Part 12 (1/2)

”You're going to tell me. I want you to forget about old Roachie and concentrate on the Gravedigger. Maybe he struck somewhere else before he ripped through Resurrection, maybe he's done another job since Hollywood Memorial. I want as much as you can get, and I want it complete by Thursday afternoon. Can you handle it?”

”Trace, it can't be just one guy! n.o.body could rip up a cemetery like that alone!”

”Maybe he's strong. Maybe he drives around in a custom-built bulldozer, who knows? Anyway, narrowing the angle to one weirdo sells more papers. Evil, babe, evil!” He caught the flicker of hesitation across her face. ”Now what's wrong?”

”I'm so into the Roach thing, I... Trace, I don't think I should leave it just yet. I think it's way too early to write him off. Why not let Sandy take care of this?”

”Look,” he insisted. ”n.o.body's seen the Gravedigger, and anyway you're about three times the writer Sandy is. Now go. Get started!” Gayle reluctantly stood up. She said, ”I'd like to stay with The Gravedigger. Out!”

She moved toward the door, unable to believe this wild turn of events. Her head was throbbing, her stomach roiled, she felt sick to her very soul. This is bulls.h.i.+t! she told herself. The Roach is really important. Doubly important when you think about my career. But this is ... bulls.h.i.+t!

”Wait a minute,” Trace said as she turned to go. ”Have you seen Kidd? I need him to get some shots of Miss California Redwoods this afternoon.”

”No, not lately. We went to a Joan Baez concert Sat.u.r.day night, but I didn't see him all day yesterday. He may have gone out to see the Greenpeace people.” Trace grunted. ”That guy's spreading himself a little thin, isn't he? Listen, will you try his number for me when you get a minute? I really need him to come in early and set up the shot.”

She nodded, still in a daze, and left his office. Outside, Holly Fortunato was telling the sportswriter, Bill Hale, about the wide variety of whips her director friend kept in his closet. Gayle sat down at her desk, shuffled papers, and tried to think how she could get out of the story Trace wanted. Still, three cemeteries vandalized-no, not just vandalized, ripped to shreds-in less than two weeks. Possibly more. Who could she call to find out?

She jotted down the names of several police force antivandalism squad members she knew. She thought Davis Tortirici was the captain of that squad, but she wasn't quite sure.

But there was something else bugging her that hadn't surfaced until Trace had pointed it out-where was Jack? He'd said he was going to splurge and take her to dinner at the Mandarin on Sunday night, but he'd never called. She'd spent her evening drinking white wine and reading a nasty little book called Bethany's Sin, which she'd tossed away in boredom after the fourth chapter. She wanted to be with Jack, really needed to be with him, and she'd dialed his number three or four times during the course of the night. Each time the phone had rung at least ten times before she'd put the receiver down. So where was he?

What am I? she asked herself. A mother hen? But then her hand was reaching out, and she was gripping the telephone beside her. She dialed Jack's apartment again and let it ring.

No answer.

There were a dozen different places Jack could be; she'd gotten used to the fact that the only consistent thing about Jack Kidd was his inconsistency. That was due to his chart, he'd told her proudly, double Gemini. She hung up the phone and wasted a few minutes making herself another cup of coffee, then wandered over to where Kenny Morrow was pounding out his health hints column. This week his column opened up with a letter from a Sacramento reader who thought the government was controlling his s.e.x desires through the rays from his color TV. She was looking over Kenny's shoulder when her telephone rang, and she hurried back to answer it, thinking Jack might be calling in.

”Gayle?” the man on the other end said. ”This is Tom Chapman from the Times. Remember? We met at Palatazin's last press conference?”

”Oh, sure.” She faintly recalled the guy-stout and balding, wearing a brown checked coat. ”How are you, Tom?”

”Fine. Better since I ... uh ... picked up your paper and saw your piece on that cemetery business. I got quite a kick out of that. Who came up with the 'Gravedigger' angle?”

”My editor.”

”That was great. Really sell some papers that way-”

”Can I help you, Tom?” she interrupted because the sarcasm in his voice was beginning to irritate the s.h.i.+t out of her.

”Huh? Oh, listen, don't get sore. I was just kidding. No, I thought I'd call to help you. Us journalists have to stick together, right?” He paused for a few seconds. Gayle was silent, her anger simmering at a low boil. ”Our story's already out on the streets, so I thought I'd pa.s.s the information along to you.

We just ran a few graphs on page eleven, but maybe you can-”

”Tom . . .”

”Okay, okay. Somebody dug up Ramona Heights Cemetery over in Highland Park last night. Stole about twenty or twenty-five coffins, left the stiffs scattered to h.e.l.l and back. The watchman, guy by the name of ... hold on, I'm looking in the paper . . . Alcavar, is now on the missing persons list. The Highland Park cops are checking out some tread marks they found in the gra.s.s. It seems the Gravedigger drives around in a large truck. Now don't say I never gave you anything.”

Gayle had started scribbling on a notepad. What the h.e.l.l is going on? she wondered. For the first time a spark of real curiosity crackled inside. ”Do you have Alcavar's first name and address?”

”Noel. Got his brother's address from the cops-he's the regular watchman-909 Costa Mesa Avenue in Highland Park. What are you thinking, that Alcavar loaded up those coffins himself? Why?”

”I'm not thinking anything. I'm just looking for a starting point. Thanks for calling, Tom. Incidentally, this doesn't mean I'm finished with the Roach.”

”Yeah, I hear you've been sneaking in to see Palatazin when the rest of us had our backs turned. Well, any way you can get it, I guess. Uh . . . listen, Gayle, you remember I told you about the situation with my wife? I've moved out of the house, sort of a free bird now. How about having dinner with me tonight? I've got a Playboy Club key, and you can take a look at my new apartment and tell me what it needs . . .”

”Tonight? Uh . . . no, Tom, afraid I can't . . .”

”Tomorrow night then?”

”My editor's calling me, Tom. I'll talk to you later. And thanks a bunch for the informaton. Bye-bye.” She hung up the phone and read over her scribbled notes.

Ramona Heights? That made four cemeteries vandalized in less than two weeks?

What kind of freaks would do something like that? Death cultists, satanists, what? The term Gravedigger, repellent only a few minutes before, now chilled her. She put her notepad and a couple of Bic pens in her purse and hurriedly left the office, bound for the Ramona Heights Cemetery.

THREE.

Police Commissioner McBride sat at the far end of the conference room's polished oak table reading Palatazin's progress report on the Roach investigation. Every few minutes he grunted, and when he did, Chief of Detectives Garnette glanced across the table at Palatazin with a look that said it all-You'd better hope he's in a gracious mood, Andy, because there is nothing concrete in that report.

Palatazin was well aware of the fact. He'd come in before seven that morning to finish typing the report and felt ashamed when he'd taken it to Garnette for a first reading. There was nothing in it but speculation, vague theories, and leads that went nowhere. He'd included the information from Amy Hulsett and Lizzi Connors toward the end, and detailed the work Sully Reece and his team were doing to track down the gray Volkswagen, but even that looked woefully ineffectual I on paper.

McBride glanced quickly up at Palatazin and turned a page. From where Palatazin was sitting, McBride was bracketed by an American flag and the California state flag, and golden sunlight seeped through the Venetian blinds at his back. There were dark circles beneath Palatazin's eyes, and as he lit his pipe for the fourth time during the conference, his hand was trembling slightly. His night had been terrible, his dreams filled with shambling horrors coming for him out a snowstorm, creeping nearer and nearer out of the windswept pines that circled him. He had seen their burning eyes, their mouths slashed like grinning sickles, and in those mouths the terrible, unholy teeth. And just when they were about to claim him, his mother had appeared, floating over the snow, and gripped his hand. Run, she'd whispered. Run, Andre! But he had left Jo waiting in a cabin, and he had to get back to her, but that meant running the gauntlet of the grinning terrors. I wont leave you, his mother had said, and at that instant the things had snapped at Palatazin's throat. He had awakened cold with sweat, and this morning over breakfast Jo had wanted to know what he'd been dreaming about. Palatazin told her the Roach; he wasn't ready to tell the truth yet.

At the end of the table, McBride closed the report and pushed it aside. Over the rim of his coffee cup, he looked from Garnette to Palatazin, his eyes stunned for an instant by the bright green striped tie Palatazin wore with a light brown coat. He put the cup down and said, ”This isn't enough. In fact, it's little more than nothing. The Times is applying some pressure for a public progress statement. If I used this report as .my basis, they'd be printing thin air. So what's the problem?” His icy blue eyes flared. ”We have the best police force in this entire country! Why can't we find one man?

Captain, you've had over two weeks to work on this thing with the entire force from helicopters to beat cops at your disposal. Why haven't you turned up anything more concrete than this?”

”Sir,” Palatazin said, ”I think we're making some progress. The artist's composite was printed on the front page of the Times this morning, and it'll be carried by the afternoon newspapers as well. We'll get it to the television stations in time for the afternoon and evening newscasts. Also there's the matter of the Volkswagen . . .”

”Slim, Palatazin,” the commissioner said. ”Awfully d.a.m.ned slim.”

”I agree, sir, but it's more of a lead than we had before. The women-the street prost.i.tutes-are wary of being seen talking to the police officers. They're frightened of the Roach, but they don't trust us either. And that's how we're going to find the man, sir, through them. My men are working on finding a Volkswagen with a two, a seven, and a T' in the license number . .

”I suspect there may be several hundred,” McBride said.

”Yes, sir, there will be. Possibly a thousand or more. But you have to agree it is a lead that merits investigation.”

”I want names, captain, names and addresses. I want suspects in for interrogation. I want surveillances. I want that man caught.”

”We all do, commissioner,” Garnette said quietly. ”And you know Captain Palatazin has been interrogating suspects daily and carrying out some surveillances as well. It's just that . . . well, sir, the Roach seems to have gone underground. Maybe he's left the city. Catching a hit-and-run killer like this, a psychotic without motive, is the toughest job there is . . .”

”Spare me, please,” McBride answered. ”I don't want to hear any confessions.” He returned his gaze to Palatazin, who was trying unsuccessfully to light his pipe again. ”You're telling me that this Volkswagen license plate is the only real lead you've got, is that it?”