It was the longest hour Mendoza had ever got through in his life. He ate an anonymous breakfast; they were at the airport by eight-fifteen, with twenty-five minutes to wait, but after several eternities the plane was there, and taking on passengers.
They hadn't talked much; there wasn't much to say. He sent a cable, and then they just waited. For the plane to take off, and then for the plane to land in Washington. There wasn't any use making idle speculations.
They landed in Washington a little before noon, and had all the nuisance of Customs to go through. There wasn't a flight direct west scheduled until nearly four, so they got the twelve-fifty flight to New York and landed there at one fifty-five. And then they waited some more, for the next flight scheduled to L.A., due to take off at three-ten.
'You ought to have something to eat, you didn't have any lunch,' said Alison. 'Coffee, anyway…'
He felt empty but not hungry; he got down a sandwich without tasting it, and a couple of cups of coffee. 'At least with jet flights we can get back in a hurry. Ten years ago-'
No use in speculating. They'd know when they got there.
The three-ten flight from New York to Los Angeles was scheduled to land at International Airport at eight o'clock, but traveling east to west they gained three hours, and it was just five-thirty by L.A. time when they landed. 'Can you cope with the luggage?' asked Mendoza.
'Of course, darling. Go and call right away.'
He felt as tired as he'd ever felt in his life, and at the same time taut as a coiled spring. It was nearly six o'clock before they got to the taxi rank outside. Mendoza said to the cab driver, 'Take all this stuff to 311 Rayo Grande Avenue in Hollywood.' He passed over a bill and took the next cab in line from under the nose of an elderly dowager, thrust Alison in, and said, 'White Memorial Hospital,' to the driver. 'Take the freeway for God's sake.'
Alison held his hand tightly. 'It's got to be all right,' she said. 'I don't mean to sound like a fool, Luis, but- whatever happened-they know so much more these days, and there's plasma, and-'
'Yes, querida. Wait and see.'
It was six thirty-five when they got to the hospital. A brisk thin nurse directed them to the third floor, and a brisk fat nurse there directed them to a small waiting room at the end of a long corridor.
Angel was sitting there, dry-eyed, looking down at her clasped hands. She had dressed in haste, carelessly, and hadn't any make-up on; she looked as if she'd been sitting there, numbly, a long time. Hackett's older sister sat opposite her, and she'd been crying. Alison went to Angel at once. Mendoza went to find somebody who knew something, and ran into Scarne in the hall.
'Lieutenant-God, am I glad to see you! You must have made time back. They hadn't called in so long, I got chased up to see- They said they'd call if there was any change, but-'
'Let's find a doctor, for God's sake. What happened and when?' snapped Mendoza.
'It's a miracle he's still alive. He went down a cliff off Canyon Drive, in his car-the car's one sweet mess, you should-'
'?Vaya por Dios! How-'
'He was sent over, Lieutenant. He didn't get found until 2 AM. this morning, but then they got searchlights up there, the works, and you could see by the tracks. The car was aimed to go over-and he'd been tied up before-'
'?Dios! You've got casts of the tire marks, you've-'
Mendoza caught the arm of a white-smocked intern passing. 'Doctor-'
'That one,' said the intern when they'd identified themselves. 'If he hadn't the constitution of an ox he wouldn't be still with us. I'm sorry, we aren't committing ourselves yet, he's still in a deep coma. There was an extensive skull fracture and internal injuries-broken pelvis, both legs, a couple of ribs, and one a bit nearer a lung than we liked… Dr. MacFarlane operated to relieve the pressure, but as I say he's still unconscious. We don't know when or whether he'll be conscious. All I can say is- Well, you can see him, but-'
'Who've you got stationed here?' Mendoza asked Scarne. He knew there'd be somebody, to get whatever Hackett said when and if he regained consciousness.
'Fellow named Evans.'
Mendoza knew Evans, a uniformed man bucking for rank. He nodded at him, installed in a chair beside the door not too far from the high bed. He stood over the bed and looked at Hackett. Hackett lay on his back, breathing slow and irregular. His face was drained of color; he looked gray. His head was bandaged, and one arm. A watchful nurse had a hand on his pulse, and they had an I.V. going.
'All I can tell you is we're doing everything we can,' said the intern. 'He's got a very sound constitution to help him fight. But we can't say one way or the other, not yet.'
'Yes, Doctor. Will you please see that somebody calls in if there's any change? I know you've been briefed, but just remind the desk. You've got the headquarters number-ask them to call this number too, please.' He scribbled their home number on the back of an envelope, handed it over. He looked at Hackett again and led Scarne out, to the little waiting room.
Angel was crying now. 'I'm sorry, I don't mean- I c-couldn't, somehow, until you c-came in and I-'
'Yes, all right, darling.' Alison looked at Mendoza and, seeing his expression, asked no questions.
'Angel said- I took the baby to your place, Mrs. Mendoza-your nurse-' Hackett's sister Elise Dunne looked at them helplessly.
'That's fine, Mrs. Dunne. Now, Angel-'
Mendoza came up and squatted down before Angel.
'You're doing no good sitting here, either of you. They're doing all they can, and they'll call when there's any change. I've asked them to call our number too, and'-he looked at Hackett's sister-'you can give them yours. Come on now.' He urged Angel up. 'Scarne, drive them to our place, will you? O.K. Alison, you look after her. God knows when you'll see me, but I'll be in touch.'
'Yes, darling. Come on, Angel, it's only sensible-'
'And get back downtown as fast as you can,' said Mendoza to Scarne. He kissed Alison, held her hard for a second, and went out and downstairs. He called a cab and waited for it impatiently. He had work to do.
SIX
He walked into the homicide office at seven-forty, and he didn't feel any particular joy at getting back home; he was intent on the job. Most of them were there-Palliser, Dwyer, Higgins, Landers, Glasser, Farrell: on one like this they weren't punching any time clocks. And they didn't waste any time asking about the vacation, making welcoming noises at him. They all looked relieved to see him; Palliser said tiredly, 'Thank God. You made time, didn't you?'
'I want a breakdown on it,' said Mendoza without sitting down. 'In detail. From one of you who knows the detail.'
'Me,' said Palliser. 'We knew he was missing, from about twelve-forty. Mrs. Hackett called in. He'd left home about seven-thirty, and we're not sure where he was going. He said to me he wanted to see that desk clerk again, at that Third Street hotel. That was on the Slasher-' He gave Mendoza a terse briefing on that, enough to put him in the picture. 'He meant to see Mrs. Nestor again, that's another business, and you'd better hear about that too-'
'I want the facts on Art, John.”
'It's relevant,' said Palliser, and told him about Frank Nestor. 'Higgins called me back in and we had everybody alerted, everywhere around any area he might've been, but he didn't turn up until about two o'clock. An Edward Charlton, on his way home up Canyon Drive, spotted the wheel marks going off the road, in his headlights, and looked. The Ford had rolled about two hundred feet down-it's not a sheer cliff, just a steep hill, with underbrush and so on-turned over at least once-it was lying on its side.'
'Dios,' said Mendoza softly. 'Why wasn't he killed?'
'Coming to that. When we got the ident from Traffic, we converged up there in strength. Because Traffic said
