to resent you being here.”
“I thought they would.”
“But they know-Captain Quaire passed the word-that you had nothing to do with it. So I don’t think it will be a problem. If there is one, you come to me with it.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll be working with Wally Milham. There’s a memo…”
“I saw it.”
“OK. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with Milham. And he’s a good Homicide detective. You can learn a lot from him. Homicide works differently. I don’t know how much experience you had at East Detectives…”
“Not much,” Matt said. “Most of it on recovered stolen vehicles.”
Natali smiled understandingly.
“I did a few of those myself, when I made detective,” he said. “We don’t get as many jobs here,” Natali went on. “And when one comes in, everybody goes to work on it. There’s an assigned detective, of course. Milham, in the case of the Inferno Lounge job. But everybody works on it.”
“I understand. Or I think I do.”
“You’ll catch on in a hurry,” Natali said. “If you have any problems, come see me.”
“Thank you, sir.”
When he went to Wally Milham’s desk, Milham was working his way through a thick stack of paper forms. He read one of the forms, and then placed it facedown beside the unread stack.
“You better take a look at these,” Milham said, tapping the facedown stack without raising his eyes from the document he was reading.
Matt pulled up a chair and slid the facedown stack to him.
Matt turned over the stack. They were all carbon copies of 75-49s, the standard Police Department Detective Division Investigation Report.
He started to read the first one:
The telephone on the desk rang. Without taking his eyes from the 75-49s before him, Milham reached for it.
“Homicide, Milham,” he said.
Matt looked up in natural curiosity.
“Hello, honey,” Milham said, his voice changing.
The Widow Kellog, Matt decided, and that makes it none of my business.
He turned his attention to the second 75-49:
“Jesus Christ!” Milham said, softly but with such intensity that Matt’s noble intention to mind his own business was overwhelmed by curiosity.
“Baby,” Milham said. “You stay there. Stay inside. I’ll be right there!”
I wonder what the hell that’s all about.
Milham hung the telephone up and looked at Matt.
“Something’s come up,” he said. “I gotta go.”
Matt nodded.
“Tell you what, Payne,” Milham said, obviously having thought over what he was about to say. “Take that stack with you and go home. You all right to drive?”
“I’m all right.”
“I’ll call you about ten tomorrow morning. You read that, see if you come up with something.”
“Right.”
“OK. You’ll find some manila envelopes over there,” Milham said, pointing. “I really got to go.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Yeah, if anybody asks where I went, all you know is I told you to go home.”
“OK.”
“Ten tomorrow, I’ll call you at ten tomorrow,” Milham said, and went to retrieve his pistol from a filing cabinet.
SIXTEEN
Matt left the Police Administration Building and found his car. The interior lights were on. Because, he saw, the door was ajar.
Christ, was I so plastered when I came here that I not only didn’t lock the car, but didn’t even close the damned door? No wonder Milham was worried if I was all right to drive.
Or did somebody use a Car Thief’s Friend and open the door? Did I leave anything inside worth stealing?
He pulled the door fully open and stuck his head inside.
There was no sign of damage; the glove compartment showed no sign that anyone had tried to force it open.
I deduce that no attempt at Vehicular Burglary has occurred. I am forced to conclude that I was shitfaced when I drove in here. Shit!
There was a white tissue on the floor under the steering wheel.
Penny’s Kleenex. With her lipstick on it.
He picked it up and looked at it.
What the hell do I do with it? Throw it away? I don’t want to do that. Keep it, as a Sacred Relic? I don’t want to do that, either.
He patted his pocket and found a book of matches.
He unfolded the Kleenex, struck a match, and set the Kleenex on fire. He held it in his fingers until that became painful, and then let what was left float to the ground. He watched until it was consumed and the embers died.
Then he got in the Porsche and drove out of the Roundhouse parking lot.
His stomach hurt, and he decided that was because he still hadn’t had anything to eat. He drove over to the 1400 block of Race Street where he remembered a restaurant was open all night. He ordered two hamburgers, changed his mind to three hamburgers, a cup of coffee, a large french fries, and two containers of milk, all to go.
Then he got back in the Porsche and drove home.
The red light was blinking on his answering machine. He was tempted to ignore it, but finally pushed the Play Messages button.
Predictably, there was a call from his mother, asking if he was all right. And one from his father, same question. And there were seven No Message blurps; someone had called, and elected not to leave a message.
He opened the paper bag from the St. George Restaurant and started to unwrap a hamburger.
The telephone rang.
He debated answering it, but finally ran and grabbed it just before the fifth ring, which would turn on the answering machine.
“Hello?”
There was no reply, but someone was on the line.
“If you’re going to talk dirty to me, please start now,” Matt said.
There was a click and the line went dead.
“Fuck you, pal,” Matt said, hung the telephone up, and went back to the hamburger.
The telephone rang again.
“Goddamn it!”
He snatched the phone from the wall and remembered at the last moment that the caller, this time, might be his mother, and one did not scream obscenities at one’s mother.
“Hello?”
And again there was no reply.
