The Brink of Murder by Helen Nielsen Page B

being followed. The two cars turned north. They drove to Wilshire, crossed on a green that Simon had to race to make, and continued almost to Beverly before making a sharp left that ended at one of the new high-fashion apartment buildings that were rapidly replacing the over-taxed private dwellings. The Cougar turned into the underground garage and Corman parked on the street. Simon drove to the end of the block before he could find a parking space and then walked back to the building.
    It was standard construction. A few steps up to the double glass doors that led into a thickly carpeted lobby where a pair of Mediterranean divans stood against mirrored walls. On one side of the lobby a bank of elevators led to the upper floors. On the opposite side was a row of locked mailboxes with nameplates. Simon scanned the boxes and learned that Mary Sutton resided in apartment 422 and that Paul Corman didn’t live in the building at all. About to ring Mary Sutton’s bell, Simon glanced streetward as a black and white pulled to a stop at the opposite curb. Still angry at being tailed on the freeway, he charged out of the building and approached the police car from the rear. There was only one man inside the car and both of his hands were occupied twisting the top from a thermos bottle. Simon yanked open the door and said:
    “Did you follow me here, Wabash?”
    Lieutenant Wabash almost dropped the thermos in his lap. “Do you want to get killed?” he bawled. “Open up the door of a police car like that and you’re liable to get a slug in your ribs.”
    “Not if the officer inside is armed with a hot thermos,” Simon answered. “Now get this. I don’t like being followed by you or any of your squad. I ducked one tail on the freeway an hour ago. If this happens again I’m going to the District Attorney.”
    Wabash screwed the cap back on the thermos and poked about in a paper bag on the seat next to him until he found what looked like a day-old Danish. “I’d offer you coffee but I only have one cup,” he said. “Besides, what you really need is a psychiatrist. Nobody’s tailing you.”
    “Then why are you here?”
    Simon sensed the answer before he finished asking the question. Inadvertently the lieutenant glanced across the street at the building Mary Sutton and Paul Corman had entered. A set of windows lighted up on the fourth floor. Wabash read Simon’s thought and grinned. “I guess there are maybe fifty apartments in that complex,” he said. “I could be sitting here waiting for a burglary suspect or for an ex-con who’s doing so well on the outside we think he’s pushing horse on the side. But, as you pointed out to me earlier today, lawyer, a good officer isn’t supposed to discuss his duty with outsiders.”
    “For a man who doesn’t seem to get much exercise,” Simon said, “you eat too much.”
    He slammed the car door shut and watched Wabash chuckle with a mouthful of Danish.
    Dusk came early in late November. The street lights came on as Simon walked back to his car. If Lieutenant Wabash was telling the truth he had something else to worry about because that LTD on the freeway certainly had been following him. He didn’t like to worry alone. He drove to the Century Plaza and left his car in an all-night parking area. He went inside and asked at the desk for Wanda Call’s room and was told that Miss Call wasn’t registered. He asked for Mrs Simon Drake’s room, showed his identification, and the smiling clerk directed him to a room on the top floor. Wanda liked a room at the top where she could look down on the city she planned to have at her feet. He refused to be announced. He found the room himself and rapped out the quick tattoo that was their special code. When Wanda opened the door he could see that she had just stepped out of the bathtub. She wore an unbelted white chenille robe and a shower cap that she pulled off as he took her in his arms. Her skin was still damp and smelled of scented