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The message itself was more subtle. "The hawks will return to their roost." It
reminded him of something he had read years and years ago, when he was in
Japan. It had an important meaning he was sure of that. And somebody had taken
a considerable risk to tuck it under his windshield wiper. It was a warning of
some kind, that was obvious. But against what, and by whom, he was completely
at a loss to imagine.
He drove slowly and thoughtfully to Mack Holt's house on Franklin Avenue. Mack
was standing in the doorway outside, talking to a shaven-skulled Krishna
disciple in saffron robes. When he saw Jerry drawing into the curb, he raised
his cigarette hand in salute, and Jerry could see him saying something to the
young man in the robes, something which made the young man nod as if he were
impressed.
"How are you doing?" asked Jerry as he slammed the car door behind him and
walked up the cracked concrete path. It was a warm, dusky evening, and moths
were weaving around the naked bulb over the porch.
Mack said, "Okay, how are you?"
"You busy?" asked Jerry.
"Kind of. Depends. Olive's upstairs, and we're expecting some people over
later. They've got a pirate videotape of the new Star Wars picture, and two
gallons of Christian Brothers Pinot Chardonnay."
Jerry glanced up toward the lighted window of Mack's apartment. "I wouldn't
keep you long," he said. "It's just that the police have found a suspect, and
they'd like us to go to headquarters and take a look at him."
"They've found somebody?" asked Mack, as if he had expected that the criminal
would disappear int the Xth Dimension, like Dr. Strange.
"They're not sure if it's the right guy," said Jerry. "But
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I guess we owe it to Sherry to take a look. Sergeant What's-his-name,
Skrolnik, said we might recognize him just from some casual encounter in the
street."
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"Do you think I could bring Olive?" asked Mack.
Jerry gave him a lopsided shrug.
Mack disappeared upstairs for a minute or two, while Jerry remained on the
stoop, smiling vaguely from time to time at the shaven-haired Krishna convert
and whistling "The Way We Were." Across the street, a fat strawberry-blonde
woman was trying unsuccessfully to persuade her pet poodle to do what he had
been dragged out of the house to do.
At last Mack reappeared, closely followed by Olive. They both looked slightly
high. Olive was wearing a shocking-pink satin jogging vest that did little to
conceal her improbably large breasts, and the tightest of white satin shorts.
Mack said to Jerry, "This is Mrs. Robin T. Nesmith, Jr. Her husband's in
Honolulu, with the Navy.''
"Delighted," said Jerry, and shook Olive's hand. "I was a Navy man once,
myself."
"Don't knock them," grinned Olive.
"I hope I'm not spoiling your evening," said Jerry.
"Not at all," Olive told him, climbing into the Dodge beside him and wriggling
her hips enthusiastically to make room for Mack. "I've had enough of
videotapes and cheap wine to last me till Doomsday. It's a change to do
something unpredictable."
It was dark by the time they reached the police headquarters. A jaded sergeant
sat at the desk in the lobby and regarded them with eyes that had long ago
faded into disinterest at the sight of oddballs, hookers, pimps, and general
fruitcakes, the flotsam of Hollywood Boulevard and all parts east. He told
them to wait, and they sat side by side on a patched vinyl bench, tapping
their feet and staring at a poster which reminded them that 10,728 people died
in the United States last year as the victims of handguns. Officers came and
went, tired and sweaty from hours of duty, one or two of them whistling and
fooling
around, most of them silent. Mack said to Olive, "This is unpredictable?"
At last, his shoes squeaking on the plastic-tiled floor, Sergeant Skrolnik
appeared, with Detective Pullet and Arthur following close behind him. "I'm
sorry I kept you good people waiting," said Skrolnik, directing his attention
with some humility to Olive's breasts. "Sherry Cantor's case is just one of
three similar homicides. I have on my books right now, and I'm afraid that my
time is kind of limited."
"You said you've caught somebody," said Jerry. "I didn't hear any announcement
on the news."
Skrolnik thrust his hands into his sagging pockets. "That's because I haven't
yet announced it to the media. I've detained somebody, yes, and I've charged
him with the first-degree homicide of Ms. Sherry Cantor, and the reason I've
done that is because I'm not at all sure who else apart from this guy could
have physically torn a twenty-one-year-old girl to pieces. But I have to tell
you that there are doubts in my mind, serious doubts, and that's why I'm
looking for all the corroborative evidence I can find. The guy plainly has the
capability to inflict serious injuries on people with his bare hands. He had
some personal involvement with the victim. But two or three important details
still don't seen to add up."
"Does that really bother you, as long as you've made a bust?" asked Mack.
Skrolnik gave him a look of tired disgust. ' 'I want more than an arrest, Mr.
Holt. I want to catch the guy who ripped a pretty and innocent young woman
into so much raw meat."
Without saying anything else, he squeaked off again along the corridor, and
Pullet and Arthur followed. Arthur was busy blowing his nose, but Pullet
indicated with a cursory nod of his head that Jerry and Mack and Olive should
come along, too.
They were ushered into a small interview room that smelled of stale cigars and
Brut 33. On the far wall was a
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