The Secrets of Harry Bright

CHAPTER 6

“Don’t look for mercy from that son of a bitch,” Otto Stringer said, referring to their captain. “He’s the Cotton Mather of the cop world.”

“I don’t think we’ll need mercy, Otto,” Sidney Blackpool said. “Nobody’s ever gonna know about the ten grand, and even if they do, it’s expense money. No strings attached.”

“The amount, Sidney. That’s the string. In fact it’s a rope. In fact it’s a noose if our department ever hears about it.”

“Nobody’s gonna hear. Relax. Finish your tequila and tomato juice. How can you drink that stuff?”

“Like this,” Otto Stringer said, stretched out at poolside on a lounge chair at dusk.

He guzzled the tall one and waved to a waitress with a gardenia in her hair who swayed over to poolside in a persimmon muumuu, Palm Springs being big on Hawaii and exotica in general.

“Another?” she smiled, making Otto deeply regret the big four-oh and sexual extinction.

“That was de-voon, dahling,” Otto said, “but I think I’ll try another kind.”

“That’s the fourth other kind you’ve had,” Sidney Blackpool said. “Mixing is tricky.”

“Not to worry,” Otto said. “Let’s see, I never been much on martinis so I think I’ll try a martini. How about a vodka martooni, my dear.”

“Twist or olive?”

“Both. And a cocktail onion. Make it two cocktail onions.”

“Vodka martini,” she said, writing on her pad. “With a dinner salad.”

As the cocktail waitress hip-swayed toward the bar, Otto sighed and put his hands behind his head and stopped sucking in his belly. He was wearing brand-new white doubleknits and white loafers with yet another acrylic golf sweater, this one pink and maroon, over a maroon shirt.

Sidney Blackpool was wearing the same pants as earlier, but had switched to a green golf shirt and white V-necked sweater for the evening. Palm Springs is very casual and they’d been told that only a few restaurants in the entire desert required a jacket. Nobody demanded neckties except dining rooms in the country clubs, but they’d brought coats and ties in case.

“Was it hot enough for you today, dah-ling?” Otto asked, watching a pair of thirtyish women stroll out by the pool, look toward the two detectives, and go back inside without apparent interest.

“Yeah, I guess it was hot enough,” his partner shrugged.

“That’s half a the conversation. Now, where we eating tonight?”

“I dunno. Should I worry about it?”

“That’s the other half a the conversation.”

“What conversation?”

“The Palm Springs conversation,” Otto said. “I listened to a bunch a people by the pool today. That’s the only thing they say. Hot enough today and where we eating tonight. That’s it.”

“Exciting.”

“That’s all people got to worry about around here,” Otto said. “They don’t even move enough to keep their watches wound.”

“Rich people, Otto. Not people like you and me.”

“We’re rich, Sidney,” Otto reminded him.

“This week only.”

“You got that right,” Otto said, which next to Tom Selleck aloha shirts and moustaches was this year’s cop mannerism. The phrase “You got that right.”

“That waitress is all time,” Otto said. “She’s the kind tries to lick you with her eyes.”

“I thought you said you were looking for ugly broads.”

“To marry. A rich ugly broad to marry. Not to spend a vacation with. That’s what I like about Yoko Ono. She looks like the leading lady in Kabuki theater and they’re all men. I’d marry her in a minute.”

“Let’s sign for the drinks and go to dinner,” Sidney Blackpool said.

“Signing for drinks.” Otto grinned. “Let me sign. I wanna write in a big tip for that little heartbreaker. She’ll remember Otto Stringer before this week’s out.”

“I hope ten grand’s gonna be enough,” his partner said, as they strolled inside.

The dining room was like the rest of the hotel, but there was less wicker and rattan, and the floral patterns weren’t out of control. The maître d’ dressed formally and the waiters wore standard desert chic: white dress shirt, black bow tie, no coat.

The menu required two hands to lift. In fact, Otto Stringer, hidden behind it, said, “Sidney, I could take this thing out by the pool tomorrow, shove two poles under it and have enough shade for me, a golf cart, and Liz Taylor.”

“She’s not your size anymore,” Sidney Blackpool said, trying to decide whether to order things he couldn’t spell or keep it a cop’s night out. That is, steak or prime rib.

“I’m glad they translate the French,” Otto said. “I hate restaurants where the menu’s all in French or Italian.”

“How often do you eat at restaurants where the menu’s in any language but English, Spanish and Chinese?”

“Sidney, I’m a man a the world! Let’s get a wine steward.”

Just then the dining-room captain came to the table and said, “Have you gentlemen decided yet?”

“I’ll have grease,” Otto said. “I usually eat grease.”

Otto didn’t end up with grease, but he did get a lot of unfamiliar and very rich continental cuisine. He started out with champagne and escargots, and red caviar because they didn’t have the good stuff. He went on to veal with a champagne cream sauce you could lose a fork in. He had a side of fettucine Alfredo because, like Mount San Jacinto, it was there. He finished up with half a pound of marzipan and a flambé crepe because he wanted something they set on fire.

Sidney Blackpool, realizing that he was way past his limit of Johnnie Walker Black, had only one glass of champagne, veal piccata with lemon and capers, a Bibb lettuce salad and no dessert.

Otto was halfway through the crepe, saying, “Sidney, you gotta relax and let yourself go,” when he started to hiccup.

“Damn,” he said.

“Let’s order you some bitters and lime. It works for me,” Sidney Blackpool said.

“These hiccups feel funny,” Otto said, his upper lip beading with sweat. “I think I’ll run to the John and …”

He barely made it. Otto upchucked for ten minutes. When he returned, he was pale and shaky.

“You’re a little green around the gills,” his partner observed.

“I just lost a hundred bucks worth a fancy groceries!” Otto moaned.

“Well, it was your first time, Otto. You’ll do better tomorrow. Your tummy’s a rookie on this beat.”

“Ooooh, I’m sick,” Otto said. “And now I’m hungry!”

“Let’s go to sleep,” Sidney Blackpool said.

“But I wanted to see the night life.”

“Let’s get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow you can order breakfast in bed. You’ll be a new man.”

“Tomorrow I’m sticking to grease,” Otto said.

“I’ll have room service bring you a plate a grease first thing in the morning,” his partner promised.

A deluge. There had never been so much rain in the desert. Sidney Blackpool watched a terrifying flash flood swell like a tidal wave on the very crest of Mount San Jacinto, then cascade down on the hotel. Men and women were screaming. It was awful, and though his own life was in jeopardy, he had to stand and face the next wall of water because he could see it riding the crest: a coffin. The lead-lined coffin rode like a fiberglass surfboard. Sidney Blackpool was weeping with the other doomed hotel guests, but not for his imminent death. He wept because he knew the coffin bore the half-drowned body of Tommy Blackpool who, wearing a red-and-black wet suit, clung like Ishmael as the coffin suddenly began cartwheeling away, down the Coachella Valley.

“Tommmmmmmy!” he sobbed, and then he was awake. It was dawn. He hadn’t awakened at the dreaded drinker’s hour as he deserved, having put away so much Johnnie Walker Black. The bed was soaked as always after a recurring dream about Tommy Blackpool.

In the dream, Tommy would often be clinging to his coffin, or sometimes to his surfboard, which had been torn from his ankle strap by the huge wave in Santa Monica that drowned him.

Sometimes Sidney Blackpool would dream simply that Tommy was getting soaked to the skin lying in that coffin in the cold ground. This, during rainstorms. Sidney Blackpool hated rainstorms now and had begun to wish that he’d had Tommy cremated. His ex-wife had suggested it, but deferred when he insisted on burial in the ground. Like many lapsed Catholics he could not entirely escape the tenets drilled into him in grammar school. Even though the modern Church no longer cherished mystery and ritual and burial in the ground. The dead with bones intact to await the Redeemer? He never really knew why they used to demand it, but he had buried Tommy in the ground. And now he regretted it every time it rained. He used to read weather forecasts even before the headlines in the days when he was going mad.

In all his years as a cop-even during the Watts Riot when he was trapped inside a burning warehouse believing he’d be burned alive-he’d never awakened in what they call a cold sweat. Dreams of fire had never tormented him. It was these dreams of water, and Tommy so cold. The detective was shivering as he plodded toward the shower, feeling very old, hoping he could stem the headache starting at the base of his skull.

Cold sweat. A parent who dreamed of something as outrageous, as unnatural as his eighteen-year-old child lying in the ground, that’s who coined that one. He showered, shaved, dressed, took three aspirin and went downstairs hoping the hotel coffee shop opened early.

Otto Stringer had breakfast served in his bedroom as promised. It was a typical Palm Springs November day. “The kind you expect” as the radio disc jockey said. About 78 degrees with humidity around 19 percent, making it comfortable and invigorating. Otto finished four eggs, two orders of bacon, toast, jam and coffee. He showered, shaved, put on a baby-blue golf shirt with a navy sweater tied around his neck, and realized they hadn’t decided where to play.

They had the names of three head pros who would arrange games for them at some of America’s most famous country clubs. Victor Watson’s secretary had assured Sidney Blackpool that even if all the courses were not yet ready for the official opening of the 1984-85 desert season, she could make arrangements for them at just about any club that was. When Otto arrived at the coffee shop, his partner had a copy of Palm Springs Life on the counter beside him, along with the file containing the police reports dealing with the murder of Jack Watson.

“Which one’s most fun to read?” Otto asked, nodding to one of the desert’s thousand daytime waitresses who have a tough time making it during the short tourist season, and who all walk like their feet hurt.

“Morning,” she said, pouring Otto’s coffee. “Hot enough for you today?”

“Sure is,” Otto said.

“That’s half a the day’s conversation,” Sidney Blackpool said to Otto.

“Where we eating tonight?” Otto asked, thus completing the other half.

“You wanna play golf today or make our show for Watson?”

“I was thinking, Sidney, maybe we oughtta get the business over with in case he calls and wants a report.”

“I don’t think he’ll call,” Sidney Blackpool said. “He must know unconsciously that this is a fantasy. He’s just … just a screwed-up father who can’t deal with the loss of his son. Maybe lots a guys in his shoes if they had his money’d do strange things to try to find some …”

“justice.”

“I was gonna say peace. He told me he knows there’s no justice.”

“I feel sorry for the guy, Sidney. Let’s work on his case today. We got all week to play golf. Wanna drop by Palm Springs P.D.?”

“I was thinking about going by Watson’s house,” Sidney Blackpool said. “After all these months I don’t suppose Palm Springs P.D. knows anything we don’t already know. The houseboy’s supposed to be there.”

“How long’s he been with the family?”

“Only two years.”

“Let’s pin it on him.”

“Maybe we could get in nine holes this afternoon,” Sidney Blackpool said.

The Las Palmas residence of Victor Watson was a disappointment to both cops. They were expecting a Beverly Hills mansion rather than a sprawling one-story home without real style that couldn’t even be seen behind the jungle of oleander. In Beverly Hills the residents claimed they wanted privacy but made sure that the ogling masses could at least see upper windows and gabled roofs over the vine-covered walls and through the wrought iron.

Victor Watson’s home was 1950-ish, flat-roofed, spread around a large oval pool with a small grove of orange trees at the rear. The property was about an acre and a half in size. The drive-in gate was locked and they rang the buzzer but got no answer.

“The houseboy might be out to the store or something,” said Otto.

“Might be back in that grove,” Sidney Blackpool said, climbing up on the gate to take a peek.

“I got my new pants on, Sidney, and I’m too old to climb.”

“It’s only an electric gate. Just lean on it with the whole two-sixty.”

“Probably set off an alarm,” Otto said, leaning his weight onto the gate and pushing against the jointed arm, which creaked and gave. The gate clanged shut after they were both inside.

“Cost the ten grand he gave us just to repair our damage,” Otto said.

“Can’t waste too much time, Otto. We gotta play golf.”

Both men went to the driveway on the side of the house and Otto yelled, “Hellooooo!” but there was no sound from the grove except for desert birds chattering in the trees.

Sidney Blackpool peeked in the garage and saw the Watson Mercedes. Otto rang the front doorbell and could hear music inside.

“Let’s go around to the pool,” Otto said. “Maybe he was working on his tan and fell asleep.”

The pool was impressive because of its size. There was a separate spa, large enough to accommodate the kind of orgy Otto dreamed of joining this week.

“Whaddaya think, Sidney?” He winked toward the spa. “All this privacy. Bet they could throw some parties.”

“What the hell’s that?”

By a chaise lounge in the shade of the patio roof was a coffee cup spilled. Sidney Blackpool touched the coffee, which was cold. On the patio stones near the overturned cup was an unmistakable smear of blood. It looked very fresh.

“Let’s get in that house pronto,” he said.

It wasn’t difficult. The French doors leading to the patio were unlocked and the detectives entered carefully, looking at each other as they both realized they were ready for a golf vacation, not a homicide investigation. They were unarmed.

“Anybody home?” Otto yelled, half expecting an intruder wet with gore to come slashing out of a closet.

The home bore the touches of Mrs. Victor Watson. There was the same dizzy designer mix that Sidney Blackpool had seen in Watson’s outer office: Grecian urns, broken remnants of Roman antiquities in bas relief, pre-Columbian artifacts, eighteenth-century English landscapes, and three “conversation areas” that were overwhelmed by massive sofas, settees and loveseats, which were supposed to say, “We are desert casual in this house,” but which to Sidney Blackpool said, “I am without subtlety but do I ever have megabucks.”

The radio’s music was coming not from the main bedrooms down the hall by the entertainment area but from the other side of the house, just off the kitchen. Otto picked up a vase, hefted it like a club, shrugged at Sidney Blackpool and put it back down. Both detectives were a little tense as they crept past a huge kitchen containing commercial gas ranges and ovens, freezers and refrigerators, all in stainless steel, which would’ve satisfied the needs of any restaurant chef in Palm Springs. There was an old chopping block in the center of the kitchen, showing a patina of fifty years. On the chopping block was a fourteen-inch butcher knife, stained by blood.

Now Otto Stringer wished he’d kept the vase, and started looking for a real club. They crept a little more quietly toward the sound of the radio. It was turned to one of the Palm Springs stations, which, like the rest of this valley, refused to march with Time past the era of Dwight Eisenhower.

The song on the radio was “Wheel of Fortune” by Kay Starr. They could hear the sound of a shower running. Kay Starr finished her song and the programmed music segued into “Long As You Got Your Health,” by Ozzie Nelson.

Otto tried to break the rising tension by whispering, “I didn’t know he sang.”

“Who?”

“Ozzie Nelson. I thought he was just Ricky’s old man on television.”

Sidney Blackpool stuck out his foot and nudged the bedroom door open. The music and shower got louder. They tiptoed toward the bathroom and could see that the shower curtain was drawn but there was no one standing behind it. Then they saw the outline of a human figure crumpled in the bathtub.

Sidney Blackpool leaped forward and jerked the shower curtain back.

A hairless man screamed, “Yeeeee!” dropping his toenail clipper and leaping to his feet. He was jockey size. His reflexes didn’t make him throw up his hands in defense. His hands flew over his genitals. He stood with his hip toward the detectives, his knee raised, covering his crotch. “Who are you?” he cried.

“Sergeant Blackpool and Detective Stringer,” Sidney Blackpool said. “We were told you’d be expecting us. There was blood on the patio. And a butcher knife. We thought …”

“Oh, God!” the little man cried, wrapping himself with the shower curtain.

“We’ll let you get dressed,” Sidney Blackpool said, and both detectives retreated to the living room.

“Poor little guy,” Otto said. “Coulda swallowed his tongue.”

“Make him a little more security conscious,” said Sidney Blackpool, wondering if the well-stocked bar in the living room contained Johnnie Walker Black. Then he looked at his watch and saw that it wasn’t 10:00 A.M., and thought that the Johnnie Walker impulse was very bad, vacation or not.

A few minutes later the houseboy came padding in barefoot. He wore a peppermint-green kimono with enormous sleeves and a silk-screen flying crane on the back. He was about sixty years old and now wore a strawberry-blond toupee slightly askew.

“Golly you scared me!” he said, extending a hand palm down to Sidney Blackpool.

After shaking hands with both detectives, he smiled and said, “My gosh! When that shower curtain came swishing back I expected to see Anthony Perkins standing there in drag! I was so disappointed! Would you like coffee or a drink or something?”

“No, thanks, Mister Penrod,” Sidney Blackpool said. “Sorry to meet you this way.”

“It’s okay,” the little man said. “And please call me Harlan. Everyone does. I can see how you’d get suspicious, being cops and all. Pardon me, policemen, I mean.”

“Cops is fine,” Sidney Blackpool said.

“Really? On Dragnet Jack Webb always said you didn’t like to be called cops.”

“Jack Webb wasn’t a cop,” Sidney Blackpool said.

“Well, sit for goodness’ sake,” said Harlan Penrod. “I must look a fright.” And after touching his toupee he realized he did. “Oh gosh,” he said, trying to tug it into place subtly. “I was just clipping my nails when you pulled the curtain back. The blood? Well, I was reading the L.A. Times and cutting a peach and oh, I just get so mad reading about Rose Bird and her California Supreme Court. We keep voting for the death penalty and they keep fixing it so these killers stay alive. I was so mad at Rose Bird I sliced my finger instead of the peach!”

“We just stopped by to acquaint ourselves with the house and ask a few questions.” Sidney Blackpool glanced at Otto who knew that he was thinking, If we can think of what question to ask in a seventeen-month-old homicide.

“We wouldn’t have to put up with Rose Bird if that so-called governor Jerry Brown hadn’t appointed her,” Harlan Penrod said. “Did you see the portrait of him they hung in the state capital? I mean, did the artist ever capture that repressed reclusive paranoid? In another life Jerry Brown was Emily Dickinson. I only wish we could get rid of Rose Bird and the rest of Jerry Brown’s supreme court. I think just like a cop. I’m all for death!”

“We’re awful sorry to disturb you like this, but …”

“Oh, you’re not disturbing me. Do you know how lonely it gels here? Mister and Mrs. Watson never come anymore since Jack died. Gosh, unless they let some friends use the place for a weekend I don’t see anybody. Do you know how lonesome it gets in a house like this all by yourself?”

“Are you allowed to have friends come over?” Otto asked, his arms on the back of the sofa as he admired all the museum pieces that Sidney Blackpool hated.

“Golly yes. Mister and Mrs. Watson are very nice to work for. And of course the property keeps me busy-enough. I’m not that young anymore.” Harlan Penrod took a sneaky little tug on his toup when he said that, but still wasn’t satisfied that it was centered. “This is a good job, believe me. I’m not complaining. I just miss having people here to take care of and cook for. Hey! When Mister Watson called, he said that you two gentlemen might be here for a week. Would you like me to cook a dinner for you?”

“Well, I don’t think so,” Sidney Blackpool said. “We have our hotel and …”

“Oh, it’s no trouble! I’d just love to. My training was originally as a chef, you know. What do you like? I could fix you anything. I have carte blanche at Jurgensen’s Market. You could invite your wives. Did you bring them along?”

“We’re not married,” Otto said. “Both divorced.”

“Really!” Harlan Penrod cried. “Oh, you must come to dinner!”

“Well, maybe later in the week,” Sidney Blackpool said. “Now about the murder.”

“Are you going to solve it? I mean, do you have some new clues?”

“Not really,” Otto said. “We’re just gonna go over the old clues. Except there ain’t any.”

“I know,” Harlan Penrod nodded, wrapping his kimono modestly around his bony knees. “I was wondering why two detectives came clear from Hollywood. I know you got lots of cases to work on there.”

“We got cases by the gross, by the pound, by the case,” Otto said. “Were sort a doing a favor for Mister Watson. Just taking another look.”

“Jack was such a beautiful boy,” Harlan Penrod said. “He was so sensitive, so intelligent, so … kind, you know? He was at the age where kids can be fresh and know-it-all, last year of college and all that. But not Jack. He was basically such a sweet person.”

“To you?” Otto asked.

“Golly yes,” Harlan Penrod said. “He was so … comfortable to be around. He liked people and was concerned about them. I think he cared about me, I really do. Like a family member, not just an employee.”

“The police report says you were out of town the night he disappeared,” Otto said, going through the motions of a homicide follow-up.

“Yes, to L.A. I’ve hated myself for not being here. You have no idea how many times I’ve thought of it.”

“Why’d you go to L.A.?”

“Well, I never admitted it to the Palm Springs detectives, but after all this time I guess it doesn’t make any difference. I had to testify in a criminal trial and I didn’t want Mister Watson to know. It was soooooo lurid.”

“A criminal trial?” Otto cocked an eyebrow at Sidney Blackpool. “Were you involved in a crime?”

“Gosh no! I was sort of a witness. Oh, it was awful!” Harlan Penrod jumped up and took several little steps over to the bar where he poured himself some orange juice from a pitcher. “Care for some juice? Fresh-squeezed.”

“No, thanks,” Otto said, while Sidney Blackpool shook his head and spied the bottle on the bar shelf-Johnnie Walker Black.

“Well,” Harlan Penrod said, returning to the sofa and crossing his legs after making sure the kimono didn’t flop open. “I actually left Hollywood and came to live in the desert because of that terrible business. You see, I used to work for one of the sound studios on Santa Monica where people with no talent whatsoever go to cut records. Oh, it was so sad. All these young boys and girls with hopes and dreams. Little rock bands with some awful song they wrote. Hopes and dreams. I was so depressed all the time.”

Sidney Blackpool looked at his watch and Otto said, “We, uh, have an appointment in a little while.”

“Do you?” Harlan Penrod was crestfallen. “Anyway, one day in the studio when they were doing a sound mix, my boss who was oh so nelly got in a terrible row with his boyfriend, this person named Godfrey Parker, a bitch if there ever was one. They were almost slapping each other’s face when I went home. And the next day they found my boss. Oh, it was unspeakable!”

“What happened?” Otto was getting caught up in Harlan Penrod’s narrative.

“It was a typical queen murder,” Harlan said. “I remember one in my apartment building. A closet queen cut his lover to pieces. When the cops came they found all these trash bags in the apartment. ‘He’s in this one,’ a cop would yell. ‘He’s in this one too,’ another cop would holler. Oh, it was awful. The best part of him was found in an alligator bag!”

“But back to the sound studio,” Otto said, pouring himself some orange juice after all.

“Yes, well, the police came the next morning after the janitor called and they found my boss lying dead right there in the studio. With a studio microphone … oh, this is awful … sticking two feet out of his rectum!”

“That’s pretty gruesome, all right,” Otto said.

“And Godfrey had turned up the volume full blast! He was a fiend! And those cops that came that morning, do you know what they said?”

“Can’t imagine,” said Sidney Blackpool.

“The first one said, ‘Well, I know who the deceased must be.’ And then he named that T.V. reporter on Channel Seven? You know, the one that’s always doing exposés on the L.A.P.D. And the policeman said, ‘The suspect’s one of us. Some cop finally did what we’ve all been threatening to do.’ Well, they had to cut the mike pole out of him with a bolt cutter!”

“That’s what Reagan felt like doing when he made the joke about bombing the Russians,” Sidney Blackpool said. “But getting back to Jack Watson. We have some new information that he may’ve driven to Hollywood the day he disappeared. He bought a tire at a Rolls-Royce dealership. Would you have any idea why he might’ve gone to Hollywood?”

“Hollywood? No! I’m shocked! He came to the desert that weekend because he was tired from final exams at college. His fiancée was coming. We have a Rolls dealer here in Palm Springs. Why would he go clear to Hollywood for a tire?”

“He wouldn’t,” Otto said. “He must’ve had another reason for going.”

“I have no idea why he’d drive two hours when he was here to rest. And I can’t imagine why he’d take the Rolls,”

“Why do you say that?” asked Sidney Blackpool.

“He hated the Rolls. So pretentious, he always said. Wouldn’t even ride in it. He had his own car, a Porsche Nine-eleven his mom bought him. If he was going into town for something urgent he’d drive that Porsche.”

“You sure about that?” Otto asked.

“Without a doubt. He never told his folks how he hated that Rolls but he told me lots of times. That’s why he never flew here when he’d come on weekends. He didn’t want to be stuck driving a Rolls-Royce. He always drove down to the desert so he’d have his own car to run around in.”

“Did he come here often? To rest, I mean?” Sidney Blackpool asked.

“Oh, maybe twice a month during the school year. For two or three days at a time.”

“In the police report his dad said that Jack seldom came here alone.”

“Actually, Jack came here more than they knew,” Harlan Penrod said. “His mom and dad’re very busy people and he usually told them he was staying at the fraternity house, but he’d come here. I never mentioned it because right after he died I didn’t want to say anything more than I had to.”

“Whys that?” Otto asked.

“Id only been working for the Watsons about six months at that time, and I heard Mister Watson describe Jack to the police. Such a bright, decent, hardworking student, he said, and yes, Jack was all that, but …”

“What?”

“Jack frequently came to Palm Springs to spend weekends, but never when his folks were here, and he never wanted them to know. He told me not to let on.”

“Did you ever ask him why?”

“He said his dad treated him like a kid and might snoop around.”

“Snoop around?”

“Sergeant, he was a gorgeous kid twenty-two years old! When he went out at night I imagine he ended up at a disco. I mean, he had a fiancée, sure, but lots of pretty college girls come in from San Diego and L.A. You know how it is to be twenty-two.”

Sidney Blackpool looked at Otto and said, “Anything else?”

“Did you ever think he was kidnapped from the house?” Otto asked.

“Really, no,” Harlan said, and his eyes had started to fill from talking about Jack Watson. “I mean, I know how dark it is in this neighborhood at night and how close we are to a ghetto, but everyone has all sorts of burglar alarms. And people are so careful. The old rich people, they’d rather have too much darkness than streetlights that might disturb their sleep. They don’t even want police helicopters. Everyone’s in bed at nine o’clock.”

“Rather curse the darkness, eh?” Sidney Blackpool said, standing up. “Do those infrareds still work, the ones on top of those walls?”

“I think so.”

“Do you always turn them on?”

“Oh, yes. I arm the burglar alarms inside and out before I go to bed, and whenever I’m out. Sometimes, though, it gets so lonely I’d almost welcome a burglar. If he wasn’t mean.”

“Careful, Harlan,” Otto said. “Sometimes strange bedfellows make strange bedfellows.”