Chapter 14
Bishop bit into his chopped liver sandwich as he studied the clock at Cantor's Delicatessen.
Twelve-fifteen. The strong California sun poured through the plate window. "Why do those people in the art class pretend they don't know each other?"
"Calm down," Trask advised across the table. "If he tries anything, we'll know. We have two cars cruising the neighborhood regularly. Penny's neighbor's primed to call us if anybody calls."
"I know," Bishop said gruffly. "But what if he tries Sally?"
Trask reddened. "I got a man staked out opposite her house. Eat your sandwich, Mike."
Bishop shook his head. Today the chopped liver tasted like sawdust. The kosher pickles like marinated leather.
"First time I ever saw you leave any chopped liver," Trask joked. "What are you doing, eating reducing pills?"
"Go ahead, joke," the ex-New York detective growled. "They're cooking my goose up at the D.A.'s office and you talk about chopped liver. They want to take over running the show, they can have the whole circus." He rose heavily.
"Where are you going?" Trask protested.
Bishop tried a weak grin and put his hand on the Irishman's shoulder. "Listen, I don't want any speeches from you. All right? I'm calling the Chief at headquarters and admitting I don't have a prayer. That lets him walk into the D.A.'s office clean and make any arrangement he likes."
"You know damned well what arrangement he'll make," Trask retorted. "Some snot-nosed assistant in the D.A.'s stable will be running the case. You won't be able to make a move without his okay."
"I got no choice, Al," Bishop said, exasperated. "As soon as the afternoon papers hit, the ball game'll be over anyway. City Hall will be calling the Chief of Detectives and the D.A. They'll be chewing my ass tomorrow, anyhow."
"Let them," Trask said. "Nobody in our business brings them all in. Why should you?"
Bishop shook his head. "Look, it's all right for you. You're a bachelor. I got my wife on my back. She hates me working these sex cases anyhow. And all this crap in the paper about my Harpo Marx chase all over town. Christ, Al, she can't even talk to her friends. Even my kid Laurie's getting it. Her classmates at UCLA are telling her her old man ought to be on television."
"Mike, wait another day at least."
Bishop patted the Irishman on the shoulder affectionately. "It's not just me, kid. I owe it to the Chief, too. He's gotta fight City Hall. Remember? Sit tight and finish your bagel. I'll be back."
The big, rawboned Irishman watched his chief move through the crowd of lunchers waiting to be seated. Bishop's face looked drawn and sleepless as he picked up the phone on the cashier's counter and dialed police headquarters.
He must have had a bad night, Trask thought, watching him. Helen upset over Davis's tongue-in-cheek stories, embarrassed for him, for the girl. She always took it all so personally. And the calls from the D.A.'s office-some arrogant little assistant D.A. wanting a whole replay of all the moves in the case-they hadn't helped either. Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted. Bishop was beckoning excitedly. He rose quickly and crossed the room.
"Let's go, kid," Bishop said.
"What happened?"
"He's over at Sally Rosson's. The prowler."
Trask looked sick. "When?"
"A minute ago. I decided I'd check Sally and Penny again. I was sure this bastard's compulsion would send him to one or the other. Especially if he thinks we had Sanderson pegged as the killer."
"What did she say, Mike?" Trask blurted.
"What I told her to say if the prowler came back. When I told her who I was, she said I had the wrong number. Then when I repeated my name, she gave me some phony number and said it wasn't hers."
"Let's step on it," Trask said, worriedly. "Did she sound all right? I mean, you think he'd tried anything?"
"She sounded a little nervous. I told her to stall him as gently as she could and try to get back to the kitchen to get him a Coke. If she can do that, she'll try to open the back door for us."
"Fine. Let's move faster," Trask pleaded.