thought the guard left at seven o’clock?”
“Not today. Mallory has decided I’m not a suspect. I cost you money, Brock; you don’t have to pay more for security. I’ll watch the place.”
I was tempted to remind him that he was the one who was paying for the bond by working for me. But that would have spoiled a happy homecoming.
Mrs. Casey was preparing lunch in the kitchen. “Thank God you’re home!” she said.
“I brought a guest for lunch. He’ll probably be staying over.”
“That’s all right. Just so you’re home.”
Harley went out to try the pool after lunch. Corey went back to his vantage point, taking a paperback mystery along. I stayed in the house, recording all I had learned on the trip. The pattern of the man was beginning to emerge.
Leaving Jane Meredith’s registration slip in her car could be another of his ploys, luring me to a fruitless hunt, stretching out my sentence of apprehension and frustration.
He knew where we were staying in Santa Monica but had not made his move. Why not? If I was his target, why not? I knew why, damn him! I put the papers away and went out to the pool.
Harley was sitting on a pad in the sun. He told me, “I’ve decided I’ll stay here only for tonight, Brock.”
“You’re going home?”
“No. I’ll stay at a hotel.”
“This is a lot cheaper than the Sheraton.”
“I don’t plan to stay there. Big Bear isn’t likely to show there. I’ll find some place in his kind of neighborhood. As I explained to you before, he’s out to get you and I’m out to get him.”
“That’s rough country down on lower Main Street.”
“Brock, please! That’s the kind of country we headed for every time we got a weekend pass. You have Corey here. You don’t need me.”
“Okay. Your best bet would be the Travis Hotel if you’re allergic to roaches and bedbugs. That was the last place of residence of Big Bear when he was in town.”
The local afternoon paper informed us that there had been another earthquake in Mexico City, a 7.3 jolt this time. It also informed us that the Los Angeles police were on the hunt for another weirdo, labeled the Serial Killer, a man who specialized in knifing prostitutes. Two of the ten women he had attacked had survived. When (and if) they recovered enough to talk, the L.A. police hoped to get a description. Chief Chandler Harris’s two-victim slayer could now be relegated to the want-ad pages.
Jan gave me a big kiss and a tight hug when she came home. I introduced her to Harley.
She said, “You boys must be bushed. I’ll make the drinks. I’ll take a bottle of Einlicher out to Corey first.”
“I’ll have the same,” I said.
“What’s Einlicher?” Harley asked.
“America’s finest beer. That’s what I was drinking at Heinie’s.”
“Make it three,” he said and smiled at Jan. “Please.”
When she left, Harley said, “No wonder you don’t mess around! You hit the jackpot, buddy.”
I changed the subject. “Maybe you ought to call your wife and tell her where you are.”
“I will after dinner. She’s in the rec hall now, playing bridge.” He sighed. “Six days a week, afternoon bridge.”
Corey was slated to eat in the living room, where he could watch the road. Harley suggested that he replace him this evening. Mrs. Casey seconded the suggestion. Jan didn’t look happy about that. She likes to look at skinny men who are closer to her age.
Back to the routine: Mrs. Casey to her old movies, Jan to her samples, me to my records. Harley phoned his wife and then sat with Corey in the living room, yakking and watching.
It was another misty night. The lawn lights were on; the guard’s car sat masked in the shadow of the garage and the shrubbery bordering the driveway.
Big Bear had a brother who had spent time in jail. He could be the man I might have put away. But my records weren’t that complete; there had been no mention in them of a bald and scarred brother, or any reason to record it.
“Not today. Mallory has decided I’m not a suspect. I cost you money, Brock; you don’t have to pay more for security. I’ll watch the place.”
I was tempted to remind him that he was the one who was paying for the bond by working for me. But that would have spoiled a happy homecoming.
Mrs. Casey was preparing lunch in the kitchen. “Thank God you’re home!” she said.
“I brought a guest for lunch. He’ll probably be staying over.”
“That’s all right. Just so you’re home.”
Harley went out to try the pool after lunch. Corey went back to his vantage point, taking a paperback mystery along. I stayed in the house, recording all I had learned on the trip. The pattern of the man was beginning to emerge.
Leaving Jane Meredith’s registration slip in her car could be another of his ploys, luring me to a fruitless hunt, stretching out my sentence of apprehension and frustration.
He knew where we were staying in Santa Monica but had not made his move. Why not? If I was his target, why not? I knew why, damn him! I put the papers away and went out to the pool.
Harley was sitting on a pad in the sun. He told me, “I’ve decided I’ll stay here only for tonight, Brock.”
“You’re going home?”
“No. I’ll stay at a hotel.”
“This is a lot cheaper than the Sheraton.”
“I don’t plan to stay there. Big Bear isn’t likely to show there. I’ll find some place in his kind of neighborhood. As I explained to you before, he’s out to get you and I’m out to get him.”
“That’s rough country down on lower Main Street.”
“Brock, please! That’s the kind of country we headed for every time we got a weekend pass. You have Corey here. You don’t need me.”
“Okay. Your best bet would be the Travis Hotel if you’re allergic to roaches and bedbugs. That was the last place of residence of Big Bear when he was in town.”
The local afternoon paper informed us that there had been another earthquake in Mexico City, a 7.3 jolt this time. It also informed us that the Los Angeles police were on the hunt for another weirdo, labeled the Serial Killer, a man who specialized in knifing prostitutes. Two of the ten women he had attacked had survived. When (and if) they recovered enough to talk, the L.A. police hoped to get a description. Chief Chandler Harris’s two-victim slayer could now be relegated to the want-ad pages.
Jan gave me a big kiss and a tight hug when she came home. I introduced her to Harley.
She said, “You boys must be bushed. I’ll make the drinks. I’ll take a bottle of Einlicher out to Corey first.”
“I’ll have the same,” I said.
“What’s Einlicher?” Harley asked.
“America’s finest beer. That’s what I was drinking at Heinie’s.”
“Make it three,” he said and smiled at Jan. “Please.”
When she left, Harley said, “No wonder you don’t mess around! You hit the jackpot, buddy.”
I changed the subject. “Maybe you ought to call your wife and tell her where you are.”
“I will after dinner. She’s in the rec hall now, playing bridge.” He sighed. “Six days a week, afternoon bridge.”
Corey was slated to eat in the living room, where he could watch the road. Harley suggested that he replace him this evening. Mrs. Casey seconded the suggestion. Jan didn’t look happy about that. She likes to look at skinny men who are closer to her age.
Back to the routine: Mrs. Casey to her old movies, Jan to her samples, me to my records. Harley phoned his wife and then sat with Corey in the living room, yakking and watching.
It was another misty night. The lawn lights were on; the guard’s car sat masked in the shadow of the garage and the shrubbery bordering the driveway.
Big Bear had a brother who had spent time in jail. He could be the man I might have put away. But my records weren’t that complete; there had been no mention in them of a bald and scarred brother, or any reason to record it.
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