your mind?”
“It’s probably stupid.”
“It probably isn’t. What?”
“Her getting aroused by your fury. Maybe she likes her sex rough. Maybe her rape was … you know … her partner got carried away … and she’s trying to protect him.”
Decker tapped his foot and digested her words. “A game gone too far? Then what about the burglary?”
“I don’t know.” She let out a laugh, took his hand, and led him to the bedroom. “You’re the detective.”
“Leave me with all the hard stuff, huh?”
But she’d made an interesting point.
He was still awake when the phone went off and he answered it before the first ring was completed, glancing at Rina. Sound asleep. That made him happy.
“Pete?”
“Yeah, go ahead, Marge,” he whispered.
“I haven’t gone inside yet. Just called Burbank PD and told them what I was up to, asked them if they wanted to be part of this. They’re sending me a single black-and-white.”
Decker hopped out of bed, tucked the receiver under his chin, and pulled on his pants. “What’s tweaking your nose?”
“Empty lot, Pete, except for a lone Mercedes 450 SL. The clinic’s dark, the front door closed but unlocked. I’ve banged on the door. Went around to the back, banged on that door, too. Nothing. I’m not about to go and step on anyone else’s turf.”
“Right.”
“On top of the car and unlocked door, I shone my beam on the asphalt and found a nice trail of what could be blood drips.”
Decker buttoned his shirt. “Freddy said it was an abortion mill. Women bleed after abortions.”
“Yeah, in and of itself, it wouldn’t have raised any hackles. But with everything else …”
“I’ll be down.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Four-forty-five in the morning and there was still traffic on the freeway. The city might sleep but the roadways never did. The night was cool and clear, the moon gliding over the tops of the mountains as Decker sped along the blacktop. He pushed the gas pedal to the floor and the Plymouth shot into overdrive.
The address Marge had given him was a poorly lighted stucco and brick corner office building set behind towering eucalyptus and palm trees. There was a paved parking lot in front, spaces marked for ten cars. Decker pulled the Plymouth between Marge’s Honda and a Burbank cruiser, shut off the motor, and got out. Hands on hips, he took a quick look around. Adjacent to the clinic was an empty, weed-choked lot. The three other corners of the intersection were taken up by a Taco Bell, the skeletal remains of abandoned framing, and a discount-food-chain warehouse. Marge walked over to him.
“Not exactly city central.”
“Makes sense,” Decker answered. “You have an abortion clinic, you want privacy. Why give the nutcases an easy target to firebomb?”
“Nutcases?” Marge smiled. “You’re not sympático with the right-to-lifers?”
“I’m not sympático with firebombers.”
“Hear, hear!” Marge led him to a uniform leaning against his cruiser. “Sergeant Decker, Officer Loomis.”
The patrolman stuck out a spidery-fingered hand. He was tall and lean and young and Decker wondered if he’d even gone through puberty. Certainly his baby face gave no indication of needing a shave.
Decker took the proffered hand. “Thank your watch commander for indulging us.”
“No problem, Sergeant.” Loomis’s voice still held a youthful strain. “Tell you the truth, for me, it’s a break from the routine.”
“Pretty quiet around here?”
“Yeah, this is an industrial area. I catch a lot of misfired alarms. Occasionally, there’re legit four-fifteens. What we really get are lots of assaults from the late-night bars in the field. Assholes get tanked and we come in and mop up.” He shook his head. “Same old shit.”
Marge handed Decker a pair of gloves, then put on her own pair.
Decker said, “You joining us inside, Officer?”
“Sure thing.”
“Don’t touch and watch where you step.”
“You got it.”
Decker slipped on his gloves. “You wanna be point man, Detective Dunn?”
“Point person. No, I’ll be backup.”
Decker turned to Loomis. “You pass by here often?”
“Once, maybe twice a night.”
“Ever see this car out here at this time in the morning?”
The young patrolman stared at the Mercedes and shook his head.
“Ever see any car?” Marge asked.
Again a shake of the head. “I don’t think so. But definitely not a sleek mama like a four-fifty SL. That I’d remember.”
Decker nodded. They walked up to the front door. The flashlight’s beam fell on a small splotch of blood to the right of the threshold.
Everyone exchanged looks. Decker banged on the door, identified them as police officers, and waited for a response.
Nothing.
Decker stood to the side of the door frame, turned the knob, and pushed open the door with his foot. The hinges creaked and everyone laughed.
“Like a bad slasher flick.” Loomis giggled nervously. “Hey, we’re only blocks from the studios. Maybe someone was having fun.”
Decker shone his light on the brown inkblot. “Except this ain’t Karo syrup.”
Loomis was about to cross the threshold, but Decker held him back and waited.
Nothing.
Marge drew her .38 from her purse; Loomis freed his Beretta from his holster.
Decker said, “As the cops say … cover me.”
He stepped inside. Freon cold air. Then the smells. Hard to single out any one in specific—a mixture of formaldehyde, ammonia, the sweet metal of blood. He scanned the beam along the wall until he found the light switch, then flicked it on with latex-covered fingers.
A ten-by-twelve waiting room lighted by fluorescent panels strung across an acoustical-tile ceiling. High dormer windows, the tops latched shut. The air
