you nothing about what they did–a free hand had
been used with words like enterprise, system, communications,
and network. A good third.of them ended
with Ltd. Jan Rambo had outdone them all, christening
her meat market, Contemporary Communications
Network, Ltd. If that didn’t convince you it
was all very respectable, the brass letters on the
teak door and the matching thunderbolt logo were
sure to do the trick.
The door was locked but Milo pounded it hard
enough for the walls to shake, and it opened. A tall
well-built Jamaican in his midtwenties stuck his
head out and started to say something hostile, but
Milo shoved his badge in the mahogany face and he
shut his mouth.
“Hi,!’ said Milo, grinning.
“What can I do for you, Officers?”-
black, overenunciating in a show of arrogance’. ‘:
“First, you can let us in.” Without waiting for
cooperation, Milo leaned on the door. Taken by
surprise, the Jamaican stepped back and we walked
in.
It wasn’t much of a reception room; barely larger
than a closet, but Contemporary Communications
probably didn’t do much receiving. The walls were
flat ivory and the only furniture was a chrome and
vinyl desk upon which sat an electric typewriter
and a phone, and the steno chair’ behind it.
The wall backing the desk was adorned with a
photographic poster of a California surfer couple
posing as Adam and Eve, underscored by the legend
“Send that Special Message to that Special
Person.” Eve had her tongue in Adam’s ear and
though the expression on his face was one of stuporous
boredom, his fig leaf bulged appreciatively.
To the left of the desk was a closed door. The
Jamaican stood in front of it, arms folded, feet
apart, a scowling sentry.
“We want to speak with Jan Rambo.”
“You got a warrant?”
“Jesus,” said Milo, disgustedly, “everyone in this
lousy city thinks he’s in the movies. ‘You got a
varrant?'” he mimicked. “Strictly grade B, dude.
C’mon, knock on the door and tell her we’re here.”
The Jamaican remained impassive.
“No warrant, no entry.”
“My, my, an assertive one.” Milo whistled. He
put his hands in his pockets, slouched and walked
forward until his nose was a millimeter short of
Eskfmo-kissing the Jamaican.
“There’s no need to get unpleasant,” he said. “I
96 Jonathan Kellerman
know Ms. Rambojs a busy’lady and as pure as the
freshly driven snow. If she wasn’t, we might be
here to search the premises, Then we’d need a
warrant. All we want.to do is talk with her. Since
you obviously haven’t advanced far enough in your
legal studies to know this, let me inform you that
no warrant is necessary when one simply wants to
make conversation.”
The Jamaican’s nostrils widened.
“Now,” Milo continued, “you can choose to facilitate
that conv.ersation or continue to be obstructive,
in which case I will cause you grievous bodily
injury, not to mention significant pain, and arrest
you for interfering wi th a police officer in the per°
f0rmance of his duty. Upon arrest, I will fasten the
cuffs tight enough to cause gangrene, see to it that
you are body-searched by a sadist, and make sure
you are tossed in a holding cell with half a dozen
charter members of the Aryan Brotherhood.”
The Jamaican pondered his choices. He backed
away from Milo, but the detective bird-dogged him,
breathing into his face.
‘TII see if she’s free,” he muttered, opening the
door a crack and slithering through.
He reappeared momentarily, eyes smoldering with
emasculation, and jerked his head toward the open
door.
We followed him into an empty anteroom. He
paused before !ouble doors and punched a code
into a pushbutton panel. There was a low-pitched
buzz and he opened one of the doors.
A dark-haired woman sat behind a marble-topped
tubular metal desk in an office as big as a ballroom.
The floor was covered with springy industrial carpeting
the color of wet cement. To her back was a
wall of smoked glass offering a muted vie’
Santa Monica mountains and the Valle,
One side of the office had been given over to some
West Hollywood decorator’s fantasies–mercilessly
contemporary mauve leather chairs a lucite coffee
table sharp enough to slice bread, an art deco side°