Joe Steele by Harry Turtledove

again? Not this one. This one had answers to important questions—among which was, had somebody got to the arson inspector? It might have had answers to those questions, anyhow. It didn’t now. The vital piece was missing.
    â€œWho else would have a copy of that report?” Mike asked.
    â€œI’m sure Mr. Kincaid would have kept one for his personal files,” the clerk replied. “He’s a very thorough man, Mr. Kincaid.”
    â€œYou don’t know where those personal files are?”
    â€œIn his house, I expect. Probably in a fireproof cabinet, Mr. Kincaid being in the line of work he’s in.”
    â€œUh-huh.” Mike swore under his breath. If he wanted to get into the arson inspector’s personal files, a money-hungry clerk wouldn’t cut it. He’d need a second-story man.
    â€œCan we get out of here, please?” Even fidgety, the clerk stayed polite. “I’ve done everything for you I promised I would. I can’t help it if the report’s not there.”
    â€œYeah, let’s go.” Mike didn’t want to get hit with a breaking-and-entering rap any more than the clerk did. When you were after stuff as politically explosive as that arson report might be, you didn’t want to get caught. And somebody else had been after it, too, and had got it before he had. He didn’t believe for a second that it had just fallen out of the manila folder. No, somebody’d lifted it, whether because of what it said or because of what it didn’t say he couldn’t guess without seeing it.
    They left the room. The clerk locked the door after them—you didn’t want to forget to tend to details. They made their getaway. The building didn’t have any alarms. No one had imagined anybody would want to sneak away with Albany Fire Department records. You never could tell when imagination would fall short of reality. It had this time.
    Sneakiness failing, Mike tried the direct approach. He did his best to interview Fire Department Lieutenant Jeremiah V. Kincaid, who had produced the report. His best turned out not to be good enough. Lieutenant Kincaid’s secretary, an uncommonly pretty girl, told him, “Lieutenant Kincaid doesn’t talk to reporters.”
    â€œWhy not?” Mike asked. “Isn’t that part of his job?”
    â€œHis job is to investigate,” she answered. “It isn’t to publicize.”
    â€œSon of a gun,” he said, in lieu of something more heartfelt. “Well, does the Albany Fire Department have a Public Information Officer or anybody else who
is
supposed to talk to reporters?”
    The Albany Fire Department did. His name was Kermit Witherspoon. He wasn’t at his post. His wife had just had a baby boy, and he was using vacation time to be with her. No one wanted to tell Mike where he lived. Mike found out for himself. He was no great threat to Sherlock Holmes. But the Albany telephone book gave him all the clues he needed—not a hell of a lot of Kermit Witherspoons lived within the city limits.
    When he knocked on the front door, a baby inside the white clapboard house started to cry. Junior had a good set of lungs. A harried-looking man answered the knock. “Are you Kermit Witherspoon?” Mike asked.
    â€œThat’s right. Who are you?”
    â€œMike Sullivan. I write for the
New York Post
.” Mike handed him a card. It was much more convincing than simply saying who he was andwhat he did. “I’d like to ask you some questions about Lieutenant Kincaid’s report on the Executive Mansion fire.”
    Witherspoon’s face froze. “That happened almost a year ago now. I’ve talked to I don’t know how many reporters. I don’t have anything new to say to anybody, so I’ve stopped talking. It isn’t news any more.”
    â€œIt still could be. Can you tell me why Kincaid wouldn’t state whether he thought the fire was