“-knowing I should have anticipated it. I ask you to believe that.” He raised his head slowly and sat forward. “But look. He’s still trying to talk to you.”
“Wonderful,” I said.
“Even after, after what happened last night. He backtracked to that woman because he wanted to do something that would reach you. He was…” Schultz said, looking up at me. He stopped and licked his lips again. “This is only an opinion, okay? Nobody has to take notes or anything. He was making a statement. He felt betrayed, and he was showing Mr. Grist what would happen if he was betrayed again.”
“A statement,” Annabelle Winston said flatly.
“If he wants to make a statement,” I said, “he knows how to make one that would finish me, and I don’t mean by lighting fire to me.”
Annabelle Winston gave me the look again.
“I have to talk to him,” I said.
“The press conference.” It was the first thing Bobby Grant had said all morning.
“No fucking way,” Captain Finch said.
“You’re not exactly in a position to insist, Captain,” Fred the lawyer said.
“Shut up,” I said. To my surprise, they did. “I need to think.
“I need a way to tell him,” I said, feeling my way, “that I had nothing to do with what happened last night. He has to believe that I’ve cut all ties with the police. At the same time, I need the police. I need them to watch the person I need them to watch. Hammond knows who she is. In fact,” I said, gaining a degree of confidence, “I need Hammond assigned to watch her. And he reports to no one. No one, is that clear? He knows her and likes her, and I won’t have him reporting to anyone who might decide to use the lady as bait the way I was used.” Hammond still hadn’t looked at me.
“It’s not usual,” Finch said lamely.
“Would you prefer the press conference?” Annabelle Winston asked.
“No press conference,” I said. Bobby Grant groaned. “The print media can get it wrong, and TV will give me a minute, maybe the wrong minute. Also, I don’t want him to know that I’m still working for you,” I said to Annabelle Winston. “I will be, but I don’t want him to know it. I want him to think that I’m out there on my own, solo, scared, sorry as hell, and waiting for him to talk to me.”
“You want to go one-on-one with him?” Schultz said. “He’ll burn you. Honest to God, he’ll burn you. As you said, I could be useful.” He spread his hands apologetically. “At least, that’s my opinion.”
“What’s the problem with one-on-one?” I asked. “It hasn’t been so great to be on the big team.”
“Like me or not,” Schultz said very quietly, “and I’ll understand if you hate my guts, I know him better than anyone else here.”
“And the cops buy your lunch.”
“Not necessarily,” Schultz said.
“He’s on our payroll,” Finch said promptly.
“I’ve got a practice, too,” Schultz said, bridling. “Mr. Grist could become a private patient.” Finch looked as if he wished the entire room were an antacid.
“Information privileged?” I asked.
“Absolutely.” Schultz avoided looking at Captain Finch.
“Maybe,” I said. “But Schultz, the first time I think you’re shucking me, I’ll kill you.”
“I’d almost deserve it,” Schultz said.
I held his gaze for what felt like an hour and then gave it up. “I’ll need everything your guys turn up,” I said to Finch, “either on the phone or by regular mail. Call me the day after you send me anything. If I haven’t got it by the following day, if I think it might have been snatched out of my mailbox, I’ll call. And no surveillance on my street.”
“That’s dumb,” Hammond said without glancing at me.
“He’ll spot it,” I said, “and then we’ll be back to nowhere.”
“How are you going to talk to him?” Annabelle Winston said.
“The press conference,” Bobby Grant said again, seeing his future written in the skies.
“No,” I said. “I need more control. Captain Finch,” I said, but Finch was looking up at the same uniformed patrolman. The patrolman looked nervous.
“Captain,” he said, “there’s this guy on the phone…”
“I said no calls,” Finch said curtly, “and I meant it. What do you think, my jaws need exercise?”
“He’s called five times this morning,” the uniform said, “and he’s threatening to call the chief. Needs to talk to someone on the Incinerator investigation. Says he knows the chief personally. Says he’s a-”
“Tell him to fold, spindle, and mutilate himself,” Finch interrupted.
“-television producer,” the uniform plowed along. “Norman something.”
I got up again. “I’ll talk to him,” I said.
PART THREE
12
This is what it said: You made me break a rule.
You don’t know how important the rules are.
If I have my way, I’d do five a night, every night of the week, every week of the year. The rules save lives. And you made me break one.
You’ll be sorry. When I kill the others, you’ll be sorry. When I liberate your phlogiston and leave nothing behind but calx, you’ll be sorry.
This one had been written in a hurry: same gold pen, same inexorably straight margins, but no picture at the bottom, no fancy first initial at the top. Like the dance card, it had been messengered. Same approach, different service, no lead. We could have been friends. I used to think we were friends. I hoped we could be friends again.
You didn’t recognize my voice. Well, keep an eye over your shoulder. If you don’t recognize me before I throw the match, you’ll be sorry. Of course, you’ll be sorry either way.
You saw what I did to your girlfriend. She made a lovely light.
Tell your other girlfriend to be careful too. And, by the way, I don’t think much of the guy she’s fooling around with. Real drop in quality there.
I’d attempted, but failed, to prevent them from showing that part. As it flashed onto the screen I wanted to perspire, but the makeup they’d caked on my face wouldn’t let me. I just tried to penetrate the glare of light pouring down on me to locate a friendly face. No deal there, either.
I tried, the note continued. I really tried. But you’re an *******, just like all the others. So you’ll burn.
The note hadn’t said******* of course. It had used a much more descriptive term, which had been covered, for today’s purposes only, with asterisks. This was, after all, family entertainment.
“That’s a letter from a man who has burned thirteen people to death in Los Angeles,” Velez Caputo said, bright as a silver quarter, into the nearest camera. “We’re coming to you live today to bring you this amazing story. The show that was scheduled for this hour, ‘Transvestites and the Women Who Love Them,’ will be shown
