Sleep of the Innocent by Medora Sale Page A

So as soon as she can get away, she scoots off back to the woods to recover. And those sinister figures stalking the corridors of the motel whatever-it-was were just Joe and Ed from the band.”
    â€œGuys in rock bands aren’t called Joe and Ed,” said Lucas. “But if that’s true, why would she duck out on them? And why would they rip the door off its hinges instead of just waiting for her to answer?”
    Patterson ignored the question. “That means you’ll have to wait until her ma or her agent calls you.” Lucas nodded. “And that means you’ll be available to canvass everyone on the second and third floors of the Karlsbad Hotel to find out if they heard anything.”
    â€œCome off it, Patterson. It’s a hotel. You aren’t going to find any witnesses still there from Thursday,” said Lucas.
    â€œDon’t be stupid. Those floors are where the permanent residents live—or didn’t you know that?”
    â€œI suppose I did. No one has reported hearing a gunshot? What was he killed with, by the way?”
    â€œA twenty-two. Understated—”
    â€œAnd relatively quiet. A professional?”
    â€œPossibly. Doesn’t make things any easier, does it?”
    Sanders stepped into his apartment at nine o’clock on Sunday night and was overwhelmed with a powerful sense of oppression. It had been his suggestion to end the holiday then, to make a swift break between love and work. Harriet had given him a look he had trouble interpreting and then agreed that it was a good idea, pointing out that it was going to take her the rest of the evening to sort out a week’s worth of mail and telephone messages. It had been one of his crummier ideas. He wondered if she felt as alone and abandoned at this particular moment as he did. He rummaged around in the refrigerator for a beer, pushed a pile of books and newspapers off his most comfortable chair, and reached for the telephone.
    â€œEd,” he said, with relief when he heard the voice on the other end. “How are things? What’s been happening while I’ve been away?” His shoulders dropped in relaxation, and he raised the bottle to his lips.
    â€œNo,” said Sanders. “Haven’t heard a thing. We were in the States. You’d have to assassinate the pope in Toronto for it to hit the news on Martha’s Vineyard.” He listened for a moment. “Yeah, I remember Carl Neilson. Didn’t he try to buy the entire town council in King City or someplace like that three or four years ago? They almost got him for it, too. Thank God I was away. Let Baldwin screw it up.” John Sanders listened for five more minutes without interrupting before saying goodbye and gently replacing the receiver. He stood up and walked over to the window; he stared thoughtfully at the forest of high rises silhouetted against the black night, shook his head, and reached for the telephone again.

Chapter 6
    â€œHe always was a stupid bastard,” said Ed Dubinsky softly. The sergeant shoved the loose papers on his desk to one side to clear a space for his partner to sit on, close enough to hear him. “Well, maybe not stupid, exactly. Anyway, they should get him the hell out of this department.”
    â€œWhat’s gone wrong with the case?” asked Sanders idly.
    â€œAside from the fact that Matt Baldwin’s been running it? I’m not quite sure,” said Dubinsky with uncharacteristic humility. “Maybe it’s that the widow’s lawyer is Marty Fielding. Baldwin’s scared shitless of Fielding. Always has been.”
    â€œWasn’t there something about Carl Neilson and girls?” asked Sanders.
    Dubinsky rocked his hand gently back and forth. “Who can tell? He owned that place down on Dundas, La Celestina—remember? Hooker was killed in the alley behind it. We sniffed around him a bit because it looked like she used to work out of the