from the grave. He was, by leaving you
nothing. You never stopped being a girl . . ." She didn't add
that she was sure Cyrus desired his daughter almost as much as he
resented her. That much she would spare Missy , . .
"What happens now?" said Missy, thoroughly
shaken.
"Winter is coming, and tomorrow Edgar and I are
closing the house and leaving for Rio."
"Why Rio?"
"Neither of us has ever seen it. I fancy a
little sun, and Edgar, bless him, has become quite enchanted with
this bathing suit they call the String. He wants to see me wear it
where it originated. I think that's sweet of him, considering my less
than stunning figure and skin these days."
"How long will you be gone?"
"Hard to tell. We've rented a house there and
intend to stay at least six months."
"What if I hadn't called? I wouldn't have even
known you were going—"
"Oh, we would have sent you a postcard . . . By
the way, if you'll take a motherly piece of advice, even though I
know you place little stock in my opinions, I would suggest that if
you can't make it on your own, then you should find yourself a
husband and marry well. It may not be what it's cracked up to be, but
it does have its moments." She said it with a straight face.
CHAPTER 8
SLOAN GOT up from his desk, put the folders on the
missing girls and the dead one in his file cabinet. Well, at least
they had a body now, a description of Peter, true or false, and lab
tests that at least eliminated twenty percent of the male population.
Nothing conclusive but a beginning. Fire to let the pot heat up. Time
to get out of here.
He pulled on his coat and started for his car. With
each step he seemed to feel worse. This flu bug was killing him. He
decided to stop by Doc Watson's on Eleventh Street for a Scotch and
head home to bed.
The cold plastic upholstery of his car felt like ice
against his back, and he began to shiver. He turned the heater on
high, the first blast of cold air making him shiver even more. As he
drove through the rain he tried not to think about the case, but it
was no use. Detectives Kane and Spivak might still turn up something
at Lagniappe, something more, he trusted, than an owner who was
accused of rape by a discharged employee. Standard stuff. Still,
nothing was too obvious or farfetched to be discounted.
A couple of times during the drive he noticed the
same car in his rearview mirror and wondered if he was being
followed. Who the hell follows a cop? He parked on Eleventh Street
near Jefferson Hospital and walked in the rain to Doc Watson's. The
car that had been behind him was nowhere in sight. Getting jumpy in
your old age, he told himself.
Inside Doc's he got a booth near the front window and
waved to Barry Sandrow, the owner. He read over the dinner specials
while he waited for his regular drink. When the waitress set it in
front of him, he heard a voice say, "I'll have the same."
He looked up to see a young woman standing beside his booth. She was
dressed in a denim jacket, leather skirt and boots, had streaked red
hair cut punk-style and was wearing sunglasses. He indicated the
empty seat across from him. She didn't introduce herself, didn't need
to. Sloan knew her. When the waitress returned with her drink she
raised her glass. "Here's looking at you." Sloan nodded and
raised his glass to her.
"What are you doing here?" he said.
"I followed you from the Roundhouse. A man in
your line of work really should be more observant."
"It's probably the flu," he said. "I
picked up your tail, decided it was my imagination."
Her name was Delores Inverso, beloved daughter of
Nicholas Inverso, near the top of the Philadelphia mob. Which could
change at any time. Both her brothers had already died in the
eight-year-old intra-family quarrel that had already taken a toll of
some forty prominent mob figures. Many of her father's interests, as
he liked to point out, were legitimate, and among other members of
the family his was regarded as a voice of reason.
"You're
nothing. You never stopped being a girl . . ." She didn't add
that she was sure Cyrus desired his daughter almost as much as he
resented her. That much she would spare Missy , . .
"What happens now?" said Missy, thoroughly
shaken.
"Winter is coming, and tomorrow Edgar and I are
closing the house and leaving for Rio."
"Why Rio?"
"Neither of us has ever seen it. I fancy a
little sun, and Edgar, bless him, has become quite enchanted with
this bathing suit they call the String. He wants to see me wear it
where it originated. I think that's sweet of him, considering my less
than stunning figure and skin these days."
"How long will you be gone?"
"Hard to tell. We've rented a house there and
intend to stay at least six months."
"What if I hadn't called? I wouldn't have even
known you were going—"
"Oh, we would have sent you a postcard . . . By
the way, if you'll take a motherly piece of advice, even though I
know you place little stock in my opinions, I would suggest that if
you can't make it on your own, then you should find yourself a
husband and marry well. It may not be what it's cracked up to be, but
it does have its moments." She said it with a straight face.
CHAPTER 8
SLOAN GOT up from his desk, put the folders on the
missing girls and the dead one in his file cabinet. Well, at least
they had a body now, a description of Peter, true or false, and lab
tests that at least eliminated twenty percent of the male population.
Nothing conclusive but a beginning. Fire to let the pot heat up. Time
to get out of here.
He pulled on his coat and started for his car. With
each step he seemed to feel worse. This flu bug was killing him. He
decided to stop by Doc Watson's on Eleventh Street for a Scotch and
head home to bed.
The cold plastic upholstery of his car felt like ice
against his back, and he began to shiver. He turned the heater on
high, the first blast of cold air making him shiver even more. As he
drove through the rain he tried not to think about the case, but it
was no use. Detectives Kane and Spivak might still turn up something
at Lagniappe, something more, he trusted, than an owner who was
accused of rape by a discharged employee. Standard stuff. Still,
nothing was too obvious or farfetched to be discounted.
A couple of times during the drive he noticed the
same car in his rearview mirror and wondered if he was being
followed. Who the hell follows a cop? He parked on Eleventh Street
near Jefferson Hospital and walked in the rain to Doc Watson's. The
car that had been behind him was nowhere in sight. Getting jumpy in
your old age, he told himself.
Inside Doc's he got a booth near the front window and
waved to Barry Sandrow, the owner. He read over the dinner specials
while he waited for his regular drink. When the waitress set it in
front of him, he heard a voice say, "I'll have the same."
He looked up to see a young woman standing beside his booth. She was
dressed in a denim jacket, leather skirt and boots, had streaked red
hair cut punk-style and was wearing sunglasses. He indicated the
empty seat across from him. She didn't introduce herself, didn't need
to. Sloan knew her. When the waitress returned with her drink she
raised her glass. "Here's looking at you." Sloan nodded and
raised his glass to her.
"What are you doing here?" he said.
"I followed you from the Roundhouse. A man in
your line of work really should be more observant."
"It's probably the flu," he said. "I
picked up your tail, decided it was my imagination."
Her name was Delores Inverso, beloved daughter of
Nicholas Inverso, near the top of the Philadelphia mob. Which could
change at any time. Both her brothers had already died in the
eight-year-old intra-family quarrel that had already taken a toll of
some forty prominent mob figures. Many of her father's interests, as
he liked to point out, were legitimate, and among other members of
the family his was regarded as a voice of reason.
"You're
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