'I'll pick you up at seven.'
'What should I wear?'
'Be casual,' he said.
'See you Saturday at seven.'
He turned to the toad and said, 'Thank you, my friend.'
It hopped off the walk, into the grass, then into the shrubbery.
Tony looked at Hilary. 'Gratitude embarrasses him.'
She laughed and closed the door.
Tony walked back to the car and got in, whistling happily.
As Frank drove away from the house, he said, 'What was that all about?'
'I got a date,' Tony said.
'With her?'
'Well, not with her sister.'
'Lucky stiff.'
'Lucky toad.'
'Huh?'
'Private joke.'
When they had gone a couple of blocks, Frank said, 'It's after four o'clock. By the time we get this heap back to the depot and check out for the day, it'll be five o'clock.'
'You want to quit on time for once?' Tony asked.
'Not much we can do about Bobby Valdez until tomorrow anyway.'
'Yeah,' Tony said. 'Let's be reckless.'
A few blocks farther on, Frank said, 'Want to have a drink after we check out?'
Tony looked at him in amazement. That was the first time in their association that Frank had suggested hanging out together after hours.
'Just a drink or two,' Frank said. 'Unless you have something planned--'
'No. I'm free.'
'You know a bar?'
'The perfect place. It's called The Bolt Hole.'
'It's not around HQ, is it? Not a place where a lot of cops go?'
'So far as I know, I'm the only officer of the law who patronizes it. It's on Santa Monica Boulevard, out near Century City. Just a couple of blocks from my apartment.'
'Sounds good,' Frank said. 'I'll meet you there.'
They rode the rest of the way to the police garage in silence--somewhat more companionable silence than that in which they had worked before, but silence nonetheless.
What does he want? Tony wondered. Why has that famous Frank Howard reserve finally broken down?
***
At 4:30, the Los Angeles medical examiner ordered a limited autopsy on the body of Bruno Gunther Frye. If at all possible, the corpse was to be opened only in the area of the abdominal wounds, sufficient to determine if those two punctures had been the sole cause of death.
The medical examiner would not perform the autopsy himself, for he had to catch a 5:30 flight to San Francisco in order to keep a speaking engagement. The chore was assigned to a pathologist on his staff.
The dead man waited in a cold room with other dead men, on a cold cart, motionless beneath a white shroud.
***
Hilary Thomas was exhausted. Every bone ached dully; every joint seemed enflamed. Every muscle felt as if it had been put through a blender at high speed and then reconstituted. Emotional strain could have precisely the same physiological effect as strenuous physical labor.
She was also jumpy, much too tense to be able to refresh with a nap. Each time the big house made a normal settling noise, she wondered if the sound was actually the squeak of a floorboard under the weight of an intruder. When the softly sighing wind brushed a palm frond or a pine branch against a window, she imagined someone was stealthily cutting the glass or prying at a window lock. But when there was a long period of perfect quiet, she sensed something sinister in the silence. Her nerves were worn thinner than the knees of a compulsive penitent's trousers.
The best cure she had ever found for nervous tension was a good book. She looked through the shelves in the study and chose James Clavell's most recent novel, a massive story set in the Orient. She poured a glass of Dry Sack on the rocks, settled down in the deep brown armchair, and began to read.
Twenty minutes later, when she was just beginning to lose herself thoroughly in Clavell's story, the telephone rang. She got up and answered it. 'Hello.'
There was no response.
'Hello?'
The caller listened for a few seconds, then hung up.
