To the Letter, Harry

It Was One of the damnedest things that had ever happened in the history of the San Diego Police Department. They were still talking about it a whole week later, when, halfway through the second watch, rookie patrolman Harry T. Lomas told Communications that he was on a code seven and went into Clancy's Diner, on the beat next to his own.

"Hi, Harry," said the two patrolmen already tucked away in a far corner, round back of the cigarette machine.

The new manager always made a big thing of welcoming you at the door, then she'd steer you someplace you were less likely to give offense to her other customers. She loved cops, she said. Thought they were terrific. And was it true they did it with Magnum?

She was one lady who never would find out.

"Hi, guys," said Harry, placing his radio with theirs in the center of the table and his baton at his feet. "What's good tonight?"

Art and Chuck made faces. In a lot of ways, Clancy's wasn't what it used to be.

"The quarter-pound burger, French fries, salad on the side, Thousand Island," Harry told the waitress, who was short and ugly and probably relegated to the shadows herself. "A medium Coke."

"Thank you, sir," she said, scuttling away.

"Bizarre," said Chuck, scratching at the sunburn beneath the bleached pelt on his forearm.

"Baffling," said Art, smoothing down his dark singles-bar mustache.

"Crazy," said Chuck.

"Unbelievable," said Art.

And then, maybe because those words had lost much of their original impact in Southern California, they tried again.

"Totally bizarre."

"Truly baffling."

"Un-fuckin'-believable," sighed Harry, lighting up a Marlboro. "You still chewing over that same one-eighty-seven I missed out on?"

"Sure!" said Art. "What kind of mind did that chick have? Shit, what kind of mind does anyone have who'd let some freak do somethin' like that to them?"

"Who said the chick had a mind?" challenged Harry. "Some people don't have minds. Shoulda seen the drunk I just took down to detox. He didn't even have a brain, goddamn it. Shoes on the wrong feet and a comb hidden up his ass."

"Will you listen to this guy?" Art said to Chuck. "The victim was an English major, her whole apartment was lousy with poetry books, Beethoven--there was even a wok in the kitchen. And she didn't have a mind?"

"A very sensitive lady," agreed Chuck.

"So?" said Harry, impatient to tell them about the great time he and Debbie had just had on vacation in Palm Springs. "When I was in college--"

"Harry," said Chuck, "just how much do you know about this homicide?"

Harry shrugged. "You saw," he said. "I only just made it to line-up this afternoon. A stabbing, right?"

"Hoo!" said Art, grinning. "You don't know nothin'."

"Nothin'," confirmed Chuck, "if that's all you picked up."

The waitress came with Harry's glass of ice water. He took a sip from it and decided that he'd never get to tell his story until they got a little of this off their chests. "OK," he conceded. "What made it so special?"

Art turned to face Harry. "It was last Monday around eight. I'm writing some asshole a ticket on the corner of Fourth and Maple when I get an cleven-thirty-two on the radio."

"That's all it was," said Chuck. " 'Citizen calling for help."'

"So I tell the dude to get lost and jump in my unit," continued Art, selecting a toothpick. "No need to check the house numbers--she's out front, still hollerin'. 'Take it easy,' I say. 'What's the problem?' She points back into her apartment house and just sits down on the grass--"

"I was the cover unit," broke in Chuck. "I came up the path as Art was goin' in. But I saw the blood first."

"Yuh, there was blood right there in the lobby," said Art, poking the toothpick between two molars. "Blood on the stairs. So we went up the stairs and we saw right away what must have happened."

"Spreadin' out from under the door across the hall," said Chuck. "The biggest pool of blood you ever saw!"

"Gigantic," said Art. He mimed drawing his baton. "Door doesn't look tight shut, so I give it a poke. It swings open. Inside, lying there on the floor, is this chick."

"She'd crawled there," said Chuck. "And bled right out."

"In this bright yellow dress with big butterflies all over it."

"OK," said Harry. "I got the picture."

"No, you fuckin' haven't," said Art. "We didn't have the picture--not then. Not till Homicide Three started to take the joint apart."

"What'd they find? The weapon?"

"Sure, her own knife--but that was nothin'. It was still sticking in her."

"What they found," said Chuck, taking a wadded Xerox from his billfold, "was this letter. Go easy, now; don't tear it."

The Xerox had been unfolded so many times, there were holes worn through where the creases intersected. The neat, backward-sloping handwriting read:

Hi, Virginia,

I'm Larry, your secret admirer. I first rode the elevator with you three weeks ago. The day you wore your yellow dress with the butterflies. Remember? I'll never forget it! Fate made our paths cross and fate is going to keep us together for all eternity. It's a scary feeling knowing something like that, but don't be scared. Please don't be.

You want to know what sort of guy I am? People call me a loner, but that's only because they don't know me too well. My quietness bothers them. I've got nothing to say to them--that's all. But I've got plenty to say to you. I'm over six foot, wide in the shoulders; I'm caring and very, very gentle when people aren't giving me any hassle. You would never give me any hassle--that's something else I know.

I'd like us to meet. Maybe we could have brunch together in your apartment--nothing too special. I'll come knocking at your door at 11 Saturday, and it would be great if you could wear your pretty yellow dress. I'd really appreciate that!

How does it feel to know that there's a man here in this city who loves you totally and completely and wants you forever? I know how lonely you have been. But that's all over now.

You'll know it's me because I'm going to knock three times. You can't be too careful.

Love, Your Eternal Soul Mate, Larry

Harry whistled low. "But this guy is wacko. . . ."

"Hinky little letter, huh?" said Art, pleased with the impression it'd made.

"Hinky! She actually opened up to him?"

Chuck nodded. "She did. The old lady across the hall heard the three knocks. Eleven o'clock on the nose, Harry."

"Wild honey, wheat bread," said Art. "Two places at her table--they'd eaten."

"Latents?"

"His glass had been wiped--his knife and fork." Art burped and brought a fist to his mouth. "The only prints they found were hers. Y' know, on the letter and the envelope."

"So she had read it," murmured Harry, still bemused.

"Hell, the mailman practically handed it to her that morning," said Chuck. "She came down to the mailbox on the porch while he was there."

"Was it her only mail on Saturday?"

"Right. Also--you can't see it on a Xerox--Larry used green ink. The mailman remembered."

"Tell you what else the mailman remembers," said Art. "He remembers it was around ten-thirty in the morning when he delivered that letter, and she was wearing jeans and a blue tank top. When we found her--"

"I heard," said Harry. "The yellow dress with the butterflies. But where's the mystery, guys?"

Art burped again; like a lot of cops, he had a nervous stomach. "You mean you've figured something out there?" he asked.

"Sure," said Harry. "She knew the guy."

"Huh?"

"If she didn't know Larry, then this letter would be scary. But say she did. Look at it that way. She sees a letter from Larry and thinks it's a gag--Larry's way of inviting himself round for brunch."

They thought about that, exchanging glances.

"And her part of the joke is dressin' up and everything?" asked Chuck.

"You got it, pardner," said Harry.

But Art's frown deepened. "If she knew him that well--well enough to make jokes with him--how come Homicide can't find any Larry in her life? Can't find any guy who could've done that to her? Who was askin' questions about her? Whose handwriting is even close to--"

"Give it time," advised Harry.

"The handwriting bothers me," admitted Chuck. "What I don't get is why Larry didn't find that letter and take it away with him. Why leave incriminating stuff like that around?"

"Maybe he panicked and ran. Maybe he went out of his mind. And who says it's incriminating? It sure as hell hasn't incriminated him yet!"

"Yeah," said Art.

"Yeah," said Chuck.

Neither sounded too persuaded, and Harry couldn't blame them. Homicide must have gone through this stuff a million times or more. They were back where they had started.

"Debbie and me," began Harry brightly.

"Oh, shit," grunted Art, inclining his head to the right. "Look who's back with us tonight...."

Harry glanced across to a table by the car-lot windows.

Groupies came with the job. They hung out wherever cops hung out, and they hung out what they had, hoping someone would take a grab at it. They came in all sizes and shapes and colors--attracted by what? The uniform? The macho image? God knows. Most were an instant turnoff, but others--just a few--were foxy little ladies who could make a man wreck his career and enjoy doing it. This particular groupie, however, was in a class of his own: tall, languid, around 18, with a soft, sensuous mouth, soulful brown eyes and a purple birthmark on his left cheek. That's right--a male groupie, for Chrissake! He hovered close by, very careful never to provoke a confrontation, creating an uncomfortable sort of buzz, watching them covertly. They called him the Fly.

"That settles it," said Chuck firmly. "We find ourselves a new eating spot. Any ideas, guys?"

"How about Johnny Garcia's?" suggested Art, lowering his voice.

"Who?" said Harry.

"You remember," said Art. "Used to work patrol up in Orange County."

"A great guy," endorsed Chuck, cracking his knuckles. "Hadda quit after doin' a little attitude adjustment on that dick-head O'Grady."

"Yeah, I remember," said Harry. "Broke O'Grady's arm. Wasn't he trying to get into the department here in San Diego? What happened to that?"

"You know how the chief is--no way."

"Crazy not to take him," said Art. "A born cop. Anyhow, Johnny's started up this place on Cedar."

"We went in there a coupla times while you were on vacation," Chuck told Harry. "Food's pretty good. Frankie--the wife--fixes it herself."

"Frankie and Johnny?" queried Harry, smiling crookedly.

"Sure! Call their place the Rooty-toot-toot."

"Oh, Jesus. . . ."

"Frankie's dyin' to meet you, Harry," Chuck added.

"Huh? Says who?"

"Johnny did. Right, Art?"

"Right! Last time, as we were leavin'. I guess we must've been sayin' some pretty nice things about you behind your back!"

"Hmmm," said Harry. "OK, maybe."

They sat for a short time in silence. With the Fly in attendance, Harry no longer felt like bringing his personal life into the conversation. Who knows? There was always a chance the creep could lip-read.

Chuck reached across to retrieve his Xerox of the letter. "I'd still like to know what went through that dumb broad's mind," he sighed.

"You'd be surprised," said Harry.

"Oil, yeah?" said Chuck, rising and picking up his radio.

And Chuck and Art went away laughing, snubbing the Fly and almost colliding with the waitress carrying Harry's tray to the table.

•

The radio call came through just as Harry finished eating his hamburger.

It was a code 11--30: incomplete phone call.

Glaring at the Fly, Harry turned down the volume before responding. "Can you give me a little more on that?" he asked Communications. "Male or female?"

"Negative," replied Communications. "The address is all we got."

"Ten-four," said Harry, digging in his pockets for change.

A fast three blocks east on Pill Hill and another two blocks north, Harry found it: 1127 Jacaranda Avenue. A stucco apartment house with Spanish tiles and fancy ironwork over the windows. From the street, everything looked quiet.

Harry locked his car and wondered if he shouldn't request a cover unit. An incomplete phone call could be as lethal as a family fight. Give him a holdup in a liquor store any day; at least you knew what you were walking into and roughly in which direction danger lay. He dithered on the sidewalk for a moment, then heard Art and Chuck volunteering cover. With only a quick glance at the VW that had drawn up beside a fireplug across the street, he turned and hurried up the short flight of red steps, carrying his baton in his left hand.

An elderly woman was apparently waiting for him in the doorway of an apartment that opened right off the lobby. She looked like a small greeny-yellow parrot in molt, with a long, pointy, beaklike upper lip and quite a few feathers missing from the trim on her too-vivid robe. Her skinny hands gripped an aluminum walker with the tenacity of claws around a perch.

"It's Walter!" she said.

"Walter, lady?"

"Walter Debenham, my husband. He's in the bathroom."

"Uh-huh?"

"On the floor."

Harry tried not to show his irritation. Old folks were always doing this to him. Whenever anything happened, they called the police. If Walter was sick, why not call an ambulance?

"OK, Mrs. Debenham--take it easy, huh? Which way?"

She backed into the apartment, then directed Harry to a small bathroom that had about 500 medicine bottles balanced all around it. Huddled in a corner, squeezed in tight between the sink pedestal and the tub, was a small weathered man with tears in his eyes.

"Sir?" said Harry, crouching to lay a big hand on his right arm. He could feel trembling. "What's up? Not feelin' too good?"

Debenham opened his mouth slightly, but no sound came. He closed it again and swallowed, keeping his gaze fixed ahead of him. His behavior seemed surprising, for he was a craggy, rugged-looking old devil.

"Sir?" repeated Harry, noticing that the trembling arm was cold and clammy as well. "Got a pain in your chest?"

No response. Not even the flicker of a hooded eyelid.

Harry stood up, returned his baton to its ring and unhitched his radio. "How long has he been this way?" he asked Mrs. Debenham as she finally made it. shuffling in with her walker.

"Since using the phone," she said. "I heard Walter say he was getting the police, and next thing I knew, he was in here."

"You know why he called the police, Mrs. Debenham?"

She shook her head carefully, as though her neck was too brittle for sudden movements. "All I know is, Walter went along the hall to apartment three to see if Mary Lou remembered the insurance papers she'd promised to bring from her office downtown--we've bought ourselves a used camper--and then he came hurrying back."

"Mary Lou?"

"Miss Tomkins, in three. He'd been expecting her to drop by with the papers when she came home at six. He wasn't sure if he should go knocking on her door for them, but after he'd waited a couple of hours, he decided to do just that."

"He came back with the papers?"

"No, I didn't see them."

"And Miss Tomkins? Has she been here since then?"

"No."

Harry looked back at Debenham, turning a fraction cold and clammy himself. "Apartment three, you said," he repeated, edging round Mrs. Debenham toward the door.

"Three--just down the hall."

Harry put through an 11--41 for an ambulance, then walked down the hall to apartment three. The door was standing wide open.

Harry, his Magnum in his right hand, (continued on page 124) To the Letter (continued from page 120) called out: "Miss Tomkins? Police, Miss Tomkins. . . ."

He waited on the threshold, noting a neat and tidy living room, a glitter of glass ornaments, the biggest pink Teddy bear ever and that the lights were on.

"Police, Miss Tomkins!"

Still no answer. The room was L-shaped, turning left into a dining area, perhaps, down the far end.

"Miss Tomkins?"

Cautiously, Harry stepped into the apartment and saw that a number of extra security devices had been fitted to the front door, including a wide-angle peephole.

Every home had its smell. This one went with the glass ornaments and the Teddy bear and the little feminine frills and fancies everywhere. It wasn't vanilla, but it reminded Harry of vanilla. A kind of cute, wholesome, timid smell.

He glanced round to make quite sure there was no one in the room and noticed a purse lying beside a small pile of opened mail on top of a display cabinet. His first thought was to check the purse for any insurance papers.

Then he saw the letter that lay smoothed out on top of the other correspondence. It was on gray paper, expensive stuff, and there was a gray envelope to match, opened by a neat tear across the end where the stamp was fixed.

Harry read the letter without touching it. The backward-sloping script in black ink was chillingly familiar.

Hi, Mary Lou,

I'm Larry, your secret admirer. I'd like to come round tonight about seven o'clock and share a meal with you. Don't go to too much trouble. Will you wear your pink blouse for me? The one I first saw you in? Maybe your plaid skirt, too? That's great!

I've loved you for longer than you know. Your lonely days are over, and you will be mine for all eternity.

Strangely excited? I'll bet you are! So am I. I'll knock three times--you can't be too careful.

Love, Your Knight in Shining Armor,

Larry

That was when Harry heard the fly. A busy, dizzy, fizzy fly, zipping and zooming round the room, sated. He watched the fly alight briefly on a white lamp shade, leaving a sticky red mark.

"Oh, Jeeezuss. . . ."

Harry turned toward the end of the room and took a step. He took another step and another, finishing up at a shambling trot that carried him round into the dining area, where he slithered to a halt in some blood, aghast at what he saw there.

An empty wine bottle and two used glasses. Cold meat, lettuce, tomatoes, celery. Cold meat in a pink blouse and a plaid skirt, carved this way and that by a carving knife.

•

"That chick must've been outa her head!" said Chuck as they left the station parking lot some five hours later.

"Way, way out," said Art.

Harry said nothing. He lay slumped on the back seat of Chuck's car and picked at the paint stains on the knees of his jeans. He was through thinking for a while.

"Harry could do with a drink," said Art.

"Two drinks," said Chuck.

"Or more," said Art. "Why not drive by Johnny's?"

So they drove by Johnny's, and when they saw the lights still on inside, they pulled up and got out. Harry followed them, not much caring.

The Rooty-toot-toot had three simulated 44 bullet holes in its plain wooden door, round tables with red-and-white gingham tablecloths, phony oil lamps suspended from the ceiling, an inexplicable blowup of Al Capone on one wall and what came close to being an all-too-pervasive air of sleaze. Most of the round tables were empty.

"Heeere comes Johnny!" said Chuck. "Johnny Garcia--Harry T. Lomas."

Garcia loomed large--square shoulders, square chin, a thin mustache and a handshake like two seconds in a bear trap.

"How you doin', Harry?" said Garcia.

"Pretty good," Harry responded meaninglessly. "Nice place you got here." Not much meaning there, either.

"You think so?" Garcia beamed. "Your table is ready and waitin', guys."

He led them to a family table at the rear, where they could keep an eye on the street door. They all sat down, and Art made an early start on the toothpicks.

"You'll never guess what happened tonight," said Chuck. "Or have you already heard on the radio?"

Garcia shook his head. "Can that hold a minute?" he said, turning to snap his fingers at a plump waitress in a skirt that was slit to her hip. "Hey. Lucinda, go fetch Frankie, will ya? There's a guy here she's been dyin' to meet."

When Chuck had his attention again, he said, "You'll never guess, Johnny--Larry wasted another chick. You know, Larry the letter writer."

"He what? Where?"

"Same neighborhood, just round the corner. Apartment house on Jacaranda."

Harry watched Chuck perform for Garcia. Art was right about Garcia--he had cop written all over him. Some guys were like that; they didn't need a badge. It was there in their eyes and in that tight, careful smile. They picked up everything going on around them and kept pecking away at all the little details. Harry hoped he had started to display some of those characteristics by now, because they certainly were a help in making contact with the public. Honest Joes trusted you and assholes were less likely to stand and argue.

"How about that?" Garcia commented. "Sounds like you handled that pretty good, Harry."

Harry shrugged, but the praise pleased him.

A woman in her mid-30s came up to their table. She had long, wavy auburn hair, good legs, a flat chest and wore a gingham apron over a brown dress. Her mouth was tight.

"Hi, Frankie!" said Chuck and Art, together.

"Meet Harry," said Garcia, waving a hand.

"Hi, Frankie!" said Harry. "How're you doin'?"

"Hi," she said, without enthusiasm. "You ordered yet? It's kind of late."

"No food," said Harry, revolted at the thought.

"Beer," said Chuck. "A coupla beers--we already ate tonight. Clancy's." And he made a face.

"Beer," said Frankie, turning away.

"So what's the hurry?" protested Garcia. "Tell Lucinda--you sit down and get acquainted."

"Later," said Frankie and went off.

Chuck and Art cast surprised and apologetic looks at Harry. Garcia seemed surprised himself, and there was a moment of awkward silence.

"And so?" prompted Garcia. "Homicide is workin' up a pattern?"

"No pattern," said Art, "except both killings were here on Pill Hill. Right, Harry?"

"That's right," said Chuck, nudging Harry. "Give Johnny the rest of it--you were with Homicide."

"The rest? There isn't much."

Garcia leaned forward across the (continued on page 218) To the Letter (continued from page 124) table. "Go on. Harry," he said, and it was impossible not to feel flattered.

"All I mainly picked up was that Mary Lou--the victim--had come back to her apartment right at six tonight, same as always. A neighbor from upstairs, Mrs. De Havilland, met her in the lobby, and Mary Lou complained of a headache."

"How was she dressed?" asked Garcia.

"A zippy little purple number."

"Uh-huh. And?"

"Mrs. De Havilland offered her some herbal goddamn remedy, and Mary Lou said she'd be right up for it. She took her mail out of the box, looked at the handwriting on a gray envelope and made a kind of nervous joke about Larry. Mrs. De Havilland lives on her own, too, and she didn't appreciate that too much."

"Did she open the letter out there in the lobby?"

"Nope, she went into her apartment. When Mrs. De Havilland saw her next, it was at her door. She took the remedy and asked if Mrs. De Havilland had any salami, maybe, because she was in no mood to go out for anything to eat."

"And how was she dressed?"

"Still in the zippy purple number. Mrs. De Havilland gave her some salami and says that she made some remark about how Mary Lou seemed a bit sort of twitchy. Mary Lou told her she'd forgotten to bring home some insurance papers for Pop Debenham. and she didn't want to go round right away, not with a headache, because the Deben-hams always kept her for hours, feeding her coffec and cookies. 'Leave it to later,' Mrs. De Havilland told her--now she wished she hadn't."

'I bet! And?"

Harry shrugged. "You've already heard how it was when I got there."

There was silence.

Frankie set down the tray of beers with a thud. "Here's to the Chosen Few," she said.

"You sit this time," said Garcia. rising. "I'll go and put the Closed sign on the door--see how things are in the kitchen."

Chuck smiled brightly at Frankie. "How was business tonight?" he asked. "Picking up?"

"Oh, terrific." Frankie looked them over. "You don't seem so special," she said.

"Us?" laughed Art. "Special?"

"Sure." she said. "They took you. They won't, take my Johnny."

Embarrassed, Chuck dipped a finger in the suds of his beer, studying the bubbles closely. "Hell, Frankie, if it was up to us!"

"Damn right," said Art fiercely.

"It's just," she said, "that it hurts to watch Johnny. He broods--do you know that? He wants cops in here because it keeps him in touch with the only world that has ever mattered to him. I'm standing by while a good man goes to pieces."

"Listen, Frankie . . ." began Chuck, then failed to think of anything comforting to say.

She looked at her hands. "We had it good up in Orange County," she said. "Really good--when Johnny was a cop."

That brought another silence.

"Been doing a paint job on your place?" asked Garcia, returning and pointing to the spots on the knees of Harry's jeans.

"Nope. Debbie's--she just moved."

"Is that right? Where?"

"Mission Valley."

"Same block as I'm on," said Chuck. "Pacific Haven. Say, how was your vacation. Harry?"

He told them about it. He made it funny, and Frankie changed moods, showing feminine interest in Harry's girl-friend. asking questions. Harry started to warm to her.

Garcia listened but seemed distracted. Finally, he said, "There has to be an answer. Some way of unlocking this. . . ."

"You mean Larry?" asked Chuck.

"Uh-huh. I'm working on it."

"Jeez, that'd really be somethin'!" enthused Art. "If you could show Homicide the way, then the department would--

"Would it?" said Frankie, her mouth set sour again.

•

"Hi. guys," said Harry a week later, strolling into the locker room above the station coffee shop. "How was Thursday night?"

"Thursday night was a bitch," said Art. changing into an aloha shirt.

"I had me a crazy lady." volunteered Chuck, who was also changing. "She stopped me at the Plaza and whispered in my ear that the FBI was puttin' bugs in the fountain. 'Fish gotta eat!' I said."

They all laughed at that, and Harry suggested a drink. They started with a beer at the 153 Club across the street, sank a margarita apiece at Seaport Village and then drove aimlessly for a while.

"The Rooty-toot-toot?" said Chuck.

After a pause. Art said, "Yeah."

"Sure," said Harry.

They hadn't been back to see Johnny, not since the night Frankie had made them uncomfortable with her bitterness.

"That VW behind us," said Chuck as he turned up Third. "haven't we seen it someplace else tonight?"

"Back at Seaport Village?" said Art.

"It's gone," said Harry. "Bein' a cop sure makes you paranoid."

It was later than they'd realized. The Closed sign was up on the door to the Rooty-toot-toot, and they were about to turn away when Garcia appeared on the sidewalk, suddenly emerging from an alley. For a big man, his movements were uncannily quiet.

Grinning, he jingled car keys at them and said. "Just been putting it away round the back. Coming on in?"

They went in, and Garcia set up some beers in a booth. Harry noticed that he seemed a little distant.

"Heavy night?" asked Garcia, drinking from the bottle.

"I had me a crazy lady," said Chuck and retold his story.

Garcia laughed. "Shit," he said. "I even miss that kinda thing, believe me. How about your other lady?"

"Huh?"

"Mary Lou Tomkins. I had sort of been hoping you guys would keep me informed."

"Oh."

There was an exchange of guilty glances.

"Nothin' to tell you that hasn't been in the news. Johnny." said Art earnestly. "They found her latents on the letter. A meal in her stomach. They haven't found Larry."

"That's bad." sighed Garcia, shaking his head.

"They know it. Johnny." said Chuck. "Homicide Three is hurtin'. Somebody is makin' one hell of a fool outa them."

"The mayor is screamin' for an arrest," said Harry. "If he doesn't get an arrest pretty soon. we'd all better grab the first bus down to the border, hit Mexico and keep goin'."

"And when it happens a third time?" asked Garcia.

"A third time?" echoed Art. "Are you nuts?"

"Why not? It's happened twice--it's happened to a woman who already knew what a letter from Larry could mean."

"Phew-wee!" said Art. "I can't even think about it."

"If that happens, I quit," said Chuck.

"Hey, wait a minute." cut in Harry. "Maybe you got something there. This guy is making the whole S.D.P.D. look fuckin' stupid. right? Maybe that's his motive! Maybe he just doesn't like cops."

Art nodded slowly. "That's good." he agreed.

"If you're right. Harry." said Garcia. smiling slightly, "the next one should be a lot closer to home."

"Meaning?"

"Some cop's wife, maybe."

Harry winced. "That's a sick mind you've got there, buddy!"

"It's logical." replied Garcia.

"Like hell it's logical! A cop's chick would be the last one to fall lor that shit!"

"How can you be so sure. Harry? What about Mary Lou? Why did she fall?"

Harry looked into his beer.

"Although." Garcia went on, "your basic argument has a fatal flaw, Harry."

"It does? What?"

"Who ever heard." said Garcia, drawing himself up in mock astonishment, "of somebody who doesn't like cops?"

That got a big laugh.

Then Chuck produced the .22 Magnum derringer he'd just bought, and it was passed round and admired. More beer was poured, more gun lore traded: it all became very mellow.

"I need the john." mumbled Harry, rising and weaving slightly.

Coming out of the men's room a minute or so later, he almost lurched into Frankie. "What?" he said. "You're still around? Why not come and sit with us?" She cold-eyed him.

"C'mon," said Harry. "Aren't I the guy you were dyin' to meet?"

"What are you talkin' about?" asked Frankie sourly.

"But. . ."

Then she was gone, back through the door into the kitchen, leaving him befuddled. "Now. that." Harry murmured to himself, "just doesn't make sense."

But his mind, which was curiously lucid even though it'd jumped its tracks, suddenly declared him wrong. It did make sense. Perfect sense. Frankie had never wanted them around: it was Johnny. Now, why would Johnny say it was Frankie?

Unable to come up with an answer. Harry made his way back to the booth.

Garcia was telling another of his Orange County stories. "So there was this rabbi in a green Caddy," he said.

Harry listened with only half an ear. He was looking at Garcia and allowing his mind to keep rolling. His mind saw a guy who looked like a cop, sounded like a cop, never needed to show his badge to anyone. Not even to a nervous little lady peering through a peephole.

"Harry," said Chuck, "what are you frowning at? Didn't you get it?"

"Huh?" said Harry, jerking his head round.

From the looks on his buddies' faces, he must have just missed a punch line.

"You know something?" said Chuck, nudging Art. "I think the time has come for Harry to hit the hay."

"Let's go. Harry," said Art, standing up. "You can leave your car down at the station tonight. We'll give you a ride home."

"Harry is welcome to----" began Garcia.

"His place isn't lar." said Art. "He'll be OK."

Harry wasn't that drunk, but he was happy for an excuse to get the hell out of there. He needed to do some thinking.

•

Away from the Rooty-toot-toot, in the cool night air, Chuck yawned and said that although Johnny Garcia had been friendly, there had also been something nervous about him.

"Yeah, I noticed," said Art. "Family fight?"

"Frankie sure kept a low profile."

"I think," said Harry from the back seat, "he was playin' a game with us. Holdin' out."

Art looked round. "What game, Harry?"

"Why with us, Harry?" asked Chuck.

"Sort of cat and mouse."

"And we're mice?"

That's right, thought Harry; three rookie, easily impressed, nothing-much mice. Mice who could keep him up to date from the inside on how the investigation was progressing. Useful mice.

"Holdin' out on what?" persisted Art.

"Like he knows something. . . ."

"About?"

"Larry."

They traveled a block. "You mean," said Chuck. glancing into his rearview mirror. "that he's done what he set out to do--he's got ahead of Homicide on the case?"

Harry wished he could articulate the rest of what he was feeling. Unformed thoughts came and went. The proximity of the Rooty-toot-toot to both scenes of crime. Garcia's obvious reason for bearing a grudge against the police department. The part that Frankie had been made to play.

"Now. that's strange," said Harry. "Why me? Why was it so important that I come in on it?"

"Come in on what?" sighed Art, sounding irritable.

"If just you two guys had kept in touch. he'd have heard all the latest. What did I have to offer that was extra?"

"Search me, Harry," sighed Chuck. "Art. we're here."

Art climbed out and said good night, and Chuck swung his Buick back into the thin late-night traffic. He switched on the radio. Clearly, he considered Harry too canned to engage in further conversation.

Harry didn't mind. He was working on the differences among them. It wasn't easy. They were all three blessed with the same makings. Beach, beer and broads pretty well summed up their lifestyles--or near enough. Harry, of course, had a regular girlfriend.

"Sweet Jesus!" exclaimed Harry, sitting bolt upright.

Chuck gave a start and the Buick switched lanes. "Do that again." he warned, "and you walk--got that?"

But Harry was thinking of how Garcia had used Frankie to extract all sorts of details about Debbie. Using ordinary female curiosity to his own ends! And then, because Garcia was getting cocky, he had even hinted at what Larry's next move would be.

His next move, or had it--God knows how--happened already?

"Chuck." said Harry urgently, "take me out to Debbie's."

"At this time of night?"

"You live on the same block, for Chrissake!"

"But it's two o'clock."

"Do it--OK?"

"Harry, you're full of beer, your breath stinks. Debbie's not goin' to thank----"

"Fuckin' do it!" snapped Harry. "And hurry!"

Tight-lipped. Chuck kept the radio turned up and didn't ask questions. He kept glancing up into his rearview mirror. They went down off the freeway, traveled about a mile across the floor of Mission Valley and came in sight of Pacific Haven, where Debbie had her new apartment.

"Harry," said Chuck, speaking softly. "I'd swear that same VW is on our tail again."

"Is that Debbie's light still on?"

"Turn around, Harry."

"That can't be her light, goddamn it!"

"Harry, check out that VW for me!"

Briefly, Harry looked back through the rear window. "A light-colored VW. that's all," he said. "Hurry it up, will ya?"

"The Fly," murmured Chuck. "What kind of car does he drive?"

"How should I know, for Chrissake? I've never seen him in a car. Here, pull over."

Chuck pulled over, and the VW made a sudden right, turning away at the last intersection. "That bothers me," said Chuck. "See you, Harry."

•

Debbie's light, lissome body lay sprawled across a bed of rumpled lime-green sheets. She was maked, save for her freckles, and beneath her, naked, too, lay Harry.

He felt her stir, then lift her weight from him. "Wassamatter?" he grunted.

"Friday's the matter." she said. "One more working day."

"Hmmm."

"What happened last night?" she asked him. "What was that all about? You frightened the hell out of me the way you came in here, half breaking down the door. My new perfume can't be that good."

Harry went on lying there with his eyes shut.

"Well. Harry?"

"Mmmm."

"If you don't get up and come with me, how are you going to get to the station this afternoon?"

"Mmmm."

"OK. lover," said Debbie. "It's your problem. right? Have a nice day."

Dimly, Harry was aware of a shower running, drawers softly opened and closed, a touch of lips on his unshaven cheek, a door clicking shut. He fumbled for a pillow, hugged it to him and drifted into deep sleep, smiling.

His second awakening was very different.

Parched, baked to a sweat in the afternoon sun and with a splitting headache, he groped his way to the edge of the bed, misjudged his exact circumstances and somehow ended up landing hard on his knees on the bedroom floor. If gave him another jolt to see that the time on Debbie's bedside digital was 2:26.

"Oh, shit." he groaned. "I'll never make it." Line-up was at three, and Chuck would have left home by now. "I'm sick," said Harry, and in no time at all. he believed it.

Harry staggered to the bathroom, avoided his face in the mirror and trembled under a cold shower. Each time the memory of the night before made a comeback. he dismissed it abruptly, flinching.

The whole thing now had a nightmarish, shaming, fantastical feel to it. far removed from the present realities.

He called the station and asked for Chuck. "Do me a big favor." Harry said. "Tell Sarge I'm sick."

"Surprise me!" said Chuck, but there was brotherly concern in his voice. "I've never seen you the way you were last night, Harry--never. I didn't think that just a few beers could do it."

"Can we leave that for now?"

"Sure! But you remember the VW, right?"

"Er, yeah."

"You know what I did after dropping you? I doubled back. I got its plate and a look at the driver. You'll never guess who!"

Harry shook his head. then remembered that that didn't transmit too well. "Who?" he said.

"A guy who could tie it all together: you. me. Art. Pill Hill and the killings. The one glimpse I got, I thought it was a shadow on his face, but it could've been. . . ."

"Uh-huh?"

"It could've been the Fly, Harry. You know that mark on his cheek? I'm going to go see them about it tonight, get them to check it out. They'll know how to handle it."

"Who?"

"Homicide, dummy!"

"Oh," said Harry. "I'd have thought the Fly was more a job for the S.W.A.T. team."

Chuck laughed. "You're not so sick, Harry," he said, putting the phone down.

Whereupon Harry began to feel better. He felt so much better by the time he'd cooked and eaten a very late breakfast that he decided to wash away the last of the night's excesses with a swim in the pool. He took Debbie's spare ring of keys and rode the elevator down to the ground floor. He had the whole pool to himself for an hour and quit when a horde of brats arrived. As he padded back into the lobby, he stopped automatically at the mailboxes and opened up Debbie's. The topmost envelope was addressed in backward-sloping writing.

It was all he could do not to touch it--not to grab at the horrible, obscene thing and tear it open.

It was all he could do to return to the apartment. shaking all over.

And there, for a couple of hours, he hovered over the phone, knowing it was his bounden duty to call Homicide Three. But what Harry also knew was that this whole affair had now grown very, very personal and that he wanted to handle it on that basis. There were things he had in mind for Larry that weren't in the police manual.

Moreover. Harry was beset by curiosity; he wanted to be there and see exactly how Larry did it--he wanted to see if. despite what logic told him, Debbie would blindly follow orders, like the other victims.

"What's this 'Larry'?" Harry muttered. "It's fuckin' Garcia!"

He was convinced of it. And he was aware of a nice irony: Knowing so much about him, Garcia would be convinced that Harry was out on patrol by the time Debbie came home--neither was Harry's car outside to give the game away.

He tidied up. left Debbie a note in the kitchenette and. having removed the shelves from the wall closet near the hall door, hid himself in there. A slight crack in the sliding doors let him see through.

Right at 6:15, a key slotted into the door lock. Harry, squinting, tensed up and watched carefully.

Debbie came in with a sigh. She dumped her shoulder bag on a small table, and on top of it. she dumped some junk mail. She studied the handwriting on the envelope left in her hand, slit the envelope open and turned her back.

"How dumb can you get?" Harry heard her say. "Oh, well. . . ."

Then she disappeared from sight, heading into the kitchenette. The fridge door opened. She poured herself something and closed the fridge. There was no indication that she'd read his note, though he'd made it fairly funny. The shower was turned on in the bathroom.

Harry stared through the crack at the envelope that now lay crumpled on her shoulder bag. If the letter had been there, too, and the shower still running, he would have risked slipping out for a moment, but Debbie had apparently taken it with her. God, how he ached for just one glance at it.

When Debbie appeared again, briefly, she was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and was humming dreamily.

She went out.

Panic seized Harry for a moment. He almost ran after her. Then he reasoned that she was safe, quite safe, while out of her apartment. It wasn't the killer's style to make an attack in the street.

She was back in half an hour, carrying a supermarket bag into the kitchenette. A smell of steak frying soon reached Harry's nose.

So that was what the occasion had demanded this time! To actually see Debbie going through all this was bizarre, crazy, totally unbelievable. Why hadn't she grabbed the phone?

Because, Harry suddenly rationalized. backward-sloping handwriting wasn't all that uncommon, and because Debbie undoubtedly had a dumb friend who always wrote that way. All he'd seen her do was dress comfortably after a hard day. buy herself a steak as a pay-night treat and then set about preparing it. His imagination had really started to do terrible things to him.

I'll surprise her, he thought. I'll walk out there and cover her eyes from behind and say, "Guess who?"

His hand reached out to open the closet door.

Klok-klok-klok.

Three knocks on Debbie's door! This was it! Three knocks like three lead slugs taking him in the stomach.

Debbie, still looking contented, even happy, crossed from the kitchenette and went up on tiptoe to look through her peephole. Without changing her expression. she reached to unsnib the lock.

"Don't!" hissed Harry, emerging from the closet with a finger to his lips and his .357 Magnum in his other hand. "Don't, Debbie! Let me handle it!"

Debbie blinked. "Harry?" she whispered furiously. "What is this? Have you gone nuts?"

Harry pointed his gun at the envelope. "That letter," he whispered. "Larry's letter! For Chrissake, Debbie, can't you----"

"What letter?"

"In the envelope."

"You've really flipped. Now, put the gun away," said Debbie, opening the door.

There was surprise on both sides.

And Harry saw how wrong he'd been.

The person standing there wasn't Johnny Garcia.

It wasn't the Fly. either.

It was a woman with a case of cosmetic samples, and they'd done her man wrong.

"Freeze, Frankie!" said Harry.

And in that case of cosmetic samples lay the key to the mystery: a writing pad that matched the envelope and upon which a letter would have been written, after Debbie's sudden, unexpected death, urging her to wear that top, those jeans, and to welcome a killer.

Adding a few fingerprints from a dying hand wouldn't have been any problem.

•

"Phew-wee!" said Art the following night, during a code seven at Clancy's. "That was close. Harry. . . ."

"Too close," said Chuck. "How come nobody worked it out sooner? It seems so simple."

"Beats me," murmured Harry, shrugging.

"Harry read the letter without touching it. The backward-sloping script was chillingly familiar"