Sleeping Beauty Read Free Page B

with?”
    Russo said he would try to.
    I drove up Wilshire in the right-hand lane, looking for Laurel among the people on the sidewalk. I parked in the Save-More lot and went into the drugstore through a turnstile. The fluorescent lighting made the atmosphere seem artificial and remote, like that of a space station.
    A dozen or so young people were wandering around among the display shelves, boys with John-the-Baptist heads, girls dressed like Whistler’s mother. The man in the glass-enclosed pharmacist’s booth at the rear of the store was about midway between their age and mine.
    His black hair was neither short nor long, and there were glints of premature gray in it. The clean white smock he was wearing had the effect of making his head seem detached from his body, floating free in the white fluorescent light. The flesh on his head was sparse, and I was conscious of the skull it contained, like a fine ancient bronze buried in his flesh.
    “Mr. Russo?”
    He glanced up sharply, then came to the open space between the glass partition and the cash register. “What can I do for you?”
    “I’m Archer. You haven’t heard from your wife again?”
    “No, sir, I haven’t. I left word at Hollywood Receiving and the other hospitals, just in case.”
    “You do think she’s suicidal, then?”
    “She’s done some talking about it, I mean in the past. Laurel’s never been a very happy girl.”
    “She said that when she called your house a woman answered the phone.”
    He looked at me with dark brown sorrowful eyes, the kind that faithful dogs are supposed to have. “That was my part-time cleaning woman.”
    “She comes at night?”
    “As a matter of fact, she’s my cousin. She stayed and made me some supper. I get tired of restaurant cooking.”
    “How long have you and Laurel been separated?”
    “A couple of weeks this time. We’re not separated, though, not legally.”
    “Where has she been living?”
    “Mostly with friends. And with her father and mother and grandmother in Pacific Point.”
    “Did you make me the list I asked you for, of her friends and relatives?”
    “Yes, I did.” He handed me a piece of paper, and our eyes met again. His seemed smaller and harder. “You’re really going into this matter, eh?”
    “With your permission.”
    “May I ask why?”
    “Those were my pills she ran off with. I could have stopped her, but I was a little angry.”
    “I see,” But his eyes were looking past me. “Do you know Laurel well?”
    “Not really. I just met her this afternoon. But I have a strong sense of her, if you know what I mean.”
    “Yeah, everybody does.” He took in a breath, and let it out audibly. “Those names I gave you are mainly relatives. Laurel never told me about her boy friends—I mean before she wasmarried. And she only had the one real girl friend that I know of. Joyce Hampshire. They went to school together someplace down in Orange. A private school.” His eyes came up to my face, defensive and thoughtful. “Joyce was at our wedding. And she was the only one of the bunch who thought Laurel ought to stay married. I mean, to me.”
    “How long have you been married?”
    “Two years.”
    “Why did your wife leave you?”
    “I don’t know. She couldn’t even tell me herself. Things broke down on us—the good feeling broke down on us.” His gaze wandered away to the bottles and cartons on the shelves behind the partition, with their infinite variety of medicines.
    “Where does Joyce Hampshire live?”
    “She has an apartment not so far from here, in a place called Greenfield Manor. It’s in Santa Monica.”
    “Will you give her a ring and tell her I may drop in on her?”
    “I can do that. Do you think I ought to call the police?”
    “It wouldn’t do much good. We don’t have enough to get action. But call them if you want to. And call the Suicide Center while you’re at it.”
    While Russo used the phone, I studied his typed list of names:
    Joyce