In a moment Annie was back in his mind. Then it hit him. How the hell was he going to explain why he had to meet her at the restaurant instead of picking her up? And what about after dinner? Would she invite him back to her house even though they were in separate cars? Maybe he should forget the whole damn thing. But that wasn't acceptable. Besides, she undoubtedly knew about his problem from the way he'd behaved the first day they met.
Recalling her laugh, her eyes, her mouth, he decided that nothing was going to stop him from seeing her Saturday night. Not nerves, panic attacks, revelations, or comparisons. Nothing.
At the counter of the Paradise, Babe Parkinson stared down at her scoop of tuna on a leaf of worn lettuce. She kept going over her little chat with Colin. About the sister. Why couldn't he tell her what had happened? Babe could only think of two reasons: Either the sister had died some terrible way and Colin was responsible for it, or he was lying and there was a whole other reason he couldn't write the Higbee story. She didn't know why but she favored the second.
Then she got an idea and smiled, thinking if somebody was drawing this they'd put a light bulb over her head. She reached inside her red Sportsac bag and pulled out a battered address book, turned to R, and ran her finger down the page. There it was: Susan Rice, her old journalism school chum. She hadn't talked to her in a dog's age, but so what? They were good enough friends for that not to matter. Susan lived in Chicago and worked for the Sun-Times. Why hadn't she thought of this sooner? By tomorrow night she'd know everything there was to know about Colin Maguire. Babe paid her check, leaving her tuna uneaten. She wanted to get to a phone in a hurry.
There were three cars ahead of him at the Drive-Thru window when Hallock stopped at the bank on his way back to the station. Crawford's, like everything else, had gotten more expensive than the last time. It was a dumb thing to do when every cent counted, Stephanie being one year away from college. Still, he'd achieved what he'd set out to do: Fran was going to help him. Even though she had the appetite of a truck driver, he didn't believe the steak had done the trick, but it hadn't hurt. Crummy business bribing your own wife. Crummy business being a cop, the things you sometimes had to do, all in the name of law and order.
He moved up one car, looked at his watch. He was late. Damn! Late for what? Late for Schufeldt? Christ Almighty! Since when did he have to answer to some snotty twenty-eight-year-old kid? Gildersleeve had called the bastard in and told Hallock Schufeldt was to be given every cooperation. Did that mean the kid was in charge? Not in his book. Checking the time again, he decided to skip the bank, but when he glanced in his rearview he saw that there were two cars behind him and he couldn't move out of the line. Naturally he could pull rank, order the cars to back up, pretend something important was going on, but he didn't want to play that game-not with a triple murder worrying everybody.
What if his phone book plan didn't work? he wondered. He'd told Fran the job would take about five days, but he thought it'd be more like ten. And just what the hell was that questionnaire going to be? Maybe he could get Maguire to help him with it on the QT.
The car in front of him pulled out, and Hallock eased his cruiser into place at the window. Debbie Van Tuyl was on duty.
"Morning, Chief," she said through her microphone.
"Afternoon, Debbie."
She looked startled, then giggled. "I'm just all discombobulated today."
He placed his check in the drawer she'd pushed open. "Must be in love." He'd known Debbie all her life, delivered her on the way to the hospital in the back seat of Henry Van Tuyl's Ford.
"How'd you know, Chief?"
"There's nothing goes on that Chief Hallock doesn't know," he said, then immediately was embarrassed seeing her smile fade. They were both aware that he didn't know a damn thing about three murders. Quickly he got back to the love subject. "Anybody I know, this fella you're in love with?"
"Well, you probably do," she answered, counting out his money. "Joe Carroll."
"Ted Carroll's son?"
She nodded, held up her left hand, and showed him an engagement ring with a small diamond.
Hallock admired it, thinking about Ted, wondering if he'd stopped boozing and if Debbie was going to like being married to an undertaker. She pushed out the drawer again and Hallock picked up the envelope with his money.
"'Course, Dad's having fits 'cause he doesn't care for Joe's profession. He says I'll be depressed all the time but I can't see it. I mean, I'm not going to be hanging around with dead bodies, after all." She pulled the drawer back in.
"Well, Debbie, you got to lead your own life. Henry'll come around, you'll see."
"I hope so."
He put the cruiser in gear. "He will. See you. And congratulations."
"Thanks, Chief. Have a good day."
He was past her window by then, so she couldn't see the irritation that settled on his craggy face. If there was one thing Hallock hated it was people telling him to have a good day. He would or he wouldn't, and so far it had been mixed. Waiting for the light to change, he figured the rest wasn't going to be too bright since he had to spend it with Schufeldt and the sex offenders.
As the light turned to green Hallock waved to Tug Wilson and his cronies standing in front of Wilson's stationery store. OTB coming in hadn't changed anything in Seaville. The boys still made their bets with Tug and all of them, including himself, pretended innocence to the offense. What the hell, nobody was getting hurt. It was just easier than driving the twenty-five miles down to Riverhead and besides, if they were going to lose, they'd rather lose to Tug than to OTB. Keeping it in the family, so to speak.
Hallock pulled up in front of the station. Inside he was confronted with six men standing around the small front room. Al Wiggins was with them.
"This everybody?" Hallock asked.
"Two've already been in," he motioned to the rear door with his head, "one's in there now, and I couldn't locate two."
"Hey, Chief, what this all about, huh?"
"Don't worry about it, Willie, it's just routine."
Willie Smith didn't look relieved. "This guy pull me outta work. I gonna get dock now 'cause you peoples got you routine."
Hallock said, "If you didn't have a routine of your own you wouldn't be here now."
The other men laughed.
"Ah, shit, Chief. I knowed that what it was. I'm clean, ain't touched nobody. You peoples like elephants, never forget nothin'."
"That's right, we forget nothing."
"But I been good, jus' ax my old lady, she tell you I been good."
"So if you've been good, Willie, then you've got nothing to worry about. Just relax."
Willie's brown face tightened. The other men began mumbling among themselves, and Hallock told them all to shut up.
Schufeldt was sitting at Hallock's desk, feet up on the edge. In front of him was Fred "Barbecue" Riley. He got his nickname because he'd been in a fire and had third-degree burns on his back and legs. Barbecue was a flasher, last offense two months before.
"Have a good long lunch, Chief?" Schufeldt asked.
"Good, long, and delicious. How about yours?"
"Short and lousy. You got taste up the ass."
Hallock bit the inside of his cheek to keep from responding. It wouldn't do to let Barbecue see any animosity between himself and Schufeldt. Word would spread like butter on toast. But it was damn hard not to say anything about Schufeldt sitting at his desk, dirty shoes on his papers.
Barbecue said, "I ain't done nothin', Chief."
"Anybody say you have?"
"Well, no." He was a small man, but muscular. His ginger hair was lank, looking like it hadn't been washed in a long time. He had grubby hands, too, the nails black.