When he did get home, at two-thirty Tuesday morning, he was feeling the way Higgins had felt on Friday night. How the hell had they missed him? The men in the first squad car couldn't have been five minutes behind him, and they'd had four other cars there within ten minutes, and men on foot to search that whole area.
Etta Mae Rollen had sobbed, "It was like he come up out of the ground-all of a sudden he was just there, and g-grabbed for me, and I saw his knife-"
Etta Mae had been very damn lucky indeed. She had managed to tear herself away from him, and she had run. A block up she had seen a squad car coming toward her, and run to it screaming. The men had called in for assistance at once and gone back with her to where he'd been, but if he'd appeared out of thin air he'd disappeared that way too.
They weren't doubting it had been the Slasher, because Etta Mae had got a good look at him, and she offered a description before they asked any questions. She'd been coming home from her job as waitress at a coffee shop on Broadway. Just past the corner of San Pedro and Emily streets, where there was a good bright street light, there was a TV store where the lights were left on all night. She'd had a good look at the man with the knife. "He wasn't awful tall but he was mighty strong, only he just had hold of a piece of my coat mostly, and it tore all down the seam-you can see-when I got away from him. Oh, he had a terrible sort of face- I'll never forget it to my dying day!-it was all thin and sneery and he had this great big red scar, all puckered, right across the middle of his face, and his eyes kind of glittered-”
Her coat hadn't been torn, but partly cut with a knife where he'd missed his first stroke. Probably the lab would tell them it had been a partly serrated blade.
`They'd covered all the alleys and back yards, they'd routed out the few night watchmen left in warehouses, to search the premises; they'd really covered that area. And nothing had shown. Where the hell had he gone? At least he hadn't killed again. But if they didn't get him soon…
Mendoza had been tired, earlier this evening. Now he wasn't conscious of tiredness-he'd worked past that point-and he ought to sleep but he knew he wouldn't. He ought to have something to eat, too, but he wasn't conscious of hunger. His mind kept going over and over all this-what they had, on both cases, and on Art. Was the assault on Art linked with either, or had that been the extraneous thing? He didn't know; he couldn't make up his mind.
Canyon Drive, in Hollywood. The Hollywood hills.
Very exclusive, expensive houses up there. Had X been familiar with it, or picked it at random?
He slid the Ferrari into the garage; he went out, pressed the electric-eye button to close the door. Very quietly he let himself into the dark house. But as he went down the hall he saw light there under the nursery door and softly opened it to look in.
"Well, you are late and no lie," said Mrs. MacTaggart.
"What's wrong, Mairi?"
"Nought at all much. I've been up a bit with young Johnny, but they run a wee temperature for nothing at all, times. He's gone off peaceful as you please now, you can see. Just a bit fretful like.” El Senor, self-appointed guardian of the twins, had joined her sleepily and was sitting on the foot of Master John's crib, playing watch cat.
"Sure?" Mendoza looked down at the flushed sleeping twins. It was very odd, suddenly, the idea that they were his; he could hardly disown it, young Master John with that uncannily identical widow's peak, if he had Alison's hazel-green eyes. He didn't know much about the twins, thought Mendoza suddenly. The little monsters who'd kept them awake at night until they found that treasure, Mrs. MacTaggart. Of course at this age, he supposed, they hadn't developed very distinct personalities maybe. He wasn't around them enough to say, really.
Miss Teresa moved restlessly and one pink thumb found its automatic way to her mouth. Mendoza yawned. He thought vaguely, start any sort of job, you ought to see it's done properly. He ought to know more about them. Try to be around more.
But things came up…
"You are tired to death, man," said Mrs. MacTaggart softly. "Can I not get you something? A nice cup of hot broth now? Or a hot whiskey and lemon maybe?"
"No, thanks, Mairi, I'm fine."
She surveyed him calmly, drawing him out to the hall.
"If a lie could have choked you, that would have done it. We are only waiting on God's will. Go to your bed, man."
He went on down the hall. El Senor had opened the bedroom door to join Mrs. MacTaggart when she'd first gotten up to check on the twins. Mendoza shut it and began to undress. Alison was asleep, but stirred and muttered his name drowsily as he got into bed.
He would not sleep, of course. Another full day tomorrow. Go and see that Anita Sheldon? No, first get the court order to look at the Corliss woman's safe-deposit box. That list. Yes, and what would that tell him? Nothing really. No real lead there; she'd said there hadn't been trouble over a patient. Hell.
Cast your bread upon the waters… How did it go on? Something about, it shall be returned to you in many days. That didn't sound quite right. Scriptures. Prayer. Only there was nothing to pray to
… just the way the hand got dealt round.
He decided quite suddenly that if Art died he'd resign from the force. Even apart from this thing-working overtime at the job, the fascinating job, when it wasn't necessary. Not fair to Alison; not fair to the twins, as time went on.
He lay thinking about that, staring into the darkness. And El Senor, shut out from his mother and sisters, rattled the doorknob impatiently until he tripped the latch, slid in, and landed with a thud on the bed on top of Nefertite, who spat at him sleepily.
Who might get his desk? Mendoza wondered. If? Higgins was the next senior sergeant after Art, but they'd probably bring in somebody from outside-the senior sergeant from Vice or Narcotics. Little shake-up all round. If.
What would he do with himself all day? Learn to live a new kind of life. Play a little. More time with Alison and the twins.
More than half his lifetime, jettisoned. And God, he'd seen friends killed on duty before, but…
He had known he wouldn't sleep, but he slept, heavily; and woke feeling stupid and slow. It was six o'clock. That much sleep anyway. Six o'clock Tuesday morning, and- He got up, shaved and dressed, went out to the living room and called the hospital. The patient's condition was unchanged.
He thought, Friday night. Call it eighty hours. MacFarlane: be feeling much more hopeful if…
He went out to the kitchen. Mrs. MacTaggart was already there, making coffee. Of course, of course. Her damned novena: out to the church first thing for nine days.
"You will stop for breakfast somewhere," she said severely.
"Yes, all right." Suddenly he realized he was ravenous. He did stop, at a Manning's coffee shop on Vermont, and had three eggs, a double order of bacon, and four cups of coffee. When he got to the office he was feeling more like the old Mendoza, the boy with a little reputation on this force.
By the time the lab man came in he'd got quite a bit done. He'd started the machinery going to get that court order on Margaret Corliss' safe-deposit box. He'd looked over the night reports-they'd had four men looking all around that area of the Slasher's latest job, but they'd turned up nothing. He had got the other warrant on Corliss, charging her with complicity in Nestor's abortion trade. He'd talked that over with the D.A.'s office, and the charge on Webster. The D.A.'s office didn't think they'd press an accessory charge on Webster: too vague.
He had called Mrs. Anita Sheldon to ask if she'd be at home this morning; he wanted to talk to her. She had sounded very frightened. "You can't come here! Oh, please-if Bob ever got to know, he'd- And it's his day off, I can't-”