down. But Latch’s people found out about it and Latch decided to come down himself and confront him. Impromptu de-bate.”
“Cameras ended up getting a better show,” I said.
The doors off the corridor were painted that same pumpkin-orange. All were shut and as we passed, sounds filtered through the wood: muffled voices, the matter-of-fact sonata of a police radio, what could have been crying.
I said, “Think Latch or Massengil was the real target?”
“Don’t know yet. The assassination angle brought the anti-terrorist boys zipping over from downtown. They’re interviewing both of the staffs right now. As long as the political angle is a possibility, they’re in charge—meaning I collect info and hand it over to them so they can classify it, then refuse to let me look at it on grounds that it’s classified. Perquisites of power, hoo-ha.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Top of that, the
FBI
just called from Westwood, wanting to know everything about everything, threatening to assign one of their guys as a
consultant.”
He hummed a few bars of “Send in the Clowns” and lengthened his stride.
“On the other hand,” he said, “if it’s your everyday, run-of-the-mill SoCal psycho killer gunning for innocent babies, none of the muckamucks will give a shit, ’cause the psycho’s dead—no headline value—and yours truly will catch the paperwork. Good old perquisites of power.”
He stopped at a door marked PRINCIPAL , turned the knob, and shoved. We entered a front office—two straight-backed oak chairs and a secretary’s desk, untended. To the right of the desk was a door bearing a brown plastic slide-in sign stamped L INDA O VERSTREET , E D . D. in white. Milo knocked and pushed it open without waiting for a reply.
The desk in the rear office was pushed to the wall, creating an open space that accommodated a sand-colored L-shaped sofa, tile-topped coffee table, and two upholstered chairs. Plants in ceramic pots filled the corners. Next to the desk was a waist-high shelving unit well stocked with books, rag dolls, puzzles, and games. Framed watercolors of irises and lilies hung on the walls.
A woman got up from the sofa and said, “Detective Sturgis. Hello, again.”
For some reason I’d expected someone middle-aged. She was no older than thirty. Tall—five eight or nine—leggy, high-waisted, and slim, but with strong shoulders and full hips that flared below a tight waist. Her face was long, lean, very pretty, with a clear, fair complexion, rosy cheeks, and fine features topped by a thick shag of shoulder-length blond hair. Her mouth was wide, the lips a trifle stingy. Her jawline was crisp and angled sharply, as if aiming for a point, but ending in a squared-off cleft chin that granted her a bit of determination. She wore a charcoal cowl-neck sweater tucked into a knee-length denim skirt. No makeup other than a touch of eye shadow. Her only jewelry was a pair of square black costume earrings.
“As promised,” Milo told her, “Dr. Alex Delaware. Alex, Dr. Overstreet, the boss around here.”
She gave him a fleeting smile and turned to me. Because of her height and her heels, we were almost eye to eye. Hers were round and large, fringed with long, almost-white lashes. The irises were an unremarkable shade of brown but radiated an intensity that caught my attention and held it.
“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Delaware.” She had a soft voice mellowed further by some kind of Southern twang. She held out her hand and I took it. Long-fingered and narrow, exerting no pressure. I wondered how someone with hands that submissive, that beauty-contestant voice, would handle a position of authority.
I said hello. She freed her hand and brushed her bangs.
“Thanks for coming down on such short notice,” she said. “What a nightmare.”
She shook her head again.
Milo said, “S’cuse me, doctors,” and moved toward the door.
“See you later,” I told him.
He saluted.
When he was gone, she
“Cameras ended up getting a better show,” I said.
The doors off the corridor were painted that same pumpkin-orange. All were shut and as we passed, sounds filtered through the wood: muffled voices, the matter-of-fact sonata of a police radio, what could have been crying.
I said, “Think Latch or Massengil was the real target?”
“Don’t know yet. The assassination angle brought the anti-terrorist boys zipping over from downtown. They’re interviewing both of the staffs right now. As long as the political angle is a possibility, they’re in charge—meaning I collect info and hand it over to them so they can classify it, then refuse to let me look at it on grounds that it’s classified. Perquisites of power, hoo-ha.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Top of that, the
FBI
just called from Westwood, wanting to know everything about everything, threatening to assign one of their guys as a
consultant.”
He hummed a few bars of “Send in the Clowns” and lengthened his stride.
“On the other hand,” he said, “if it’s your everyday, run-of-the-mill SoCal psycho killer gunning for innocent babies, none of the muckamucks will give a shit, ’cause the psycho’s dead—no headline value—and yours truly will catch the paperwork. Good old perquisites of power.”
He stopped at a door marked PRINCIPAL , turned the knob, and shoved. We entered a front office—two straight-backed oak chairs and a secretary’s desk, untended. To the right of the desk was a door bearing a brown plastic slide-in sign stamped L INDA O VERSTREET , E D . D. in white. Milo knocked and pushed it open without waiting for a reply.
The desk in the rear office was pushed to the wall, creating an open space that accommodated a sand-colored L-shaped sofa, tile-topped coffee table, and two upholstered chairs. Plants in ceramic pots filled the corners. Next to the desk was a waist-high shelving unit well stocked with books, rag dolls, puzzles, and games. Framed watercolors of irises and lilies hung on the walls.
A woman got up from the sofa and said, “Detective Sturgis. Hello, again.”
For some reason I’d expected someone middle-aged. She was no older than thirty. Tall—five eight or nine—leggy, high-waisted, and slim, but with strong shoulders and full hips that flared below a tight waist. Her face was long, lean, very pretty, with a clear, fair complexion, rosy cheeks, and fine features topped by a thick shag of shoulder-length blond hair. Her mouth was wide, the lips a trifle stingy. Her jawline was crisp and angled sharply, as if aiming for a point, but ending in a squared-off cleft chin that granted her a bit of determination. She wore a charcoal cowl-neck sweater tucked into a knee-length denim skirt. No makeup other than a touch of eye shadow. Her only jewelry was a pair of square black costume earrings.
“As promised,” Milo told her, “Dr. Alex Delaware. Alex, Dr. Overstreet, the boss around here.”
She gave him a fleeting smile and turned to me. Because of her height and her heels, we were almost eye to eye. Hers were round and large, fringed with long, almost-white lashes. The irises were an unremarkable shade of brown but radiated an intensity that caught my attention and held it.
“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Delaware.” She had a soft voice mellowed further by some kind of Southern twang. She held out her hand and I took it. Long-fingered and narrow, exerting no pressure. I wondered how someone with hands that submissive, that beauty-contestant voice, would handle a position of authority.
I said hello. She freed her hand and brushed her bangs.
“Thanks for coming down on such short notice,” she said. “What a nightmare.”
She shook her head again.
Milo said, “S’cuse me, doctors,” and moved toward the door.
“See you later,” I told him.
He saluted.
When he was gone, she
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