Whispers (22 page)

She unlocked the front door, opened it, turned to him, smiled radiantly. “Thank you for believing in me last night, even after what the Napa County Sheriff said.”

“We’ll be checking into him,” Tony said. “He’s got some explaining to do. If you’re interested, I’ll let you know what his excuse is.”

“I
am
curious,” she said.

“Okay. I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s no bother.”

She stepped into the house.

He didn’t move.

She looked back at him.

He smiled stupidly.

“Is there anything else?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“What?”

“One more question.”

“Yes?”

He had never felt so awkward with a woman before.

“Would you have dinner with me Saturday?”

“Oh,” she said. “Well . . . I don’t think I can.”

“I see.”

“I mean, I’d like to.”

“You would?”

“But I really don’t have much time for a social life these days,” she said.

“I see.”

“I’ve just gotten this deal with Warner Brothers, and it’s going to keep me busy day and night.”

“I understand,” he said.

He felt like a high school boy who had just been turned down by the popular cheerleader.

“It was very nice of you to ask,” she said.

“Sure. Well . . . good luck with Warner Brothers.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll let you know about Sheriff Laurenski.”

“Thank you.”

He smiled, and she smiled.

He turned away, started toward the car, and heard the door of the house close behind him. He stopped and looked back at it.

A small toad hopped out of the shrubbery, onto the stone footpath in front of Tony. It sat in the middle of the walk and peered up at him, its eyes rolled way back to achieve the necessary angle, its tiny green-brown chest rapidly expanding and contracting.

Tony looked at the toad and said, “Did I give up too easily?”

The little toad made a peeping-croaking sound.

“What have I got to lose?” Tony asked.

The toad peeped-croaked again.

“That’s the way I look at it. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

He stepped around the amphibian cupid and rang the bell. He could sense Hilary Thomas looking at him through the one-way peephole lens, and when she opened the door a second later, he spoke before she could. “Am I terribly ugly?”

“What?”

“Do I look like Quasimodo or something?”

“Really, I—”

“I don’t pick my teeth in public,” he said.

“Lieutenant Clemenza—”

“Is it because I’m a cop?”

“What?”

“You know what some people think?”

“What do some people think?”

“They think cops are socially unacceptable.”

“Well, I’m not one of those people.”

“You’re not a snob?”

“No. I just—”

“Maybe you turned me down because I don’t have a lot of money and don’t live in Westwood.”

“Lieutenant, I’ve spent most of my life without money, and I haven’t always lived in Westwood.”

“Then I wonder what’s wrong with me,” he said, looking down at himself in mock bewilderment.

She smiled and shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong with you, Lieutenant.”

“Thank God!”

“Really, I said no for just one reason. I don’t have time for—”

“Miss Thomas, even the President of the United States manages to take a night off now and then. Even the head of General Motors has leisure time. Even the Pope. Even God rested the seventh day. No one can be busy all the time.”

“Lieutenant—”

“Call me Tony.”

“Tony, after what I’ve been through the last two days, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be a barrel of laughs.”

“If I wanted to go to dinner with a barrel of laughs, I’d take a bunch of monkeys.”

She smiled again, and he wanted to take her beautiful face in his hands and kiss it all over.

She said, “I’m sorry. But I need to be alone for a few days.”

“That’s exactly what you don’t need after the sort of experience you’ve had. You need to get out, be among people, get your spirits up. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.” He turned and pointed to the stone footpath behind him. The toad was still there. It had turned around to look at them.

“Ask Mr. Toad,” Tony said.

“Mr. Toad?”

“An acquaintance of mine. A very wise person.” Tony stooped down and stared at the toad. “Doesn’t she need to get out and enjoy herself, Mr. Toad?”

It blinked slow heavy lids and made its funny little sound right on cue.

“You’re absolutely correct,” Tony told it. “And don’t you think I’m the one she should go out with?”

“Scree-ooak,”
it said.

“And what will you do to her if she turns me down again?”

“Ahhh,” Tony said, nodding his head in satisfaction as he stood up.

“Well, what did he say?” Hilary asked, grinning. “What will he do to me if I won’t go out with you—give me warts?”

Tony looked serious. “Worse than that. He tells me he’ll get into the walls of your house, work his way up to your bedroom, and croak so loudly every night that you won’t be able to sleep until you give in.”

She smiled. “Okay. I give up.”

“Saturday night?”

“All right.”

“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.

Hilary put down the receiver and stared at it thoughtfully for a moment.

Wrong number?

Must have been.

But why didn’t he say so?

Some people just don’t know any better, she told herself. They’re rude.

But what if it wasn’t a wrong number. What if it was . . . something else.

Stop looking for goblins in every shadow! she told herself angrily. Frye’s dead. It was a bad thing, but it’s over and done with. You deserve a rest, a couple of days to collect your nerves and wits. But then you’ve got to stop looking over your shoulder and get on with your life. Otherwise, you’ll end up in a padded room.

She curled up in the armchair again, but she caught a chill that brought goosebumps to her arms. She went to the closet and got a blue and green knitted afghan, returned to the chair, and draped the blanket over her legs.

She sipped the Dry Sack.

She started reading Clavell again.

In a while, she forgot about the telephone call.

 
After signing out for the day, Tony went home and washed his face, changed from his suit into jeans and a checkered blue shirt. He put on a thin tan jacket and walked two blocks to The Bolt Hole.

Frank was already there, sitting in a back booth, still in his suit and tie, sipping Scotch.

The Bolt Hole—or simply The Hole, as regular customers referred to it—was that rare and vanishing thing: an ordinary neighborhood bar. During the past two decades, in response to a continuously fracturing and subdividing culture, the American tavern industry, at least that part of it in cities and suburbs, had indulged in a frenzy of specialization. But The Hole had successfully bucked the trend. It wasn’t a gay bar. It wasn’t a singles’ bar or a swingers’ bar. It wasn’t a bar patronized primarily by bikers or truckers or show business types or off-duty policemen or account executives; its clientele was a mixture, representative of the community. It wasn’t a topless go-go bar. It wasn’t a rock and roll bar or a country and western bar. And, thank God, it wasn’t a sports bar with one of those six-foot television screens and Howard Cosell’s voice in quadraphonic sound. The Hole had nothing more to offer than pleasantly low lighting, cleanliness, courtesy, comfortable stools and booths, a jukebox that wasn’t turned too loud, hot dogs and hamburgers served from the minuscule kitchen, and good drinks at reasonable prices.

Tony slid into the booth, facing Frank.

Penny, a sandy-haired waitress with pinchable cheeks and a dimpled chin, stopped by the table. She ruffled Tony’s hair and said, “What do you want, Renoir?”

“A million in cash, a Rolls-Royce, eternal life, and the acclaim of the masses,” Tony said.

“What’ll you settle for?”

“A bottle of Coors.”

“That we can provide,” she said.

“Bring me another Scotch,” Frank said. When she went to the bar to get their drinks, Frank said, “Why’d she call you Renoir?”

“He was a famous French painter.”

“So?”

“Well, I’m a painter, too. Neither French nor famous. It’s just Penny’s way of teasing me.”

“You paint pictures?” Frank asked.

“Certainly not houses.”

“How come you never mentioned it?”

“I made a few observations about fine art a time or two,” Tony said. “But you greeted the subject with a marked lack of interest. In fact, you couldn’t have shown less enthusiasm if I’d wanted to debate the fine points of Swahili grammar or discuss the process of decomposition in dead babies.”

“Oil paintings?” Frank asked.

“Oils. Pen and ink. Watercolors. A little bit of everything, but mostly oils.”

“How long you been at it?”

“Since I was a kid.”

“Have you sold any?”

“I don’t paint to sell.”

“What do you do it for?”

“My own satisfaction.”

“I’d like to see some of your work.”

“My museum has odd hours, but I’m sure a visit can be arranged.”

“Museum?”

“My apartment. There’s not much furniture in it, but it’s chockfull of paintings.”

Penny brought their drinks.

They were silent for a while, and then they talked for a few minutes about Bobby Valdez, and then they were silent again.

There were about sixteen or eighteen people in the bar. Several of them had ordered sandwiches. The air was filled with the mouth-watering aroma of sizzling ground sirloin and chopped onions.