“I think so. Not that I don’t like it here or anything.”
“What’s not to like?” Sanchez cracked.
Delgado took Wendy’s arm and guided her out of the office. Walking with her down the hall, he became aware, for the first time, of how small she was. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. Her hair looked very soft.
At the rear door he waited with her while Sanchez pulled the squad car close,
“We think the TV people may have set up cameras to take some footage when you leave,” Delgado lied smoothly. “For that reason it would be a good idea if you could get into the car as quickly as possible, then lie down till you’re well away from the station house.”
“Yeah, I definitely don’t look my best for a TV debut.”
“It’s not just that. If these reporters know which car you’re in, they may follow you to Jeffrey’s. Then, if they give away the address, you’ll have to go somewhere else.”
“Would they do that? Report the address?”
“They might. Their sense of civic responsibility can, at times, leave something to be desired. That’s why it’s important for you to keep your head down till the two officers tell you to look up.”
“Okay. I will.” She shifted her weight nervously.
Delgado tried to lighten the mood. “Look, don’t worry about it. Everything will go fine. Tomorrow morning I’ll call you at Jeffrey’s. In the meantime, do your best to put this whole miserable experience out of your mind.”
“I’ll try.” She pulled her features into the pale imitation of a smile. “But I’m making no promises.”
Delgado watched tensely as Sanchez and Porter led Wendy to the squad car. Within two seconds she slid into the backseat. She ducked her head immediately and stayed down. So far, so good.
The patrol car pulled away with Sanchez at the wheel. Porter’s voice crackled over Delgado’s radio handset: “Eight X-ray Forty-four. Code Twenty, Code Twenty.”
An endless minute passed while Delgado waited for the all-clear signal.
“Eight X-ray Forty-four. Code Four. Repeat: Code Four.”
Delgado expelled a shaky breath. Done.
He returned to his office, shut the door, and sank wearily into his desk chair. Rubbing his forehead, his eyes, his neck, he tried to think.
He now knew why no clay statue had been left in Jennifer Kutzlow’s hand. Wendy, not Jennifer, had been the Gryphon’s target from the start.
That much was clear from the fact that the Gryphon had known Wendy’s name and from the details of the ritual she’d described. Poor Jennifer had merely gotten in the way somehow. The Gryphon had killed her and turned the lights off in her apartment-Wendy said the place was dark when she arrived home-then turned them on again before fleeing the scene.
Delgado made an effort to review his notes and put together the rest of what he’d learned in the interview. But he couldn’t concentrate. He could think only about Wendy. From her date of birth he knew she was twenty-nine; she seemed younger. Young and shy, yet tough too, tougher than she herself might have realized, tough enough to punch a bloody hole in the Gryphon, depriving him for the first time of the prize he sought. How the discovery of her secret strength would affect her, Delgado couldn’t say; but he suspected she wouldn’t be reading as many self-help books in the future. She would be less shy, less timid, not so easily cowed by the world. Having faced death, she would learn to live.
Then he thought of the Gryphon, still running loose, still holding on to the clay statuette he’d made for Miss Wendy Alden. And he was afraid. His fear was groundless; of course it was. Every reasonable precaution had been taken. There was no possible danger to Wendy tonight. He knew that.
He was afraid anyway.
15
Rood crouched low in a thicket of wild buckbrush, watching Mr. Jeffrey Pellman’s house from across the street.
The lights in the house were on, and Rood could see the silhouette of a moving figure projected on the yellow window shades behind iron security bars, passing first in one direction, then the other, over and over again. Pacing.
He had little doubt the figure in question was Mr. Pellman, awake and restless. But why? Perhaps after having been awakened by Rood’s phone call, the poor man had found himself unable to get back to sleep. Possible. But Rood thought it far more likely that Mr. Pellman had heard from Miss Alden and was worried about her.
Still, if he’d heard the news, why hadn’t he rushed to the police station to be at his sweetheart’s side? Why had he remained in the house, walking the floor? Rood didn’t know.
His knees stiffened up as he crouched, as they had in Miss Alden’s apartment. Out here, at least, he could flex his joints without fear of being overheard. There was nobody around. There was nothing for a quarter mile in any direction save Mr. Pellman’s house and stands of weed and the parched Santa Ana wind.
Nichols Canyon Road was one of several winding two-lane strips of macadam that traversed the Santa Monica Mountains, the modest range dividing L.A.’s Westside on the south from the San Fernando Valley on the north. Unlike Coldwater Canyon Avenue and Laurel Canyon Boulevard, Nichols Canyon Road was not yet crowded with houses along every inch of its switchback trail. The lower stretches, just north of Hollywood Boulevard, were densely built up, the stucco bungalows sardined together, guarding their fragile privacy with high walls and lush gardens. But as the road rose higher into the hills, the homes thinned out, giving way to sections that were entirely undeveloped, merely chaparral-choked chasms on one side and sheer cliff faces on the other.
Mr. Pellman’s house stood alone in one of these forgotten areas. It was an old, sad, one-story frame building with an attached one-car garage. A white Camaro was parked in the driveway. Mr. Pellman’s car, Rood assumed.
Rood had encountered no difficulty in finding the house. After crawling past it at a mile an hour to confirm the address, he’d driven on up the road till he found a narrow, lightless side street, where he’d parked the Falcon. He’d removed his canvas bag from the backseat, then retraced the route to the house on foot, ducking into the roadside chaparral whenever car headlights swept by.
Directly across from Mr. Pellman’s house there was a dusty turnout sprouting gray stalks of deerweed, buckbrush, and chia. At the rear of the turnout stood a wall of rock, colorless in the wan starlight, tufted with rare clinging shrubs like flecks of mold on a hunk of stale bread.
Rood retreated to the rock wall and hunkered down in the brush. Invisible from the road, he enjoyed a clear view of the house. If Miss Alden showed up, he would see her easily.
So far, however, he’d seen nothing but Mr. Jeffrey Pellman’s shadow sweeping like a pendulum across the window shades.
While he waited, Rood considered his next move. If Miss Alden did arrive, then he would simply watch till the lights went out and the two were in bed, either asleep or satisfying their coarser needs like rutting animals. At that point it would be a simple matter to silently break in and kill them both-the boyfriend quickly, Miss Alden with the exquisite slowness she deserved. Then his hacksaw would claim its prize, and the clay gryphon, still wrapped in plastic in his drawstring bag, would find its proper home in her hand.
But if Miss Alden failed to make an appearance, the situation would become considerably more complicated. Rood could practice the art of ungentle persuasion on Mr. Pellman to extract his whore’s whereabouts. But the man might not know where she was, and then Rood would have gained nothing. He had no interest in killing Mr. Pellman just for the fun of it; a man’s head held no mystique for him. The specimens he collected were objects of art, each capturing the delicate beauty that only an attractive young woman’s features, twisted by the final extremity of terror and pain, could convey.
There were other possibilities. He could follow Mr. Pellman the next time he left home. The man might lead him to Miss Alden’s safehouse. Or…
Tires hissed on the macadam. A northbound car pulled slowly around a curve in the road, then cut its speed and turned into the driveway, parking behind the Camaro with a yelp of brakes.
