"Hush, sweetheart. No, I've been promoted. Smith reported first, I reported afterward. I'm going to the detective bureau. To a squad room somewhere. Thad Green told me himself. Whatever Smith told Green jibes with my report to you and my official arresting officer's report, which is the truth. What Smith told the D.A. is just hyperbole. All I—"
"Freddy, you told me there was no hard evidence to connect Engels to any other murders."
"That's absolutely true. But . . ."
Lorna was getting more red-faced and agitated by the second: "But nothing, Freddy. I saw Engels. He was beaten terribly. I asked Smith about that and he handed me some baloney about how he tried to resist arrest. I kept saying to myself, Good God, could my Freddy have had anything to do with that? Is that justice? What kind of man have I gotten involved with?"
I just stared at the Hieronymous Bosch print on the wall.
"Freddy, answer me!"
"I can't, counselor. Good night."
I drove home, steadfastly quelling all speculation regarding Lorna, woman-killers, and lunatic cops. I tried out my new rank: Detective Frederick U. Underhill. Detective Fred Underhill. The dicks. At twenty-seven. I was probably the youngest detective in the Los Angeles Police Department. I would have to find out. In November, the sergeant's exam. Detective Sergeant Frederick Underhill. I would have to buy three new suits and a couple of sports jackets, some neckties and a half dozen pair of slacks. Detective Fred Underhil. But. It kept rearing its beautiful, burnished brown head. Lorna Weinberg, counselor at law. Lorna Weinberg.
Be still, I said to myself, trying to heed my own advice—just don't think.
At home, after a roughhouse session with Night Train, some kind of nameless future-fear hit me and to combat it I dug out some textbooks.
I tried to engross myself, but it was useless; the words flew by undigested, almost unseen. I couldn't stop thinking.
I was about to give it up when my doorbell rang. Not daring to guess, I flung the door open. It was Lorna.
"Hello, Officer," she said. "May I come in?"
"I'm a detective now, Lorna. Can you accept what I had to do to get there?"
"I . . . I know I convicted you of an unknown crime on insufficient evidence."
"I would have filed a writ of habeas corpus, counselor, but you would have beat me in court."
"I would have appealed, in your behalf. Did you know that you are the only Frederick U. Underhill in all the L.A. area phone books?"
"No doubt. What are you doing here, Lorna?"
"Stalking your heart."
"Then don't stand in the doorway, come in and meet my dog."
Many joyful hours later, sated and engulfed with each other, too tired to sleep or think and unable to relinquish each other's touch, I had an idea. I dug out my meager collection of corny ballads, formerly used to seduce lonely women. I put "You Belong to Me" by Jo Stafford on the phonograph and turned the volume up so that Lorna could hear it in the bedroom.
She was laughing when I returned to her. "Oh, Freddy, that's so . . ."
"Corny?"
"Yes!"
"My sentiments, too. But, needless to say, I feel romantic tonight."
"It's morning, darling."
"I stand corrected. Lorna?"
"Yes?"
"May I have the next dance?"
"Dance? Freddy, I can't dance!"
"Yes, you can."
"Freddy!"
"You can hop on your good leg. I'll hold you up. Come on!"
"Freddy, I can't!"
"I insist."
"Freddy, I'm naked!"
"Good. So am I."
"Freddy!"
"Enough said, Lor. Let's hit it!"
I scooped the naked, laughing Lorna into my arms and carried her into the living room and deposited her on the couch, then put Patti Page singing "The Tennessee Waltz" on the phonograph. When she began to intone the syrupy introduction, I walked to Lorna and extended my hands.
She reached for them and I pulled her to me and held her close, encircling her at the buttocks and lifting her slightly off the floor so that her bad leg was suspended, and her weight was stationed on her good one. She held me tightly around my back, and we moved awkwardly in very small steps as Patti Page sang.
"Freddy," Lorna whispered into my chest, "I think I—"
"Don't think, Lor."
"I was going to say . . . I think I love you."
"Then think, because I know I love you."
"Freddy, I don't think this record is corny."
"Neither do I."
We drove to Santa Barbara Saturday afternoon, taking the Pacific Coast Highway. The blue Pacific was on our left, brown cliffs and green hills were on our right. There was hardly a cloud or a trace of smog. We cruised along with the top down in comfortable silence. Lorna kept her hand on my leg, giving me playful squeezes from time to time.
We hadn't talked about the case all morning, and it hovered benignly on some back burner of my mind. By silent agreement we had not turned on the radio. The present was too good, too real, to be marred by intimation of the harsh reality we both worked in.
So we drove north, on our first outing together. Lorna inched her hand, broadly in a parody of stealth, up my leg until I went, "Garrr! What the hell are you doing?"
She laughed. "What do you think?"
I laughed. "I think it feels good."
"Don't think, just drive." Lorna removed her hand. "Freddy, I was thinking."
"About what?"
"I just realized that I don't know a damn thing about what you do—I mean, with your time."
I considered this, and decided to be candid. "Well, before Wacky was killed I used to spend a lot of time with him. I don't really have any friends. And I used to chase women."
Surprisingly, Lorna laughed at this. "Strictly to get laid?"
"No, it was more than that. It was partly for the wonder, but that was B.L."
"B.L.?"
"Before Lorna."
Lorna squeezed my leg and pointed to the shoulder. "Pull over, please."
I did, alarmed at the darkly serious look on Lorna's face. I framed that face with both my hands. "What is it, sweetheart?" I asked.
"Freddy, I can't have children," Lorna blurted out.
"I don't care," I said. "I mean, I do care, but it doesn't make a goddamned bit of difference to me. Really, I—"
"Freddy, I just had to say it."
"Because you think we have a future together?"
"Y-yes."
"Lorna, I couldn't even consider a future without you." She twisted away from me and bit at her knuckles. "Lorna, I love you, and we're not leaving here until you tell me you believe what I've just told you."
"I don't know. I think so."
"Don't think."
Lorna burst out laughing, tearfully. "Then I believe you."
"Good, now let's get the hell out of here, I'm hungry."
We timed our arrival perfectly, Santa Barbara opening up before us, muted in the twilight like a heaven-sent reprieve from the humid, smog-bound commonness of L.A.
We found our weekend haven on Bath Street, a few blocks off State: the Mission Bell Hotel, a converted Victorian mansion painted a guileless bright yellow. We registered as Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Underhull. The desk clerk started to look askance at our lack of luggage, but the sight of my badge when I pulled out my billfold to pay for the room calmed him down.
Giggling conspiratorially, I took Lorna's arm as we walked to the elevator. Our room had bright yellow walls festooned with cheap oil paintings of the Santa Barbara Mission, bay windows fronting the palm-lined street, and a big brass bed with a bright yellow bedspread and canopy.
"I'll never eat another lemon," Lorna said.
I kissed her on the cheek. "Then let's not have fish tonight. I left my shaving kit in the car. I'll be right back."