Blood Royal by Harold Robbins

lapdog.
    He called Howler’s home number. “Piss off,” the recording said.
    After the beep, Dutton said, “If you’re there, pick up, I have money for you.”
    Nothing. Howler either wasn’t home or was dead. Those were the only two reasons he wouldn’t have responded to an offer of money.
    He tried the coroner’s office next. Howler only got occasional assignments from the coroner, but it was possible he was there working on one. He wasn’t. “Haven’t seen him in days,” someone named Mrs. Stewart told him.
    Dutton had Howler’s mother’s number, too. He called it, though the odds of the man being there were slim—Howler only showed up once a month at his mother’s the day she got her social welfare check. The phone was answered by an elderly woman.
    “Good day, Mrs. Howler.”
    “Is this the police?” the woman asked.
    “Yes,” Dutton said. You don’t become a top reporter for a shabby tabloid without knowing when to lie.
    “Is there any news about Walter?”
    Walter. Dutton had forgotten that the man had a first name.
    Any news. That would make Howler missing.
    “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Now, Mrs. Howler, you, uh, let me see…?” He made a paper noise shuffling a Stud magazine on the coffee table.
    “I’m the one who made the missing persons report. I knew something was wrong when he didn’t show up on my check day.”
    “Yes, that was very intuitive of you, but a mother always knows, doesn’t she? What I need is to confirm the information, so let’s start from the beginning. Last time you saw your son?”
    “About a month ago. The last time I got a check.”
    I should have thought of that myself, Dutton thought.
    “He said he was off to the countryside, been invited to the prince’s ball, he had.”
    “Prince’s ball?”
    “The Prince of Wales. Terrible what happened to him. That’s why I’m so worried about Walter. Maybe someone shot him, too. They say the princess is quite insane, don’t they?”
    Dutton stared at Dr. Livingstone across the way. The bird was strangely quiet. Dutton himself was speechless. Invited to the prince’s ball? Howler had less chance of being invited to a royal party as he did of addressing the United Nations General Assembly on medical ethics.
    “Wasn’t that the information I gave before?” she asked. “My memory isn’t as good as it used to be. I don’t always—”
    “What exactly did he say to you when you saw him last? About the prince’s ball.”
    “That he was off to the country with the prince for that hunt and ball that’s been in all the news. Before he left, he dropped by to pick up clothes he had stored here. He was really quite proud that he was shouldering with royalty, you know. But I always knew my Walter was special.”
    Her Walter was special, all right, and he had about as much chance of rubbing elbows with royalty as a wallowing pig did.
    “That’s the last time you’ve heard from him?”
    “Yes, I expected him to call me after that terrible thing happened to the prince.”
    “What did the police tell you?”
    “You’re the police.”
    I should have thought of that myself. “I mean the other officers who spoke to you.”
    “The ones that came to my apartment? They told me not to worry, that Walter was on a special assignment for the police. They also told me not to discuss Walter with anyone but them. But I call them every day because I know he needs to come by and get money for his medicine. You know that he takes medicine, don’t you?”
    Yeah, Dutton knew what kind of “medicine” Howler used, it was bought on the streets and went into a hypodermic needle that was injected anyplace on Howler’s body that didn’t already have more holes than a pincushion.
    Dutton had her give him the police telephone number, “Just to make sure you’re calling the right one,” he told her. After he jotted it down, he asked, “Uh, did Walter have any close friends? Someone he might have confided in? A