the building he slipped into the fog and disappeared. It was three forty-five A.M.
Chapter 6
Lt. Ed Swinburne woke slowly, unwillingly. For most of his life he suffered mornings as unavoidable. However, he saw no reason to be cheerful about it. Then he met Suzanne. He still woke slowly, even reluctantly, but now with a smile.
The first thing he saw was a generous expanse of velvet hip, dipping into a delightful concave waist. He let his eyes follow the rise of her waist to a truly magnificent bosom. An ivory Amazon, and best of all, she was his wife.
They'd been married a year, and he still felt a rush of emotion as poignant as the first time they'd met.
Swinburne was a homicide detective. His business was death in all its pathetic and violent forms. Unlike most of the men in the division, there was more to his life than the streets. Besides a degree in police science, he was a better-than-average portrait painter.
That's where he'd first seen her, in life-class at UCLA. She was facing forward, holding a ceramic jar to her waist, a classical Greek pose, everything in perfect proportion; skin like heavy cream, hair to her waist, the color of burnished copper. When the hour was up, he hadn't drawn a line or put paint to canvas. At that moment he felt an overwhelming, even violent urge to cover her body, to allow no one else to see her. It was primitive, mad, and very real.
He measured existence from that moment and wondered how he'd gotten along without her.
She didn't like his work, but as a teenager her mother gave her some advice, which, unlike most children her age, she actually listened to.
"Suzy," her mother had said; "You find a man you really got a yen for, I mean a genuine day and night letch for, and you like him in between times to boot, you better take him the way he is. I don't give a good goddamn if he's a dogcatcher or the paperboy. Don't go tryin' to make him into something you think is presentable, ‘cause you for sure won't letch for him day and night, and you sure as hell won't like him in between times either. You don't want to spend the rest of your life wondering where the man you loved went."
Her mother was what some people call a diamond in the rough. She was salty, drank rye whiskey neat from a kitchen glass and knew a few curse words that weren't in the Dictionary of American Slang.
As he admired his wife's bosom and decided whether he would do something to demonstrate that admiration, he glanced at the alarm beside the bed and saw that it was five in the morning.
"Shit!" He looked out the window; still dark. Then the ringing registered. He had two phones, one for family and one for police business. It wasn't to be used unless there was trouble.
He thought for the hundredth time about mankind's propensity for shuffling off their coil in the small hours of night, and then picked it up. It was his partner, Detective Nick Akoichi.
Damn, no way he'd call at this hour unless there was trouble.
"Come on, boss, wake up. We've got a strange one. Someone with a lot of horsepower called Chief Rudderman and he called me, 'cause he couldn't raise you by the way."
Great, Swinburne thought, all we need is another political mess where everyone winds up looking like crap. You solve it, you get in trouble; you don't solve it, you get in trouble.
Swinburne cleared his throat and sat up. "What've you got, Nick?"
"Homicide, the Cabrillo Springs Psychiatric Clinic, off the 101 Freeway, in Woodland Hills," Nick said.
"That's Valley Division. How come their boys didn't get it?" Stupid, Swinburne thought. They'll be truly pissed.
"Like I said, boss, someone upstairs wants the best and you're it."
"That's a lot of bullshit. The boys in Valley Division are going to be uncooperative," Swinburne said.
"I know. It's weird, Lieutenant. I wish you'd come on out, get me off the hook. The area is secure; forensics is here, the coroner, a couple of our guys plus all the rest of the riff-raff. We got a cast of thousands out here."
"Okay. Who's the photographer?" Swinburne asked.
"Moran, sir."
"Danny, that's good. You know my ways, Nick. Make sure he gets everything, inside and out. See you in about an hour."
Suzanne was awake. She watched him, a sleepy frown making small furrows between her eyes. Swinburne reached over and ran his thumb across the frown.
She smiled winsomely. "I take it that's the lottery informing us of our good fortune. Now we're going to spend six weeks in the South of France drinking wine and making love." Her voice had the soft burr of sleep.
"'Fraid not, pussycat. I was contemplating your charms with the intent to commit lust when the Sergeant called," Swinburne said, stroking her cheek gently.
She smiled lasciviously and slowly lowered the sheet past one luscious breast.
"Oh, no, you mustn't attack me," she mimed in a quavering voice. "Of course you're too powerful and I'll probably have to submit to save my life. Don't worry, I can't testify against you, so you might just as well have your way with me." She threw her arms out wide and fell back on the pillows, breasts and belly undulating in a smorgasbord of erotica. The sheets barely covered her hips.
"Cruel, Suzanne. You'll pay when I get back."
"I'm counting on it," she grinned.
By the time Swinburne showered and dressed, he had filled her in on the situation. She slipped into a silk robe that would have debauched a regiment of Jesuits, and make a pot of coffee. She put a cup on the counter that divided the dining area from the kitchen and poured the rest into a thermos.
She gave him a sweet smile and told him to hurry back. Swinburne kissed her and reluctantly headed out into the early morning darkness.
Suzanne's father was chief drill man on one of those rigs that dot the Santa Barbara Channel. He was what is colloquially referred to as a redneck. Didn't matter, they got along fine.
Swinburne never understood how a five-foot five, bandy-legged Irishman managed to father such a colossal daughter. Anyhow, Red had made a lot of money over the years, and lived in a doublewide trailer on ten acres overlooking the beach north of Malibu.
Six months ago, on Swinburne's birthday, a brand new silver Porsche 911S Carerra Turbo appeared in Swinburne's parking spot beneath the Elmwood Arms, where he and Suzanne had their apartment.
Swinburne tried to get him to take the damn thing back, but he wouldn't. The two of them were in cahoots, and she got as much kick out of it as he did. It came with a cellular telephone and a stereo system every thief in the city lusted after.
Police officers, even lieutenants, don't pay seventy five thousand for a car unless they're on the take, so it surprised him when no one at the division made any smartass comments.
He discovered his clever, redneck; nice-guy father-in-law had sent an open letter to Chief Rudderman and asked him to pass the word.
It said, in essence, that he, William 'Red' Holloway, father-in-law to one Lieutenant Edward A. Swinburne, bought him a Porsche etc. etc., for his birthday 'cause he didn't consider
