don't know that he went to Geneva to have a species-change
operation and when he came back he was-"
Cheyney often allowed Jacoby his routines (there was really no
other word for them, and Cheyney remembered one occasion when
Jacoby had gotten a man charged with beating his wife and infant
son to death laughing so hard that tears of mirth rather than
remorse were rolling down his cheeks as he signed the confession
that was going to put the bastard in jail for the rest of his life), but
he wasn't going to tonight. He didn't have to see the flame under
his ass; he could feel it, and it was being turned up. Pete was
maybe a little slow on the uptake about some things, and maybe
that was why he wasn't going to make Detective 1st for another
two or three years ... if he ever did.
Some ten years ago a really awful thing had happened in a little
nothing town called Chowchilla. Two people (they had walked on
two legs, anyway, if you could believe the newsfilm) had hijacked
a busload of kids, buried them alive, and then had demanded a
huge sum of money. Otherwise, they said, those kiddies could just
stay where they were and swap baseball trading cards until their air
ran out. That one had ended happily, but it could have been a
nightmare. And God knew Johnny Carson was no busload of
schoolkids, but the case had the same kind of fruitcake appeaclass="underline" here
was that rare event about which both the Los Angeles Times-
Mirror and The National Enquirer would hobnob on their front
pages. What Pete didn't understand was that something extremely
rare had happened to them: in the world of day-to-day police work,
a world where almost everything came in shades of gray, they had
suddenly been placed in a situation of stark and simple contrasts:
produce within twenty-four hours, thirty-six at the outside, or
watch the Feds come in ... and kiss your ass goodbye.
Things happened so rapidly that even later he wasn't completely
sure, but he believed both of them had been going on the unspoken
presumption, even then, that Carson had been kidnapped and this
guy was part of it.
"We're going to do it by the numbers, Mr Paladin," Cheyney said,
and although he was speaking to the man glaring up at him from
one of the chairs (he had refused the sofa at once), his eyes flicked
briefly to Pete. They had been partners for nearly twelve years, and
a glance was all it took.
No more Comedy Store routines, Pete.
Message received.
"First comes the Miranda Warning," Cheyney said pleasantly. "I
am required to inform you that you are in the custody of the
Burbank City Police. Although not required to do so immediately,
I'll add that a preliminary charge of trespassing-"
"Trespassing!" An angry flush burst over Paladin's face.
"-on property both owned and leased by the National Broadcasting
Company has been lodged against you. I am Detective 1st Grade
Richard Cheyney. This man with me is my partner, Detective 2nd
Grade Peter Jacoby. We'd like to interview you."
"Fucking interrogate me is what you mean."
"I only have one question, as far as interrogation goes," Cheyney
said. "Otherwise, I only want to interview you at this time. In other
words, I have one question relevant to the charge which has been
lodged; the rest deal with other matters."
"Well, what's the fucking question?"
"That wouldn't be going by the numbers," Jacoby said.
Cheyney said:. "I am required to tell you that you have the right-"
"To have my lawyer here, you bet," Paladin said. "And I just
decided that before I answer a single fucking question, and that
includes where I went to lunch today and what I had, he's going to
be in here. Albert K. Dellums."
He spoke this name as if it should rock both detectives back on
their heels, but Cheyney had never heard of it and could tell by
Pete's expression that he hadn't either.
Whatever sort of crazy this Ed Paladin might turn out to be, he was
no dullard. He saw the quick glances which passed between the
two detectives and read them easily. You know him? Cheyney's
eyes asked Jacoby's, and Jacoby's replied, Never heard of him in
my life.
For the first time an expression of perplexity - it was not fear, not
yet - crossed Mr Edward Paladin's face.
"Al Dellums," he said, raising his voice like some Americans
overseas who seem to believe they can make the waiter understand
if they only speak loudly enough and slowly enough. "Al Dellums
of Dellums, Carthage, Stoneham, and Tayloe. I guess I shouldn't
be all that surprised that you haven't heard of him. He's only one of
the most important, well-known lawyers in the country." Paladin
shot the left cuff of his just-slightly-too-loud sport-coat and
glanced at his watch. "If you reach him at home, gentlemen, he'll
be pissed. If you have to call his club - and I think this is his club-
night - he's going to be pissed like a bear."
Cheyney was not impressed by bluster. If you could sell it at a
quarter a pound, he never would have had to turn his hand at
another day's work. But even a quick peck had been enough to
show him that the watch Paladin was wearing was not just a Rolex
but a Rolex Midnight Star. It might be an imitation, of course, but
his gut told him it was genuine. Part of it was his clear impression
that Paladin wasn't trying to make an impression - he'd wanted to
see what time it was, no more or less than that. And if the watch
was the McCoy ... well, there were cabin-cruisers you could buy
for less. What was a man who could afford a Rolex Midnight Star
doing mixed up in something weird like this?
Now he was the one who must have been showing perplexity clear
enough for Paladin to read it, because the man smiled - a
humorless skinning-back of the lips from the capped teeth. "The
air-conditioning in here's pretty nice," he said, crossing his legs
and flicking the crease absently. "You guys want to enjoy it while
you can. It's pretty muggy walking a beat out in Watts, even this
time of year."
In a harsh and abrupt tone utterly unlike his bright pitter-patter
Comedy Store voice, Jacoby said: "Shut your mouth, jag-off."
Paladin jerked around and stared at him, eyes wide. And again
Cheyney would have sworn it had been years since anyone had
spoken to this man in that way. Years since anyone would have
dared.
"What did you say?"
"I said shut your mouth when Detective Cheyney is talking to you.
Give me your lawyer's number. I'll see that he is called. In the
meantime, I think you need to take a few seconds to pull your head
out of your ass and look around and see exactly where you are and
exactly how serious the trouble is that you are in. I think you need
to reflect on the fact that, while only one charge has been lodged
against you, you could be facing enough to put you in the slam
well into the next century ... and you could be facing them before
the sun comes up tomorrow morning."
Jacoby smiled. It wasn't his howaya-folks-anyone-here-from-
Duluth Comedy Store smile, either. Like Paladin's, it was a brief
pull of the lips, no more.
"You're right - the air-conditioning in here isn't halfbad. Also, the
TV works and for a wonder the people on it don't look like they're
seasick. The coffee's good - perked, not instant. Now, if you want
to make another two or three wisecracks, you can wait for your
legal talent in a holding cell on the fifth floor. On Five, the only
entertainment consists of kids crying for their mommies and winos