Lullaby Town Part 31

"Is that how you found me?" I work for Marty Beale, time to time. A little skip tracing, a little missing persons. That kind of thing.

"I peeked in Mr. Beale's reference file. Mr. Beale thinks highly of you."

"You don't say."

"They don't know that I'm here and I would appreciate it if you didn't say anything..."

"Sure."

We smiled at each other some more and sat. The people who come to me are sometimes talkative, chattering nervously without conveying information, or sometimes reserved, sitting quietly until they realize that they'll have to say something if they want me to help them. The talkers, you have to let run themselves out. The quiet ones, you have to motivate. Not easy to do when your stomach is growling. I took the Groucho Marx nose out of my desk, put it on, and looked at her. "Guess who?"

She blushed and said, "I don't really know how to begin, Mr. Cole." The nose gets them every time.

"On the phone you said something about your boyfriend."

"My fiance. I think that he's mixed up in some kind of criminal thing and I'm sure that it's dangerous and I'm scared." Her eyes filled when she said it and she clutched the purse to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It was big enough to hide behind.

"Okay. What kind of crime are we talking here?"

"I don't know."

"Is he stealing cars?"

"I don't think so."

"Is he embezzling?"

"No. It wouldn't be that."

"How about fraud?"

She shook her head. "That couldn't be it."

"We're running out of choices, Ms. Sheridan."

She nodded and glanced into the big purse as if there were something inside it that she was hoping she wouldn't have to show me, as if she had come here thinking I would just sort of know about her problem and be able to solve it. Maybe Marty Beale's file said that I was so good I must be psychic.

I said, "Perhaps if you told me about your fiance."

She held the purse tighter. "It's so hard."

"I know it's hard, Ms. Sheridan, but if you don't tell me about him, I can't help you. Do you see that?"

She nodded, but she still didn't say anything.

I took out a yellow legal pad, a black SenseMatic pencil, and made as if I were poised to copy the rush of information she was about to provide.

She s.h.i.+fted her feet beneath the chair.

I made a couple of practice marks on the page. Subliminal prompting. "Okay. I'm ready. Fire away."

She swallowed.

"Anytime."

She stared at the floor.

I sighed, then put the pad on the desk and the pencil on the pad. I put my fingertips together and looked at Jennifer Sheridan through the steeple, and then I looked at the Pinocchio clock that I've got on my wall. It has eyes that swing from side to side as it tocks, and it's always smiling. I like it that it's always smiling. It was twelve twenty-two, and if I could get down to the deli fast enough, the turkey would still be moist and the rye would still be edible. Sometimes the quiet ones are so quiet that they tell you nothing and finally leave, keeping their problems to themselves. It works like that sometimes.

I stood up. "Maybe you should go to the police, Ms. Sheridan. If your fiance is in danger, it is better to get in trouble with the police than it is to get hurt or killed."

She clutched the purse even tighter, shook her head, and gave a miserable "I can't do that."

"I spread my hands. Twelve twenty-three.

She looked frightened. "My fiance is is the police." the police."

"Oh." Now it was my turn. I sat down.

"You won't tell, will you?"

"So far," I said, "I don't know anything to tell."

Jennifer Sheridan opened the large purse and took out a photo alb.u.m that was so thick that it must've weighed three pounds. She opened the alb.u.m and turned it so that I could see a 3 5 color snapshot of herself and a tall good-looking kid in a black LAPD summer-weight uniform leaning against a squad car. They were smiling. "His name is Mark Thurman. He doesn't work uniform anymore. Last year he got chosen for a plainclothes REACT position at the Seventy-seventh Division in South Central Los Angeles. He was one of the youngest men chosen. He was very proud of that." She seemed proud of it, too. "Everything was fine for the first few months, but then he seemed to change."

"Change." Like the Pod People.

She nodded, encouraged by my insightful response. "It happened almost overnight. He became anxious and scared and real secretive. We never kept secrets from each other and now there are things that he won't talk about with me." Pod People, all right.

I looked closer at the picture. Thurman had long forearms and a ropy neck and a country boy's smile. He must've been fourteen inches taller than Jennifer Sheridan. I said, "I know a lot of police officers, Ms. Sheridan. Some of them are even my friends. I can tell you that it can be a hard job with unusual hours. You see too much of what's wrong with people and you don't want to go home and talk about it. It's nothing to talk about with people you love."

She shook her head, telling me that I didn't get it. "It isn't just him not talking about the job. He was in uniform for three years and I know to expect that. It's the way way he acts. We used to talk about getting married, and having children, but we don't anymore. I ask him what's wrong, he says nothing. I say tell me about your day, he says that there's nothing to say. Mark was never like that before. He's become very irritable and snappish." he acts. We used to talk about getting married, and having children, but we don't anymore. I ask him what's wrong, he says nothing. I say tell me about your day, he says that there's nothing to say. Mark was never like that before. He's become very irritable and snappish."

"Irritable."

She nodded. "That's right."

"He's irritable, and that's why you think he's involved in crime?"

She gave me an impatient, "Well, it isn't just that."

"Okay. Have you seen your fiance perform a criminal act, or heard him speak of it, or seen the results of it?"

"No."

"Has he exhibited signs of an income other than his police salary?"

"No."

I spread my hands. "Sounds like you think he's up to something because he's irritable."

She gave me more of the impatience. "You don't understand. Mark and I have known each other since the seventh grade. We fell in love in the ninth grade. That's how long we've been going together. I love him and he loves me and I know him better than anyone else in all the world." She opened the alb.u.m so that I could see and flipped through the pages. She would find a page, and point, and I would nod. I don't know how old they were in the first photograph, but they looked like babies. Here we are holding hands. Here we are laughing. Jennifer Sheridan's b.r.e.a.s.t.s had only just begun to bud. Here's Mark playing football. Here's Jennifer presiding as student council vice-president. Jennifer Sheridan turned the pages and pointed and it was like watching a newsreel of their lives. Here we are at the homecoming game. Here we are at the prom. They grew and they matured, and they were always together. See us at the graduation? Maybe she did know him better than anyone else in the world. "I know who he is and what he likes and how he feels about everything that he feels anything about. I know know him and that's how I know that he is in trouble and he needs my help." him and that's how I know that he is in trouble and he needs my help."

"All right. Do you have any clues?"

She frowned at me. "What do you mean?"

"Clues. An overheard s.n.a.t.c.h of conversation. A sub-rosa sub-rosa glimpse of a secret bank account. Clues. Something that I can use in ascertaining the nature of this crime." I hadn't used glimpse of a secret bank account. Clues. Something that I can use in ascertaining the nature of this crime." I hadn't used ascertaining ascertaining in three or four weeks. in three or four weeks.

She said, "Are you making fun of me?"

I was getting one of those headaches that you get when your blood sugar starts to drop. She thought that she knew, but then they always think that they know. I looked at the ceiling. "No, I'm trying to make you consider what you want and why you want it, Ms. Sheridan. You claim that Mark Thurman is involved in criminal activity, but you have no direction in which to point me. That means that you're asking me to surveil an active-duty police officer who may or may not be involved in illicit activities as you so suspect. Police officers are paranoid by nature and they move around a lot. This will be expensive."

She looked uncertain. "How expensive?"

"Two thousand dollars. In advance."

You could see her swallow. "Do you take Visa?"

"I'm afraid not."

She swallowed a second time. "That seems an awful lot."

I spread my hands.

She closed the alb.u.m and put it back in the huge purse and took out a red doeskin wallet. She looked in the wallet and got a faraway look like she was working with numbers. Then she pulled out two twenties and put them on my desk. "I can pay you forty dollars now, and forty dollars per month for forty-nine months."

I said, "Jesus Christ, Ms. Sheridan."

She clenched her jaw and brought out another ten.

"All right. Fifty dollars."

I raised my hands, got up, and went to the gla.s.s doors that lead out to the little balcony. The doors that came with the office were aluminum sliders, but a couple of years ago I had them changed to a nice set of double-glazed French with bra.s.s handles. I opened the doors, set them so that the breeze wouldn't blow them closed, and then I looked out. Four stories below, two guys were sitting across the street in a tan unmarked sedan. A tall guy with s.h.a.ggy, thick-cut hair was sitting behind the steering wheel and a shorter guy with a ragged face was slouched in the pa.s.senger's side. The tall guy had long forearms and a ropy neck and looked a lot like Mark Thurman. Son-of-a-gun. I turned away from the doors and looked at Jennifer Sheridan. Nope. She didn't know that they were out there. "Mark work today?"

She nodded. "That's right. He works Monday through Friday, from eleven until six."

"He let his hair grow since he went to REACT?"

Jennifer Sheridan looked surprised that I'd ask. "Yes. He had to for the undercover work."

Thurman, all right.

Jennifer Sheridan sat forward on the chair. Expectant. "I know that Mark's in trouble, Mr. Cole. Even without conversations and bank accounts and things like that. I confronted him, and he denied it, but I don't believe him. He's lying to me, but it's tearing him apart to do so. So I'm trying to help him by the best means possible. According to the files at Watkins, Ok.u.m & Beale, that's you."

I nodded again and walked back to the desk and looked at her. You could see how much she loved him just by looking at her. I said, "So you believe that Mark's hiding something, and you want me to find out what."

"Yes."

"You think he's trapped by it."

"Yes."

"What if I find out that he isn't? What if I find out that Mark Thurman isn't who you think he is? What if I look, and I find something that changes the way that you feel about him, and the way that he feels about you?"

Jennifer Sheridan made a little move with her mouth, and then she cleared her throat. "Mark is a good man, Mr. Cole. If he's involved in something, I know it's not because he wants to be. I trust him in that, and I love him. If we find out that he is in trouble, we will help him." She had thought about these things. Probably lay awake with them.

I went back to the doors and pretended to adjust them. Thurman and the other guy were still in the sedan. Thurman had been looking up, but ducked back when he realized that I had come back onto the balcony. Fast moves are bad. Another couple of years on the job and he'd know better. You just sort of casually look away. s.h.i.+ft the eyes without moving the head. Eye contact can kill you.

I went back into the office and Jennifer Sheridan said, "Will you help me, Mr. Cole?"

"Maybe."

She blinked. "Maybe?"

I said, "Why don't we do this? I'll nose around and see if there is anything worth pursuing. If there is, I will work for you and pursue it. If there isn't, I will return your money and you won't owe me anything."

Jennifer Sheridan said, "That will be fine," and then she smiled. Her tanned skin dimpled and her white teeth gleamed and there came a quality of warmth to the room as if a small sun had risen from beneath my desk. I found myself returning the smile. I wrote a receipt in her name for the amount of forty dollars, and noted that it was paid against a due balance of one thousand, nine hundred-sixty dollars, payable in monthly installments. I gave back the extra ten with her receipt, then put the forty dollars into my wallet. My wallet didn't feel any fatter than it had without the forty. Maybe if I went down to the bank and had the forty changed to ones, it would feel like more.

Jennifer Sheridan took a folded sheet of paper from the huge purse and handed it to me. "This is where Mark lives, and his home phone number and his license plate, and his badge number. His partner's name is Floyd Riggens. I've met Floyd several times, but I don't like him. He's a mean-spirited man."

"Okay." Riggens would be the other guy in the car.

She took back the paper and scribbled something on the back. "This is where I live and this is my work number. It's a direct line to Mr. Beale's office, and I answer his phone, so I'll be the one who picks up when you call."

"Fine."

She stood, and I stood with her. She put out her hand. I took it. I think we were in a contest to see who could smile the most. She said, "Thank you, Mr. Cole. This is very important to me."

"Elvis."

"Elvis." She smiled wider and then she gathered her things and she left. It was twelve forty-six and I stopped smiling. I sat at my desk and looked at the paper that she had given me with the information about Mark Thurman and herself, and then I put it into the desk's top righthand drawer. On top of the pistol.

I leaned back and I put my feet up, and I wondered why Mark Thurman and his mean-spirited partner Floyd Riggens were following Jennifer Sheridan while they were on duty. I didn't have very long to wonder about it.

At twelve fifty-two, Mark Thurman and Floyd Riggens came in.

By Robert Crais

*THE MONKEY'S RAINCOAT

*STALKING THE ANGEL.