‘Wexlersh and Manuello are going to handle that,’ Mondale said. ‘They’ll also be talking to the head of the psychology department at UCLA. But you will be at your desk, Haldane — at your desk, doing what you’re told.’
Dan didn’t reveal that he had already been to UCLA and that he’d spoken with Irmatrude Heidi Gelkenshettle. He wasn’t giving Mondale anything right now.
Instead, he said, ‘Wexlersh is no detective. Hell, he has to paint his pecker bright yellow so he can find it when he has to pee. And Manuello drinks.’
‘The hell he does,’ Mondale said sharply.
‘He drinks on duty more often than not.’
‘He’s an excellent detective,’ Mondale insisted.
‘Your definition of “excellent” is the same as your definition of “obedient.” You like Manuello because he sucks up to you. You’re a tremendous self-promoter, Ross, but you’re a lousy cop and a worse leader. For your sake as much as anyone’s, I’m going to have to ignore the desk assignment you’ve given me and play the investigation my own way.’
‘That’s it, you insolent bastard. That’s it! You’re through. You’re finished here. I’ll call your boss, I’ll call Templeton, and have him yank your insubordinate ass back to Central, where you belong!’
The captain swung away from Dan and started toward the door. Dan said, ‘If you make Templeton pull me off this assignment, I’ll have to tell him — and everyone else — about Cindy Lakey.’
Mondale stopped with his hand on the doorknob, breathing hard, but he didn’t face Dan.
To Mondale’s back, Dan said, ‘I’ll have to tell them how little Cindy Lakey, that poor little eight-year-old girl, would still be alive today, a young woman now, maybe married with a girl of her own, if it wasn’t for you.’
* * *
Laura stayed at Melanie’s side, one hand on the girl’s shoulder, ready to grab her and run if it came to that.
Earl Benton leaned close to the radio and seemed mesmerized by the magically spinning knob and the floating red station selector that whipped back and forth across the lighted dial.
Abruptly the red dot stopped, but only for a moment, only long enough to let a deejay speak one word—
‘… something’s …’
—and then spun across the dial and stopped again at another frequency. Again it only dipped into the announcer’s patter for a single word—
‘… coming …’
—then zipped farther along the glowing green band, paused once more, this time plucking one word out of the middle of a song—
‘… something’s …’
—then spun away to a new station, popped into the middle of an advertisement—
‘… coming …’
—and swept on down the band again.
Laura suddenly realized there was an intelligent purpose to the pauses of the frequency selector.
We’re being sent a message, she thought.
Something’s coming.
But a message from whom? From where?
Earl looked at her, and the astonishment on his face made it clear that the same questions were in his mind.
She wanted to move, run, get out of here. She could not lift her feet. Her bones had locked at every joint. Her muscles had petrified.
The red dot stopped moving for no more than a second, perhaps only a fraction of a second. This time Laura recognized the tune from which the word was plucked. The Beatles were singing. Before the red dot continued on its way, the single word that came from the radio’s speaker was also the title of the song: ‘Something …’
The selector glided farther along the green-lit band, paused for an instant: ‘… is …’
It slipped off that station, sped to another: ‘… coming …’
The air was frigid, but that wasn’t the only reason Laura was shivering.
Something … is … coming …
Those three words were not merely a message. They were a warning.
* * *
Without opening it, Mondale had turned away from the door that connected the late Joseph Scaldone’s office to the sales room at the Sign of the Pentagram. He faced Dan again, and both his anger and indignation had given way to a more fundamental emotion. Now his face was carved and his eyes were colored by pure hatred.