At Jonnie’s place, news crews had set their cameras on full zoom from 150 feet away. The police were keeping them at bay behind patrol cars and a stringer of yellow tape that fluttered in a hot breeze. Their lenses followed us along the walkway and through the front door. If they were feeding live, untold millions of inquiring minds might be tracking us into Sjorgen’s house that very moment, calculating the odds of my being marched back out in cuffs based on yellow journalistic gibberish and 2 percent actual fact.
Inside, the house was teeming. A party indeed. Two serious-faced women were dusting everything they could find in the living room for fingerprints. Two men were discussing something with Chief Menteer. A man was vacuuming, using an odd-looking forensics Hoover. That would brighten Dallas’s day. The place would be spotless when she got back. Except it wasn’t her house, and I figured she’d soon be back in her own.
In the backyard, a young guy was tiptoeing through flower beds, checking windowsills for signs of forced entry. A woman was photographing rooms from every conceivable angle. Two forensics guys were in the foyer going over the table that had held Milliken’s head. They had spray bottles, an ultraviolet light, tape, calipers, a steel ruler, and something that looked like a tool a dentist would use to probe for cavities, which was one of the few tests they might be able to perform on Milliken the last time I’d seen him.
Menteer came over and we all stood in the foyer and went over it a few more times, those ten seconds between the time Dallas and I got inside, shut the door, she screamed and I kept her from falling, then I stared at Milliken’s head—gone now. No matter how they ran it past me, or how I ran it past them, there wasn’t any more to it, not even when I acted it out, step by painful step.
Simply put, they got nothing. I, on the other hand, kept my eyes and ears open and picked up a few tidbits I hadn’t had before.
There was no sign of forced entry anywhere, so Jonnie’s keys were still at large, or so it seemed. That was enough to put Dallas squarely in RPD’s sights, if not one Mortimer Angel.
Jonnie’s and Milliken’s bodies hadn’t been found yet. All the police had were heads. I caught a few squirrelly looks regarding that, but couldn’t make anything of it. I stared back blankly and they gave up, reluctantly, whatever they were looking for.
The cops hadn’t set Jonnie’s burglar alarm when they closed the place up yesterday night. I had the impression they were sorry about that now, but it was too late for sorry. The front and back doors used the same key. Medeco locks, about as good as locks get, which made it damned unlikely that anyone had picked their way in. Nor was there any sign that anyone had tried. Again, that hinted at either Dallas or yours truly, people with ready access to a key.
“Which door’d this guy use to get in?” I asked, rustling up more clues on Dallas’s behalf.
Fairchild said, “You tell me.”
“Very funny.”
That was as close as anyone got to trying to wring a confession out of me. Couldn’t say as I blamed them any.
I toyed with the idea of telling them not to worry, that Gregory and I were on the case—call it professional backup—but I restrained myself. No one seemed in the mood for news that good.
They turned me loose at 4:45, without an escort. There was a general riot by the media and a scramble for their vehicles when I came out alone and squeezed into my car. Fairchild stood outside and watched them come after me. As I rounded a corner, I saw him wave. I caught a glint of teeth as he smiled. Bastard.
* * *
I lost the last one, a station wagon out of Los Angeles, at 4:58. Tenacious sonsofbitches. This one had a driver like Andretti behind the wheel, except it was a young, fierce-eyed woman with a mane of frazzled blond hair. These days you can’t beat gals in the eighteen- to twenty-five range for daring and raw speed. With testosterone levels like bulls, it’s a wonder they don’t grow beards. Her arrogance, however, was her undoing. She was ten feet behind me, tailgating after running a red light to keep up. I put the Toyota up on two wheels turning left off Sierra into an alley, and she overshot, then spun out. Not even testosterone gives you traction.
I drove past my house. Two crews had the place staked out. They knew I’d been cut loose. One of them came after me, a kid of maybe twenty-two driving, a woman riding shotgun, holding a video camera. I sped up, lost him in the maze of streets west of UNR. Poor guy didn’t stand a chance. All he had was testicles, wasn’t driven by rage.
I motored around aimlessly for ten minutes.
I could have gone home and fullbacked my way through the carrion feeders that had either stayed behind or fluttered in to roost in the ten minutes I’d been gone—if I’d wanted to see myself on the news again, looking like a sure thing for county jail in the next few days, and then, of course, lethal injection. I decided, no way. If K was still there, she was on her own and good luck.
So I was adrift. In other circumstances that wouldn’t have been unpleasant. I can amuse myself. I do okay alone. Bump up against too many people
