They Thirst (10 page)

"She almost went, but when she started to get into the car, she smelled something . . . funny. It smelled like medicine, like the stuff . . . uh . . . Sheila's dad used to wash his hands with. He's a doctor."

Palatazin wrote DOCTOR? and followed it with HOSPITAL STAFF?

"So then Sheila got spooked, and she got out of the car and walked away. When she looked back, the dude was driving off. That's all."

"When did your friend start thinking this dude might be the Roach?" Reece asked.

"I've been keeping up with the papers. Everybody has, I mean. Everybody on the boulevard talks about it all the time, so I thought you cops should know."

"If this happened on Tuesday, why did you wait so long before reporting it?"

She shrugged and bit at a thumbnail. "I was scared. Sheila was scared. The more I thought about it being
him,
the more scared I got."

"Did your friend happen to see the license plate number?" Palatazin asked, pen poised. "Anything else about the car that stood out?"

She shook her head. "No, it happened too fast." She looked up into the placid, gray eyes of this heavyset cop who reminded her so much of the juvenile officer back in Holt, Idaho. Except this cop had a funny accent, he was almost bald, and he had a coffee stain on his loud red tie with the blue dots. "It couldn't have really been him, do you think?"

Palatazin leaned back in his swivel chair, tendrils of blue smoke wafting around him. This young
prostitualt
was like any one of dozens who'd been interviewed in the past few weeks: jaded and frightened, with enough street-sense to stay alive but not enough to break out of The Life. They all seemed to carry the same expression in their eyes—a sharp glimmer of contempt that masked a sad weariness somewhere deep and close to the soul. Over the last weeks he'd had to hold back his impulse to shake some of these street survivors and shout, "Don't you know what's waiting for you out there? The murderer, the rapist, the sadist . . . and worse. Things you never dared think about for fear that they would drive you mad; things that lurk in the shadows of humanity, that wait on the nightmare fringe for their chance to strike. Things of the basest evil that must spread evil and consume evil in order to survive. . . ."

Enough,
he told himself. He was knotted inside and realized he was stepping too close to the edge. "Yes," he told Amy. "It might have been."

"Oh Christ," she said, the blood draining out of her face until she looked like a Kewpie doll, all paint and no insides. "I mean, I . . . I've had some dates with weird dudes before, but nobody's ever tried to . . ." She touched her throat, seeing in her mind's eye the way that creepy dude had grinned when she'd slid into his car.

"Amy," Palatazin said quietly, dropping the pretense, "we have an artist here who can put together a composite picture of the man who tried to pick you up. Now I'm not saying that this man
was
the Roach, only that there's a possibility. I'd like for you to go with Detective Reece and give a description to our artist. Anything you can remember—his hair, eyes, nose, mouth. All right?" He rose to his feet, and Reece stood behind the girl. "Also I want you to think about that car. I want you to see it in your mind and remember as much as you can about it. Especially think about the license plate. You may have seen it and gotten a number inside your head without realizing it. Thank you for coming in to talk to us, Amy. Sully, will you take her up to see Mack?"

"Sure. Come on with me, Miss Hulsett." He opened the office door for her, and the noises of the homicide-robbery squad room tumbled in—shrill telephones, a couple of typewriters being beaten mercilessly, file cabinets being opened and closed, the monotone chattering of a Telex machine. The girl stopped on the threshold and turned back to Palatazin. "Something else I do remember," she said. "His hands. They were . . . really large, you know? I could see them where they were gripped around the steering wheel."

"Was he wearing any rings?"

"I. . . no, I don't think so."

"All right, fine. Sully, as soon as you get that composite bring it down to me, will you?" Sully nodded and led her off across the wide, linoleum-floored room jammed with file cabinets and desks. Palatazin, the heartbeat of hope pounding at his temples, worked his way through the maze of desks to where Detective Brasher sat waiting for an informant's return call. Brasher, a young man with sandy-brown hair and deep-set, green eyes that were already becoming hard, had met his match in this morning's
Times
crossword puzzle. He shoved it aside quickly when he saw the captain moving toward him.

"Brasher," Palatazin said, "you don't look too busy. I need some files collected. Anyone we've been talking to in connection with the Roach killings who owns a Volkswagen, also anyone who goes by the name 'Wally' or 'Walter' or uses that as a nickname or alias. I want you to go through the rape and assault files, looking for the same thing. Follow those back about three months."

"Yes, sir." He scribbled down the information on a notepad and rose from his desk. "I was waiting for a call from a pimp I've been talking to."

"Have Hayden answer your phone." Palatazin motioned to the man at the nearest desk. "I need those files as soon as you can get them." He turned away from Brasher in time to see Gayle Clarke come striding into the squad room; he felt a quick surge of anger and irritation. She was over an hour late, and right now he didn't feel like putting up with her inane questions. On the couple of occasions he'd refused to see her and had sent her down to Press Relations, the
Tattler
had then run cheap-shot editorials about how Captain Andrew Palatazin was dragging his feet on the Roach investigation. He wouldn't have minded at any other time, but right now all the city papers were pressuring the mayor, who in turn pressured the police commissioner, who jumped with both feet on Chief Garnette, who came to Palatazin chewing a toothpick and demanding to know why this thing wasn't cracked yet. Palatazin could only chew Turns and hulk around the squad room like an injured, dangerous bear; he knew his men were working as hard as they could, but the politicians in high places were getting nervous. So there had been a firm directive from the commissioner: Cooperate with the press.

It's not enough to be a policeman,
Palatazin thought sourly as he moved toward Gayle Clarke.
Now you have to be social worker', psychologist, politician, and mind-reader all rolled up into one!
"You're late," he told her tersely. "What do you want?"

"Sorry," she said, but her expression didn't show it. "I was held up for awhile. Can we talk in your office?"

"Where else? But please make this fast. I have work to do." He ushered her in, closed the door, and sat down at his desk. The name "Wally" buzzed in his brain like a hornet. "I'll tell you what I told the
Times
and the
Ledger
this morning: we're still without a prime suspect, but we do have several people under surveillance. And no, I'm not aware of any similarities between the Roach and Jack the Ripper. We've boosted the number of decoys on the streets, but I wish you'd keep that off the record. Will you?"

"Should I?" She raised an eyebrow, taking a Flair pen out of her purse.

"Miss Clarke," Palatazin said quietly, shoving aside his pipe and folding his hands together atop his desk.
Take it easy,
he told himself.
Don't let her bait you, she's good at that.
"In the past few weeks you and I have had the misfortune of having to work in close proximity. I know you don't like me, and I couldn't care less. I have nothing but the lowest regard for your' newspaper." He turned and rummaged through a stack of papers; when he found last week's
Tattler,
he pushed it across the desk toward her. The front-page headline in blood-red type screamed, WHERE IS THE ROACH? WHO WILL BE NEXT TO DIE? Her thin smile wavered a fraction but held.

"You'll recall that I told you two weeks ago I was putting decoy policewomen on the streets to act as prostitutes. I told every newspaper in this city the same thing and asked all of them to keep that information off the record. You'll recall I asked you to do the same. Why was it then that on opening your paper to read your story my eye was caught by a headline that read, 'Policewomen May Trap The Roach?' He hasn't struck since that information was made public. Although I'm not assuming that he is sick enough to be a reader of your paper, I
am
assuming that he has found out about the decoys and has decided to go into hiding. It may be months before he surfaces again, and by then his trail may be very cold indeed."

"I tried to keep that out of the story," Gayle said. "My managing editor said it was news and should go in."

"Oh. Then perhaps your managing editor should have my job since he knows so much about police procedure?" He rummaged again, found another
Tattler,
and pushed it toward Gayle like a piece of rotten meat. The headline blared MASS-MURDER RAMPAGE. There was a picture in gory detail of Charlene McKay being pick up by the men from the morgue. Other headlines tried to scream each other out: HAVE UFOs LANDED NEAR L.A.? NEVER GROW OLD—THE AMAZING SEAWEED DIET; HOW TO MARRY A ROCK STAR. Palatazin snorted with disgust. "Do people actually subscribe to this thing?"

"Three-hundred-thousand by last year's figures," she told him coolly. "I would tell you I was sorry about that decoy thing getting in, but I don't think it would do any good."

"You're right, because I have the feeling that if we were to do it all over again, nothing would change. Don't you realize how much harm these wild stories about the Roach do? They frighten people; they make people suspicious of each other, afraid to even go out at night. And they don't help our investigation very much either." He picked up his pipe and clamped it between his teeth, almost biting through the stem. "I thought I could trust in your professionalism. I see I was wrong."

"Damn it!" she said suddenly and so forcefully Palatazin thought she was going to leap over the desk at him. She leaned forward, her eyes fierce with anger. "The stories I wrote are good! Damned good! I can't help what the headlines say, and I can't tell my managing editor what's right or wrong to print! Okay, I know the
Tattler's
milking this thing for all it's worth, but so is every other paper in town! The bottom line is cash, captain, selling papers, and anybody who says differently is either a liar or a fool. But if you read my stories, you'll see I'm a damned good writer, and I've told people the truth as I see it!"

Palatazin was silent for a moment. He lit his pipe and regarded her through a haze of smoke. "Why do you waste your time with the
Tattler?"
he asked her finally. "It's beneath you. Couldn't you work somewhere else?"

"I'm making a name for myself," she said, the redness slowly subsiding from her face. "It's a living. Most women two years out of the UCLA School of Journalism are sitting on their asses doing rewrites, or editing somebody else's copy, or going down to the corner for coffee and ham sandwiches for the real reporters. Working for the
Tattler
may not be a dream job, but at least I'm gathering a following who buy papers to read
my
copy."

"Some following. The kind of people who like to stare at traffic accidents."

"Their money's as good as anyone else's. Better than most. And don't downgrade them, captain; they're the great American middle class. The people who pay your salary, by the way."

Palatazin nodded thoughtfully. Gayle's dark brown eyes still held a hint of anger, glittering like deep pools of water disturbed by the casual throw of a stone. "Well," he said, "I'd better get to work and earn that salary. Just what is it you wanted to see me about?"

"Never mind. You answered my questions already. I was going to ask you why you thought Roach had gone into hiding." She capped her Flair and dropped it back into her purse. "You might be interested to know that he won't be the lead story next week."

"I'm relieved."

She stood up from her chair and slung the purse over her shoulder. "Okay," she said. "Off the record. Are you any closer to catching him than you were last week?"

"Off the record? No. But we may have some new leads."

"Such as?"

"Too premature yet. We'll have to wait and see."

She smiled thinly. "Don't trust me anymore, do you?"

"Partly that. Also partly that we're working on some information that came off the street today, and you of all people should know how reliable that can be." He stood up and went with her toward the door.

She stopped with her hand on the knob. "I. . . I didn't mean to lose my cool. But I got involved in something that was pretty hairy today. Something weird. You must think I'm pushing pretty hard, don't you?"

"Yes, I do."

"That's because I don't want to stay on the
Tattler
all my life. I have to be there when you get him, captain, because riding this story to the ground is the only way I'm ever going to move up. Okay, I'm ambitious and opportunistic as hell, but I'm a realist, too. Something as big as this comes along for a journalist only once in a blue moon. I'm going to see that I take advantage of it"