Sleep of the Innocent by Medora Sale Page B

restaurant, but nothing came of it. That was Baldwin, too, wasn’t it?” he said innocently. “And Patterson. They nailed the pimp for it, but he got off. He was a vicious bastard, that pimp. But that doesn’t mean he killed the hooker.”
    â€œChrist, I feel like I never left the city,” said Sanders gloomily. “What have you been working on?”
    Forty-eight hours had passed by, forty-eight hours in which Lucas had knocked on doors and attempted to interview the residents of the Karlsbad Hotel, the shopkeepers on both sides of the street, the owners of the townhouses behind the hotel. Nothing. He had collected a few reminiscences, several diatribes on the disintegration of society, and a great many baffled looks. Now he sat at his desk, meticulously fleshing out his report on the material he had collected. It was not difficult to write. No one had heard anything even remotely resembling gunfire. No one had noticed anyone behaving in a suspicious manner. In fact, no one had noticed anyone. People who had been home had been sleeping, or watching television, or listening to the radio; everyone else had been finishing late lunches, shopping, going to movies, even working. Those, of course, were the people who could remember what they were doing three days ago. Most hadn’t the faintest idea.
    Eric Patterson padded into the room, settled himself at his desk, and looked at his watch.
    â€œWhat’s up?” said Lucas, yawning. “You’re looking pale and sinister, Patterson, like a tired wolf about to eat Red Riding Hood. You should get more sleep.”
    â€œNothing the matter with me,” said Eric, turning his chair half around so he could stretch his legs out past the desk. “I don’t need ten hours a night in the sack to wrap up a simple case like this.”
    Lucas ignored the crack. “So what’s up?”
    â€œNot that much. Just a hunch, what you might call a twitch in the gut. I’ve been nosing around Neilson’s phony corporation, and there’s one bastard that looks like a rabbit smelling the stew pot every time you ask him a question. I think I’ll have another go at him this afternoon.”
    â€œWho is he?”
    â€œThe treasurer.” Patterson grinned cheerfully.
    â€œDoes he look like someone who owns an illegal twenty-two?”
    â€œHe doesn’t have to. He could have connections somewhere. Everybody’s got some kind of connections. Anyway, I just want to bounce him a few times and see how high he jumps.” He looked at his watch again. “Well, I’m off. Timing is everything.” With that, he loped out of the office like a cynical wolfhound, his raincoat flying out behind him.
    And that meant that it was Rob Lucas’s hand reaching for the telephone when the call came through. “Four ninety-two Oak Street, lower apartment,” droned the clear, businesslike voice. “Female, tentatively identified as Jennifer Wilson, age twenty-three, apparently bludgeoned to death sometime during the night.” For a moment he sat absolutely still. He could see her standing in the restaurant, looking absurdly childlike in his blue sweater, observing him coolly; then waving her arm in the direction of his face and teasing him about his looks. His stomach twisted painfully and he got up. In the flurry that followed, he remembered to drop a note on Baldy’s desk, grateful at least that he was not in the office to discover that their witness was now dead. He should have taken her midnight flight more seriously, done something more aggressive to protect her. “Christ almighty,” he said to the walls of the elevator, “I might as well have killed her myself and been done with it,” and punched hell out of the buttons.
    Six or seven people were standing around that large front bedroom when Lucas got there, waiting for someone—him—to arrive and start more things happening.