Raymond was ready to say no, but paused and said sure and went with her into the kitchen that was like a narrow passageway between the front hall and the dining-L. She asked him if Scotch was all right. He said fine and watched her get out the ice and pour the Chivas. Sandy opened a can of Vernor’s 1-Cal ginger ale for herself. She said, “Ouuuuuu, it sure tickles your nose, but I like it. You can’t buy it most other places but here.”
Raymond said, “You have any grass?”
“Boy-” Sandy said. “You never know anymore who’s into what.”
“You have trouble getting it?”
“What do you want, my source?”
“No, a guy in the prosecutor’s office I know has a pretty good source. I was thinking maybe I could help you out, I mean if Mr. Sweety isn’t coming through.”
“Man oh man,” Sandy said. “I think I better go sit down. You’re scary, you know it?”
“Looks like Mr. Sweety’s in some trouble.”
“Jesus, who isn’t?”
“Have to be careful who you associate with.”
“That is the truth,” Sandy said. “I think I might be running around with the wrong crowd. Let’s go in the other room; I feel cornered in here.”
“I just wanted to ask you something,” Raymond said. “See, we’re gonna be talking to Mr. Sweety. He was supposed to be working the night the judge was killed. Maybe he was. But we do know you have something going with him-”
Sandy said, “Have something going?”
“You went to his house yesterday-”
“To get some dope. You already said-you know he’s a source I use. You just said so.”
“Yeah, but why would Clement send you over there?”
“He didn’t. He didn’t even know I went.” Sandy paused. “Wait a sec, you’re confusing me. I did go over there yesterday to score some grass. Period. It’s got nothing to do with anything else.”
“Clement let you use the car?”
“It isn’t his car, it’s Del Weems’.”
“I know, but I wondered why he’d let you go there.”
“He didn’t know I went. I already told you that.”
Twice, Raymond thought. He believed her because he wanted to, because it was reasonable. He didn’t like to come onto facts that appeared unreasonable and have to change his course.
He liked it that she was upset and he kept going now. “I mean considering everything,” Raymond said. “Here we’ve got a car that was identified at a murder scene, Del’s Buick…”
Sandy rolled her eyes-little girl standing there in her satin running shorts, nipples poking out at Bert Parks on her T-shirt. Skinny little thing-he felt sorry for her too.
“What’s the matter?” Raymond asked.
“Oh, nothing… Jesus.”
“We don’t have Clement in the car yet, but we know Clement did both the judge and the girl, Adele Simpson.”
“Now it’s starting to snow,” Sandy said, “and we’re hardly into October.”
“Ask him,” Raymond said. “But here’s the thing. Would Clement like to know you were over there in the car, the Buick, seeing a man who used to work with him and could be a suspect in Guy’s murder? You understand what I’m saying?”
“Do I understand? Are you kidding?”
“So it isn’t so much Clement doesn’t know you went over there,” Raymond said. “You don’t want him to know.”
“If you say so.”
“Why don’t you want him to know, Sandy?”
“He don’t like it when I smoke too much grass.”
“Like when you get nervous or upset?”
“Yeah, usually.”
“Well, the way things’re going, Sandy,” Raymond said, “I think you better hit on a couple pounds of good Colombian.”
CLEMENT HAD NEVER ICE-SKATED, but he could see the Palmer Park lagoon would be a good place. It wasn’t a big open rink, like most. It was a pond, several acres in size, with wooded islands in it to skate around. A good place to dump the Ruger when he was finished with it. He parked by the refreshment pavilion and cut through the woods along Merrill Plaisance Drive to where he had hidden the rifle in some bushes a few minutes before.
It was almost six o’clock; getting dark in a hurry. He picked up the rifle and moved up to the edge of the trees where he could look directly across Merrill Plaisance, across the narrow island separating the drive from the residential street and the front of the four-story, L-shaped apartment building that was 913 Covington, the home of Lt. Raymond chicken-fat Cruz-with the sad mustache and the quiet way about him, which could be politeness or just empty-headed dumbness.
Clement had said to the woman’s voice on the phone, the cop’s former wife, “What’s Ray’s address again? I lost it… And the apartment number?… Oh, that’s right on the first floor, huh?” Then had got the id of the building manager off her mailbox and called her saying this was Sgt. Hunter: they were planning a surprise party for Lt. Cruz; the guys were gonna drop in and then, when he wasn’t looking, reach out the window and haul in this present as a surprise, a stereo outfit, and he wanted to know which window to put it outside of. The landlady said in this neighborhood they better put a policeman with it or they would be the ones surprised when they reached out to get it.
There were three windows: one with an air-conditioning unit, one with a plant, one with raised venetian blinds, close to the sidewalk on Covington.
Ten past six.
The landlady had said he was usually home by six-thirty the latest, unless he didn’t come home. Her apartment was next to his and if she was in the kitchen she’d hear his door slam and then sometimes she’d hear him playing music… Didn’t he already have a victrola?… A little cheap one, Clement told her, which was probably the truth.
Look for a medium-blue four-door Plymouth. Clement had heard cops didn’t use their own cars on the job because no one would insure them.
Twenty after. There was a last trace of red in the sky. The front of the building was without definition now, a few lights showing in apartments. Clement practice-sighted on Raymond Cruz’s dark windows. Range, about fifty yards. But a tough shot with the cars going by in front of him, on the park drive.
Maybe this Raymond Cruz did use his own car. Or lieutenants got a different color than that shitty medium blue. Clement didn’t worry about odds or luck. Something happened or it didn’t. The man would come home or he wouldn’t. If not tonight, tomorrow. Clement didn’t plan on waiting around forever; but a little patience was good and more often than not got rewarded.
That’s why Clement wasn’t too surprised or especially elated when he saw the light go on in Raymond Cruz’s apartment. Sooner or later it was supposed to. Clement put the Ruger against a tree and lined up his sights on the figure moving inside the apartment, Clement waiting for a lull in the traffic…
Raymond had come into the apartment building from the alley, walked through to the foyer and got his maiclass="underline" Newsweek, a visa bill, a bank statement, a thick window-envelope from Oral Roberts, Tulsa, Oklahoma, addressed to Mr. M. Cruz, and a folded piece of notepaper.
In his apartment Raymond dropped the mail on the coffeetable, went into the kitchen with Newsweek and got a can of Strohs out of the refrigerator. He drank from the can as he glanced through the magazine on the counter, learning that beer was now discovered to cause cancer along with everything else. In the living room again he sat down at the end of the couch by the floor lamp he’d bought at Goodwill Industries. He picked up the mail from the coffeetable, threw back the bill from visa and the bank statement, laid the Oral Roberts envelope on his lap and opened the piece of notepaper that was folded three times. The typewritten message said: