Part 12 (2/2)

”Yes, sir, I'm afraid so.”

McBride sighed loudly and folded his hands in front of him. ”I don't want this thing to turn into another Hillside Strangler case, captain. I want this man-or men-caught quickly so we don't get our a.s.ses kicked by the public and the press.

Not to mention the fact that as long as this b.a.s.t.a.r.d remains unidentified, someday we're going to stumble over another hooker's corpse. I want him canned, do you understand me? And I want him canned fast!” He took the report and slid it down the table to Palatazin. ”If you can't find him, captain, I'll put someone in charge who can. All right? Now both of you get back to work.” As they waited for the elevator in the hallway outside the conference room, Garnette said, ”Well, Andy, that wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be.”

”It wasn't? I was fooled then.” His pipe had gone stone cold, so he shoved it in his pocket.

Garnette looked at him in silence for a few seconds. ”You look tired, Andy. Worn out. Everything okay at home?”

”At home? Yes. Why?”

”You got a problem, you can tell me about it. I don't mind.”

”No, there's no problem. Except the Roach.”

”Uh-huh.” Garnette was silent for a moment, watching the numbers advance above the elevator door. ”You know, something like this could strain even the strongest ox of a guy. It's a h.e.l.l of a responsibility. I'll tell you, Andy, you look like you haven't slept for two days. You . . . h.e.l.l, you didn't even shave this morning, Jim did you?”

Palatazin ran a hand across his chin and felt stubble. He couldn't remember if he'd shaved or not. No, he decided, he probably hadn't.

”I understand that your men are also beginning to see changes in you.” The elevator arrived, and they stepped in. It began to descend. ”That's not good. It weakens your leaders.h.i.+p position.” ”

Palatazin smiled grimly. ”I think I know who you've been talking to. Officer”. Brasher, possibly? He's a lazy b.u.m. And Zeitvogel? Who else?” Garnette shrugged. ”Talk gets around. You haven't been yourself for the past few days . . .”

”And so people have started pointing their fingers, have they? Well. It didn't, take as long as I thought.”

”Please, Andy, don't get me wrong. I'm talking as an old friend now, okay?

Just, what were you getting at when you called Kirkland at Hollywood Division and i requested a stakeout on a cemetery, for G.o.d's sake?”

”Oh,” Palatazin said softly. ”I see.”

The elevator opened on a wide corridor floored with green linoleum. They stepped out and walked toward the homicide squad room, beyond two frosted-gla.s.s doors.

”Well?” Garnette said. ”What about it?” Palatazin turned to face him. His eyes were dark holes in his pale face. ”It has to do with the vandalism over there . . .”

”I thought as much. But that's not your problem or your detail. Let the anti-vandalism squad over in Hollywood mop it up. You stick to homicide.”

”Let me finish,” Palatazin said, and in his voice there was a tremble that made Garnette think, Andy's about to crack. ”You have to know that where I was born, in Hungary, people think differently about . . . many things than they do in this country. I'm an American now, but I still think like a Hungarian. I still believe in the things that Hungarians believe. Call them superst.i.tions or old wives' tales or whatever, but I accept them as the truth.” Garnette's eyes narrowed. ”I don't understand.”

”We have different beliefs about . . . life and death, about things that you would consider material for movies or bad paperback books. We think that not all is explicable by the law of G.o.d because the devil has laws of his own.”

”You talking about spirits? Ghosts? You mean you wanted Hollywood Division to stake out some ghosts?” Garnette almost laughed but didn't because the other man's face was so deadly serious. ”Come on, is this a joke? What have you got, Halloween fever?”

”No, I'm not talking about spirits,” Palatazin said. ”And it is not a joke either. Fever, perhaps, but my fever is called fear, and it's beginning to burn me up inside.”

”Andy . . .” Garnette said quietly. ”You can't really be serious ... are you?”

”I have work to do now. Thank you for listening.” And before Garnette could stop him, Palatazin had gone through the doors into the squad room. Garnette stood in the corridor for a moment, scratching his head. What was wrong with that crazy old Hungarian? he thought. Now he's going to have us running around after spooks in cemeteries? Jesus! A darker thought stirred sluggishly in his brain. Is the pressure making Andy unfit for duty? G.o.d, he thought. I hope I don't have to ... do anything drastic.

And then he turned away from the doors and made his way to his own office farther down the corridor.

FOUR.

The intercom on Paige LaSanda's desk crackled to life, ”Miss LaSanda, there's a Phillip Falco here to see you.”

Paige, a stunning ash-blond woman in her early forties, looked up from a report on a piece of industrial property she was interested in purchasing on Slauson Avenue and pressed the Speak b.u.t.ton. ”He doesn't have an appointment, does he, Carol?”

There were a few seconds of silence. Then, ”No, ma'am. But he says it concerns money owed to you.”

”Mr. Falco can make his payments to you, dear.” She returned to the report. The property looked promising; it was underdeveloped and could support a larger factory than the one now on it, but the asking price might be a bit too . . .

”Miss LaSanda?” the intercom voice said. ”Mr. Falco wants to see you personally.”

”When and who is my next appointment?”

”Eleven-thirty. Mr. Doheny from the Crocker Bank.” Paige glanced at her diamond-studded Tiffany wrist.w.a.tch. Five after eleven.

”All right,” she said, ”send Mr. Falco in.” After another moment the door opened, and Carol ushered Falco-a gaunt man with long white hair and deep-set eyes-into the office. For a few seconds Falco stood at the center of the huge room, seemingly awed by its sumptuous furnis.h.i.+ngs, though he'd been to this office twice before. Behind her gla.s.s-topped mahogany desk Paige said, ”Please sit down, Mr. Falco,” and motioned toward a brown leather chair.

Falco nodded and took his seat. In his rumpled brown pinstripe suit, he looked like little more than a cadaver, his flesh pale to the shade of gray, his wrists jutting from the coat sleeves. On a table beside him a burst of bright red roses made him look duller still. His eyes were never at rest; they moved across Paige's desk, acrosss her face, the broad picture window that looked out over Wils.h.i.+re Boulevard, to his own hands in his lap, back to her desk, and then to her face again.

Paige held up a carved Dunhill cigarette case of l.u.s.trous black wood, and Falco took three cigarettes without apology, putting two in the breast pocket of his coat and lighting the third from the lighter flame Paige offered.

”Thank you,” he said softly, and leaned back in his chair, smoke dribbling from his nostrils. ”These are European cigarettes, are they not?”

”Balkan tobacco,” Paige said.

”One can tell immediately. American brands are so dry and tasteless. These remind me so much of a brand sold in Budapest . . .”

”Mr. Falco, I presume you've brought me a check today?”

”What? Oh, of course. The check.” He rummaged in an inside coat pocket and brought out a sealed and folded envelope. This he slid across the desk to Paige, who instantly used a twenty-four-carat-gold letter opener on it. The check was written against a Swiss bank account and signed by a smooth, graceful hand-Conrad Vulkan.

”That's fine,” she said, eyeing the amount with mental glee. ”How long should this take to clear?”

”A week at most,” he answered. ”Prince Vulkan plans to transfer a large amount to a local bank shortly. Do you have any suggestions?”

”I suppose the Crocker Bank's the most convenient. One of their vicepresidents is coming in at eleven-thirty. You might speak to him about it.”

”There's something else in the envelope, Miss LaSanda,” Falco said.

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