge. Very unlikely there’d be more than a handful of ’em in the U.S.”
“What,” I asked, “is a 5.45 mm PSM?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lamar perk up.
“Same thing we asked,” said Jake. “Turns out it’s a Soviet handgun, issued to troops of various sorts. Mostly KGB, NVD, and State Security. Very rare. Collector’s item, I’d say.
“About a forty grain bullet,” he said. “Not much, about two and a half grams. But ballistically about the equivalent of a .22 long rifle. The gun looks a lot like a PPK. Barrel just over three inches.”
“Automatic, then?”
“You bet, Carl.”
“And you only recovered one casing?”
“I think somebody beat us to the clean-up,” said Jake. “They just missed one.”
“Any idea how you’d go about getting hold of one of those PSMs?”
“Not a guess, Carl. No help there at all.” He thought for a second. “Maybe a gun show? Or a collector’s magazine?”
Well. In a stroke, Jake had pretty well eliminated anybody “average” in the area. I’d seen Cletus Borglan’s gun cabinet, and nothing having any connection to a handgun had been in there. Not necessarily a complete negative, but another difficulty.
He said to have Art call him. Sure thing.
I hung up the phone, and looked at Lamar. “You know anything about a PSM?”
“It’s Russian,” he said. “That’s about it.” He folded a piece of paper, and put it in his pocket. “Notes on the PSM and the cartridge,” he said.
“I’m kind of anxious to hear what Art has to say about this,” I said. But alas, Art had slipped out, no doubt on the case of finding a warmer winter jacket.
When I got home, Sue and I had a nice, late, no-pressure kind of supper. We cooked together, making spaghetti and fat-free meatballs, toasted garlic bread, a great fresh salad … It was nice. I would have had some wine, but opted for soda instead. Legally, we were always subject to being called out, and if somebody got in real trouble, I didn’t want to let them down.
We ate in our dining room, as opposed to TV trays in front of the tube while watching the news. Nice. No conversation about work. For either of us. For about two minutes.
“How are things going with Art?” she finally asked.
“Fantastic!” Well, as close as you can come with spaghetti in your mouth.
She gave me a look of disbelief.
“Well,” I admitted, “it might have something to do with his not being around today.”
“Well, just don’t let him distract you too much when he gets back,” she said. “I know you’ll do your best, but he’s just not as important as your business.”
We cleared the table, and I sat down in my recliner, started to watch the news, saw that the damned warm front was still off to the west, and slept for about an hour and a half. That was unusual, but welcome.
“Still tired from being up for about two days, like a teenager,” said Sue. “But you’re not …”
“I guess so.” I stretched. “No, I’m sure not. The nap helped, though.”
Consequently, when the phone rang at about 2115, I was almost ready to go. Full, not too tired, and a bit testy, but nearly ready. It was John Willis, the new guy. Like I’ve said, new but sharp. Respectful, as well. Not necessarily respectful of my enormous talent, maybe, but at least respectful of my age.
“Sir?”
“Hey, John. What’s up?”
“Uh, could I pick you up … I’ve got somethin’ to show you, I think …”
I went back to the living room,