They Thirst (26 page)

He had awakened cold with sweat, and this morning over breakfast Jo had wanted to know what he'd been dreaming about. Palatazin told her the Roach; he wasn't ready to tell her the truth yet.

At the end of the table, McBride closed the report and pushed it aside. Over the rim of his coffee cup, he looked from Garnette to Palatazin, his eyes stunned for an instant by the bright green striped tie Palatazin wore with a light brown coat. He put the cup down and said, "This isn't enough. In fact, it's little more than nothing. The
Times
is applying some pressure for a public progress statement. If I used this report as my basis, they'd be printing thin air. So what's the problem?" His icy blue eyes flared. "We have the best police force in this entire country! Why can't we find
one
man? Captain, you've had over two weeks to work on this thing with the entire force from helicopters to beat cops at your disposal. Why haven't you turned up anything more concrete than this?"

"Sir," Palatazin said, "I think we're making some progress. The artist's composite was printed on the front page of the
Times
this morning, and it'll be carried by the afternoon newspapers as well. We'll get it to the television stations in time for the afternoon and evening newscasts. Also there's the matter of the Volkswagen . . ."

"Slim, Palatazin," the commissioner said. "Awfully damned slim."

"I agree, sir, but it's more of a lead than we had before. The women—the street prostitutes—are wary of being seen talking to police officers. They're frightened of the Roach, but they don't trust us either. And that's how we're going to find the man, sir, through them. My men are working on finding a Volkswagen with a two, a seven, and a 'T' in the license number . . ."

"I suspect there may be several hundred," McBride said.

"Yes, sir, there will be. Possibly a thousand or more. But you have to agree it is a lead that merits investigation."

"I want names, captain, names and addresses. I want suspects in for interrogation. I want surveillances. I want that man caught."

"We all do, commissioner," Garnette said quietly. "And you know Captain Palatazin has been interrogating suspects daily and carrying out some surveillances as well. It's just that . . . well, sir, the Roach seems to have gone underground. Maybe he's left the city. Catching a hit-and-run killer like this, a psychotic without motive, is the toughest job there is . . ."

"Spare me, please," McBride answered. "I don't want to hear any confessionals." He returned his gaze to Palatazin, who was trying unsuccessfully to light his pipe again. "You're telling me that this Volkswagen license plate is the only real lead you've got, is that it?"

"Yes, sir, I'm afraid so."

McBride sighed loudly and folded his hands in front of him. "I don't want this thing to turn into another Hillside Strangler case, captain. I want this man—or men— caught quickly so we don't get our asses kicked by the public and the press. Not to mention the fact that as long as this bastard remains unidentified, someday we're going to stumble over another hooker's corpse. I want him canned, do you understand me? And I want him canned
fast!"
He took the report and slid it down the table to Palatazin. "If you can't find him, captain, I'll put someone in charge who can. All right? Now both of you get back to work."

As they waited for the elevator in the hallway outside the conference room, Garnette said, "Well, Andy, that wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be."

"It wasn't? I was fooled then." His pipe had gone stone cold, so he shoved it in his pocket.

Garnette looked at him in silence for a few seconds. "You look tired, Andy. Worn out. Everything okay at home?"

"At home? Yes. Why?"

"You got a problem, you can tell me about it. I don't mind."

"No, there's no problem. Except the Roach."

"Uh-huh." Garnette was silent for a moment, watching the numbers advance above the elevator door. "You know, something like this could strain even the strongest ox of a guy. It's a hell of a responsibility. I'll tell you, Andy, you look like you haven't slept for two days. You . . . hell, you didn't even shave this morning, did you?"

Palatazin ran a hand across his chin and felt stubble. He couldn't remember if he'd shaved or not. No, he decided, he probably hadn't.

"I understand that your men are also beginning to see changes in you." The elevator arrived, and they stepped in. It began to descend. "That's not good. It weakens your leadership position."

Palatazin smiled grimly. "I think I know who you've been talking to. Officer Brasher, possibly? He's a lazy bum. And Zeitvogel? Who else?"

Garnette shrugged. "Talk gets around. You haven't been yourself for the past few days . .."

"And so people have started pointing their fingers, have they? Well. It didn't take as long as I thought."

"Please, Andy, don't get me wrong. I'm talking as an old friend now, okay? Just what were you getting at when you called Kirkland at Hollywood Division and requested a stakeout on a cemetery for God's sake?"

"Oh," Palatazin said softly. "I see."

The elevator opened on a wide corridor floored with green linoleum. They stepped out and walked toward the homicide squad room, beyond two frosted-glass doors. "Well?" Garnette said. "What about it?"

Palatazin turned to face him. His eyes were dark holes in his pale face. "It has to do with the vandalism over there . . ."

"I thought as much. But that's not your problem or your detail. Let the antivandalism squad over in Hollywood mop it up. You stick to homicide."

"Let me finish," Palatazin said, and in his voice there was a tremble that made Garnette think,
Andy's about to crack.
"You have to know that where I was born, in Hungary, people think differently about . . . many things than they do in this country. I'm an American now, but I still think like a Hungarian. I still believe in the things that Hungarians believe. Call them superstitions or old wives' tales or whatever, but I accept them as the truth."

Garnette's eyes narrowed. "I don't understand."

"We have different beliefs about . . . life and death, about things that you would consider material for movies or bad paperback books. We think that not all is explicable by the law of God because the Devil has laws of his own."

"You talking about spirits? Ghosts? You mean you wanted Hollywood Division to stake out some ghosts?" Garnette almost laughed but didn't because the other man's face was so deadly serious. "Come on, is this a joke? What have you got, Halloween fever?"

"No, I'm not talking about spirits," Palatazin said. "And it is not a joke either. Fever, perhaps, but my fever is called fear, and it's beginning to burn me up inside."

"Andy . . ." Garnette said quietly. "You can't really be serious . . . are you?"

"I have work to do now. Thank you for listening." And before Garnette could stop him, Palatazin had gone through the doors into the squad room. Garnette stood in the corridor for a moment, scratching his head.
What was wrong with that crazy old Hungarian?
he thought.
Now he's going to have us running around after spooks in cemeteries? Jesus!
A darker thought stirred sluggishly in his brain,
Is the pressure making Andy unfit for duty? God,
he thought.
I hope I don't have to . . . do anything drastic.

And then he turned away from the doors and made his way to his own office further down the corridor.

The intercom on Paige LaSanda's desk crackled to life, "Miss LaSanda, there's a Phillip Falco here to see you."

Paige, a stunning, ash-blond woman in her early forties, looked up from a report on a piece of industrial property she was interested in purchasing on Slauson Avenue and pressed the Speak button. "He doesn't have an appointment does he, Carol?"

There were a few seconds of silence. Then, "No, ma'am. But he says it concerns money owed to you."

"Mr. Falco can make his payments to you, dear." She returned to the report. The property looked promising; it was underdeveloped and could support a larger factory than the one now on it, but the asking price might be a bit too. . ..

"Miss LaSanda?" the intercom voice said. "Mr. Falco wants to see you personally."

"When and who is my next appointment?"

"Eleven-thirty. Mr. Doheny from the Crocker Bank."

Paige glanced at her diamond-studded Tiffany wrist-watch. Five after eleven. "All right," she said, "send Mr. Falco in."

After another moment the door opened, and Carol ushered Falco—a gaunt man with long white hair and deep-set eyes—into the office. For a few seconds Falco stood at the center of the huge room, seemingly awed by its sumptuous furnishings, though he'd been to this office twice before. Behind her glass-topped, mahogany desk Paige said, "Please sit down, Mr. Falco," and motioned toward a brown leather chair.

Falco nodded and took his seat. In his rumpled, brown, pin-striped suit, he looked like little more than a cadaver, his flesh pale to the shade of gray, his wrists jutting from the coat sleeves. On a table beside him a burst of bright red roses made him look duller still. His eyes were never at rest; they moved across Paige's desk, across her face, the broad picture window that looked out over Wilshire Boulevard, to his own hands in his lap, back to her desk, and then to her face again.

Paige held up a carved, Dunhill cigarette case of lustrous black wood, and Falco took three cigarettes without apology, putting two in the breast pocket of his coat and lighting the third from the lighter flame Paige offered. "Thank you," he said softly and leaned back in his chair, smoke dribbling from his nostrils. "These are European cigarettes, are they not?"

"Balkan tobacco," Paige said.

"One can tell immediately. American brands are so dry and tasteless. These remind me so much of a brand sold in Budapest. . ."

"Mr. Falco, I presume you've brought me a check today?"

"What? Oh, of course. The check." He rummaged in an inside coat pocket and brought out a sealed and folded envelope. This he slid across the desk to Paige, who instantly used a twenty-four carat gold letter opener on it. The check was written against a Swiss bank account and signed by a smooth, graceful hand—Conrad Vulkan.

"That's fine," she said, eyeing the amount with mental glee. "How long should this take to clear?"

"A week at most," he answered. "Prince Vulkan plans to transfer a large amount to a local bank shortly. Do you have any suggestions?"

"I suppose the Crocker Bank's the most convenient. One of their vice-presidents is coming in at eleven-thirty. You might speak to him about it."

"There's something else in the envelope, Miss LaSanda," Falco said.

"Oh?" She opened it wider and turned it upside down. A small white card fell out; it was engraved with the words Requesting The Pleasure Of Your Company— Prince Conrad Vulkan. "What's this?"

"As it says. I've been instructed to invite you to dine with Prince Vulkan at eight o'clock tomorrow evening if that's convenient for you."

"Where?"

"Why, the castle, of course."

'The castle? Then I take it you've somehow convinced the power company to repair the lines running up there? That's more than I could ever do."

"No." Falco smiled slightly, but it was a smile of the mouth; the eyes remained vacant and faintly troubled. "We have no power yet."

"What's your prince going to do then, have something catered? I'm afraid I'm going to have to say . . ."

"Prince Vulkan is very interested in meeting you," Falco said softly. "He assumed the reverse would be true as well."

Paige regarded the man for a moment—
sad-looking guy,
she thought,
doesn't he ever see the sun?
—
and then lit a cigarette of her own, placing it in a long black holder with a gold band. "I'll be honest with you, Mr. Falco," she said finally. "When you came to me in September, wanting to rent these pieces of property, telling me you represented Hungarian royalty, I was highly skeptical. Before the deal was signed, I made a few transatlantic telephone calls. I could find no one in the present Hungarian government who knew anything about a Prince Vulkan. So I was ready to pull out, until you made your first payment in cash. I may not trust very many people, but I do trust the dollar, Mr. Falco. My last husband left me with that philosophy. Yes, I am interested in meeting your Prince Vulkan . . . if indeed he is a prince."

"He is. Most definitely."

"Of a country that doesn't even recognize his existence? I don't think I'd be out of line if I asked where he gets his funds from, do you?"

"Family money," Falco said. "He's currently involved in selling some pieces from his very old and valuable art collection."

"I see." Paige ran a fingernail over the raised lettering on the invitation. She recalled what a Hungarian official had told her during the last of her overseas calls, "Miss LaSanda, we
have
found a Conrad Vulkan mentioned in a fragment of Magyar history dated around 1342, but that would hardly be the gentlemen you're seeking. This Prince Vulkan was the last of a long line of pretenders to the throne of the northern provinces. His carriage went off a mountain road when he was just seventeen, and it was assumed that wolves ate his body. As for someone passing himself off as Hungarian royalty, that's a different story indeed. We would hate for the name of our government to be involved in any . . . shall we say, unsavory practices?"