The Door To December

Mondale glowered. 'This cutback in funds is a pain in the ass. Used to be, I had a man out sick or on vacation, there were plenty of others to cover for him. Now we got to bring subs in from other divisions, loan out our own men when we can spare them, which we never really can. It's a crock.'

Dan knew that Mondale would not have been so displeased about loaned manpower if the loanee had been anyone else. He didn't like Dan. The animosity was mutual.

They had been at the police academy together and later had been assigned to the same patrol car. Dan had requested a new partner, to no avail. Eventually, an encounter with a lunatic, a bullet in the chest, and a stay in the hospital had done for Dan what formal requests had not been able to achieve: By the time he got back to work, he had a new and more reliable partner. Dan was a field cop by nature; he enjoyed being on the streets, where the action was. Mondale, on the other hand, stayed close to the office; he was a born public-relations man as surely as Itzhak Perlman was born to play the violin. A master of deception, ass-kicking, and flattery, he had an uncanny ability to sense pending changes in the currents of power in the department's hierarchy, aligning himself with those superiors who could do the most for him, abandoning former allies who were about to lose power. He knew how to smooth-talk politicians and reporters. Those talents had helped him obtain more promotions than Dan. Rumor ranked Ross Mondale high on the mayor's list of candidates for police chief.

However, as ingratiating as he was with everyone else, Mondale could find no words of praise or flattery for Dan. 'You got a food stain on your shirt, Haldane.'

Dan looked down and saw a rust-colored spot the size of a dime.

'Chili dog,' he said.

'You know, Haldane, each of us represents the entire department. We have an obligation — a duty — to present a respectable image to the public.'

'Right. I'll never eat another chili dog until I die and go to Heaven. Only croissants and caviar from now on. A higher quality of shirt stain henceforth, I swear.'

'You make a habit of wisecracking at every superior officer?'

'Nope. Only you.'

'I don't much care for it.'

'Didn't think you would,' Dan said.

'You know, I'm not going to put up with your shit forever, just because we went to the academy together.'

Nostalgia wasn't the reason that Mondale tolerated Dan's abuse, and neither of them had any illusions otherwise. The truth was, Dan knew something about Mondale that, if revealed, would destroy the captain's career, something that had happened when they had been second-year patrolmen, a vital bit of information that would have made any blackmailer swoon with joy. He would never use it against Mondale, of course; as much as he despised the man, he couldn't bring himself to engage in blackmail.

If their roles had been reversed, however, Mondale would have had no compunctions about blackmail or vindictive revelation. Dan's continued silence baffled the captain, made him uneasy, encouraged him to tread carefully each time they met.

'Let's get specific,' Dan said. 'Exactly how much longer will you put up with my shit?'

'I don't have to. Not for long, thank God. You'll be back in Central after this shift,' Mondale said. He smiled.

Dan leaned his weight against the unoiled spring-action back of the office chair, which squealed in protest, and put his hands behind his head. 'Sorry to disappoint. I'll be sticking around for a while. I caught a murder last night. It's my case now. I figure I'll stay with it for the duration.'

The captain's smile melted like ice cream on a hot plate. 'You mean the triple one-eighty-seven in Studio City?'

'Ah, now I see why you're in the office so early. You heard about that. Two relatively well-known psychologists get wasted under mysterious circumstances, so you figure there's going to be a lot of media attention. How do you tumble to these things so quickly, Ross? You sleep with a police-band radio beside your bed?'

Ignoring the question, sitting on the edge of the desk, Mondale said, 'Any leads?'

'Nope. Got pictures of the victims, though.'

He noted, with satisfaction, that all the blood drained out of Mondale's face when he saw the ravaged bodies in the photographs. The captain didn't even finish shuffling through the whole series. 'Looks like a burglary got out of hand,' Mondale said.

'Looks like no such a thing. All three victims had money on them. Other loose cash around the house. Nothing stolen.'

'Well,' Mondale said defensively, 'I didn't know that.'

'You still should've known burglars usually kill only when they're cornered, and then they're quick and clean about it. Not like this.'

'There are always exceptions,' Mondale said pompously. 'Even grandmothers rob banks now and then.'

Dan laughed.

'Well, it's true,' Mondale said.

'That's just marvelous, Ross.'

'Well it is true.'

'Not my grandmother.'

'I didn't say your grandmother.'

'You mean your grandmother robs banks, Ross?'

'Somebody's goddamned grandmother does, and you can bet your ass on it.'

'You know a bookie who takes bets on whether or not somebody's grandmother will rob a bank? If the odds are right, I'll take a hundred bucks of his action.'

Mondale stood up. He put one hand to his tie, straightening the knot. 'I don't want you working here any longer, you son of a bitch.'

'Well, remember that old Rolling Stones song, Ross. "You can't always get what you want."'

'I can have your ass shipped back to Central.'

'Not unless the rest of me gets shipped with it, and the rest of me intends to stay right here for a while.'

Mondale's face darkened. His lips pulled tight and went pale. He looked as if he had been pushed as far as he could be pushed for the present.

Before the captain could do anything rash, Dan said, 'Listen, you can't take me off a case that's mine from the start, not without some screwup on my part. You know the rules. But I don't want to fight you on this. That'll just distract me. So let's just call a truce, huh? I'll stay out of your hair, I'll be a good boy, and you stay out of my way.'

Mondale said nothing. He was breathing hard, and apparently he still didn't trust himself to speak.

'We don't like each other much, but there's no reason we can't still work together,' Dan said, getting as conciliatory as he would ever get with Mondale.

'Why don't you want to let go of this one?'

'Looks interesting. Most homicides are boring. Husband kills his wife's boyfriend. Some psycho kills a bunch of women because they remind him of his mother. One crack dealer offs another crack dealer. I've seen it all a hundred times. It gets tedious. This is different, I think. That's why I don't want to let go. We all need variety in our lives, Ross. That's why it's a mistake for you to wear brown suits all the time.'

Mondale ignored the jibe. 'You think we got an important case on our hands this time?'

'Three murders… that doesn't strike you as important?'

'I mean something really big,' Mondale said impatiently. 'Like the Manson Family or the Hillside Strangler or something?'

'Could be. Depends on how it develops. But, yeah, I suspect this is going to be the kind of story that sells newspapers and pumps up the ratings on TV news.'

Mondale thought about that, and his eyes swam out of focus.

'One thing I insist on,' Dan said, leaning forward on his chair, folding his hands on the desk, and assuming an earnest expression. 'If I'm going to be in charge of this case, I don't want to have to waste time talking to reporters, giving interviews. You've got to keep those bastards off my back. Let them film all the bloodstains they want, so they'll have lots of great footage for the dinner-hour broadcast, but keep them away. I'm no good at dealing with them.'