one occasion when Jacoby had gotten a man charged with beating his wife and infant son to death laughing so hard that tears of mirth rather than remorse were rolling down his cheeks as he signed the confession that was going to put the bastard in jail for the rest of his life), but he wasn't going to tonight. He didn't have to see the flame under his ass; he could feel it, and it was being turned up. Pete was maybe a little slow on the uptake about some 168
things, and maybe that was why he wasn't going to make Detective 1st for another two or three years...if he ever did.
Some ten years ago a really awful thing had happened in a little nothing town called Chowchilla. Two people (they had walked on two legs, anyway, if you could believe the newsfilm) had hijacked a busload of kids, buried them alive, and then had demanded a huge sum of money. Otherwise, they said, those kiddies could just stay where they were and swap baseball trading cards until their air ran out. That one had ended happily, but it could have been a nightmare. And God knew Johnny Carson was no busload of schoolkids, but the case had the same kind of fruitcake appeal: here was that rare event about which both the
Things happened so rapidly that even later he wasn't completely sure, but he believed both of them had been going on the unspoken presumption, even then, that Carson had been kidnapped and this guy was part of it.
'We're going to do it by the numbers, Mr Paladin,' Cheyney said, and although he was speaking to the man glaring up at him from one of the chairs (he had refused the sofa at once), his eyes flicked briefly to Pete.
They had been partners for nearly twelve years, and a glance was all it took.
'First comes the Miranda Warning,' Cheyney said pleasantly. 'I am required to inform you that you are in the custody of the Burbank City Police. Although not required to do so immediately, I'll add that a preliminary charge of trespassing – '
'Trespassing!' An angry flush burst over Paladin's face.
' – on property both owned and leased by the National Broadcasting Company has been lodged against you. I am Detective 1st Grade Richard Cheyney. This man with me is my partner, Detective 2nd Grade Peter Jacoby. We'd like to interview you.'
'Fucking interrogate me is what you mean.'
'I only have one question, as far as interrogation goes,' Cheyney said.
'Otherwise, I only want to interview you at this time. In other words, I have one question relevant to the charge which has been lodged; the rest deal with other matters.'
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'Well, what's the fucking question?'
'That wouldn't be going by the numbers,' Jacoby said.
Cheyney said: 'I am required to tell you that you have the right – '
'To have my lawyer here, you bet,' Paladin said. 'And I just decided that before I answer a single fucking question, and that includes where I went to lunch today and what I had, he's going to be in here. Albert K.
Dellums.'
He spoke this name as if it should rock both detectives back on their heels, but Cheyney had never heard of it and could tell by Pete's expression that he hadn't either.
Whatever sort of crazy this Ed Paladin might turn out to be, he was no dullard. He saw the quick glances which passed between the two detectives and read them easily.
For the first time an expression of perplexity – it was not fear, not yet
– crossed Mr Edward Paladin's face.
'Al Dellums,' he said, raising his voice like some Americans overseas who seem to believe they can make the waiter understand if they only speak loudly enough and slowly enough. 'Al Dellums of Dellums, Carthage, Stoneham, and Taylor. I guess I shouldn't be all that surprised that you haven't heard of him. He's only one of the most important, well-known lawyers in the country.' Paladin shot the left cuff of his just-slightly-too-loud sport-coat and glanced at his watch. 'If you reach him at home, gentlemen, he'll be pissed. If you have to call his club –
and I think this is his club- night – he's going to be pissed like a bear.'
Cheyney was not impressed by bluster. If you could sell it at a quarter a pound, he never would have had to turn his hand at another day's work. But even a quick peek had been enough to show him that the watch Paladin was wearing was not just a Rolex but a Rolex Midnight Star. It might be an imitation, of course, but his gut told him it was genuine. Part of it was his clear impression that Paladin wasn't trying to make an impression – he'd wanted to see what time it was, no more or less than that. And if the watch was the McCoy...well, there were cabin- cruisers you could buy for less. What was a man who could afford a Rolex Midnight Star doing mixed up in something weird like this?
Now he was the one who must have been showing perplexity clear enough for Paladin to read it, because the man smiled – a humorless skinning-back of the lips from the capped teeth. 'The air-conditioning in here's pretty nice,' he said, crossing his legs and flicking the crease absently. 'You guys want to enjoy it while you can. It's pretty muggy walking a beat out in Watts, even this time of year.'
In a harsh and abrupt tone utterly unlike his bright pitter-patter Comedy Store voice, Jacoby said: 'Shut your mouth, jag-off.'
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Paladin jerked around and stared at him, eyes wide. And again Cheyney would have sworn it had been years since anyone had spoken to this man in that way. Years since anyone would have dared.
'What did you say?'
'I said shut your mouth when Detective Cheyney is talking to you.
