If you didn’t get rich at a cop’s job, Galeano reflected, you had a box seat at the eternal spectacle of human nature in action.
Nobody was home at the address on Constance, an old cracker-box duplex. A nameplate next to the doorbell had a hand-printed slip in it that said CHARD, so at least this was the right place. Funny, maybe nobody had missed him yet. Or maybe nobody cared whether he came home or not. Galeano tried the neighbors, and found only one home, a deaf elderly man who told him that Mis’ Chard worked someplace uptown, and he didn’t take any notice when she usually came home.
Better leave a note for the night watch to contact her, thought Galeano.
He was still intrigued by the empty wheelchair in that tale Carey had spun them, and he wanted to talk to that blonde, start asking questions around on that; but what with all the legwork, it was the middle of the afternoon and he still had to type out a report on this.
He got home about six-thirty, to his neat small bachelor apartment on Edgemont up in Hollywood, rummaged in the freezer and put a TV dinner in the oven, and sat down with the Herald over a glass of the cheap red wine he liked. His mother and sisters had given up years ago deviling him to find a nice girl and get married; at thirty-six, Galeano had settled into comfortable bachelorhood.
That was a fishy little story of Carey’s, he thought idly. It would be interesting to know what really had happened there, just how Edwin Fleming had managed to melt into thin air, leaving his empty wheelchair behind. Galeano thought that blonde couldn’t be quite so dumb as Carey thought.
Mendoza was greeted exuberantly by the twins as he came in the back door, and Mrs. MacTaggart rescued him.
'Your father’ll come to see you in your baths, my lambs, right now you’l1 let him have some peace and quiet.' She led them off firmly.
He found Alison, surrounded by the four cats Bast, Sheba, Nefertite and El Senor, stretched out on the sectional in the front room, with Cedric curled up on the floor beside them. 'Hello, amado,' said Alison. 'I’m sorry I was cross this morning, but this is turning out to be quite a project. No, I don’t want any dinner-I had some bouillon a while ago, Mairi bullied it down me-but she’s getting something for you. And if you’re going to have a drink first, you can bring me just a little creme de menthe to settle my insides.' She looked wan.
At his first touch on the cupboard door where the liquor was kept, El Senor appeared, his Siamese mask-in- reverse wearing a hopeful look. Mendoza poured him half an ounce of rye in a saucer and took his own drink and Alison’s back to the living room.
'You know, Luis,' she said, half sitting up to take the glass, 'we’ll have to think about a new house. Just as I was saying last night. Because there are only four bedrooms here, and with the baby we’ll need five. And besides-'
'One thing,' said Mendoza, 'leading to another. Pues que.' The twins had been, not without protest, graduated to separate rooms.
'And it did seem like a lot of space at first, two lots,' said Alison, sipping, 'but it isn’t really enough room for Cedric-he needs more exercise. And I’ve been thinking, it’d be nice to be-you know-a little farther out, on an acre or even more-it isn’t as if you haven’t got the money.'
'Delusions of grandeur,' said Mendoza.
'Well, we might as well enjoy it while we can. I think I feel better,' said Alison. 'Give me a cigarette, darling. You might tell Mairi I could take some mushroom soup.'
The phone rang down the hall and he went to answer it, passing E1 Senor thoughtfully licking his whiskers.
'Mendoza.'
It was the main desk at headquarters; the night watch wasn’t on yet, upstairs. Central Receiving had just called in the information that Father O’Brien had died an hour ago. 'Thanks so much,' said Mendoza.
So the pretty boys had a homicide to their credit now. And still not a smell of a lead as to where to look for them.
Just before Palliser left the office, Fresno called back. Mrs. Moseley had been contacted and would come down to L.A. tomorrow to look at the body.
'The report we had, they thought there was another girl with the Moseley girl,' said Almont. 'You just found the one?'
'We think. Just her so far,' said Palliser. 'Thanks, we’ll be expecting her.'
'No trouble. These kids. Poor woman sounded all broken up.'
Palliser stopped at a big bookstore in Hollywood on his way home and asked for a copy of The Kennel Club Obedience Manual. He handed over seven bucks for it and had it under his arm when he unlocked the driveway gate and slid through it. A solid object weighing some seventy pounds immediately hit him amidships like a bomb, and he said breathlessly, 'Down, girl!' But she impeded every step to the back door and into the kitchen, giving him to understand what a hard day she’d had guarding the family every alert minute, all for love of him. In the kitchen, she rose up lovingly at Roberta and nearly knocked her over. She was, no question, going to be a very large German shepherd; only nine months now and still growing.
'We’ll have to do something about training her, John,' said Roberta severely.
'I know, I know. I’ve got a book,' said Palliser, and then discovered that Trina had it instead, chewing the cover like a bone. He rescued it hastily and hoped that wasn’t a bad omen.
Piggott and Schenke came on night watch at the same time and shared an elevator. It was Shogart’s night off. Piggott didn’t mind doing a tour of night watch, except that it interfered with choir practice and Prudence didn’t like it, but he’d have a chance to shift back in three months. Schenke had been on night watch so long he’d come to prefer it.
Galeano had left them a note to call this Mrs. Chard, tell her her husband was dead. Schenke tried the number and got a busy signal. They’d try again.
At seven-thirty they got a call from Traffic, a new body. Looking, said Traffic, like Murder One. 'The citizens keep us busy, Matt,' said Schenke.
'Or Satan does,' said Piggott. They were on the way out when the phone buzzed again, and he went back to pick it up. 'Robbery-Homicide, Detective Piggott.'
'Oh-is Sergeant Palliser there? That’s the name I was told to-'
'Sergeant Palliser’s on day watch, ma’am. Can I help you?' The woman sounded upset.
'I-yes, I suppose. It’s just to let him know-that is, whoever’s concerned-I’m Mrs. Moseley. In Fresno. They think-the police here said-you think you’ve found my daughter there. D-dead. I was to come- But just now- just a while ago-the Peacocks called me-'
'You want me to give this to Sergeant Palliser?' asked Piggott patiently.
'Yes, if you would. We were sure they were together, Sandra and Stephanie. Ran away together. And Mrs. Peacock just c-called to say-they’ve heard from Stephanie. They’re driving down there to meet her, she wants to come home, and I’m coming with them. Because if Stephanie’s all right, maybe it’s all a mistake and the dead girl isn’t Sandra-but-'
'I’ll pass it on to Palliser, ma’am.' Piggott hadn’t heard anything about the dead girl; he scrawled that down as she hung up with a gasp, and put the note on Palliser’s desk.
The address for the new body was Orchard Street, a little backwater of old single houses, a few duplexes, past Virgil. The black and white was in front of one of the singles, a little white frame house looking shabby. The uniformed men were talking to a paunchy shaken-looking man at the curb.
'These are the detectives, Mr. Buford. Mr. Piggott, Mr. Schenke. You tell it all to them. It’s inside,' added one
