No Holiday for Crime by Dell Shannon

Author:Dell Shannon [Shannon, Dell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781471913969
Publisher: Orion Publishing Group
Published: 2014-05-21T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

IT WAS Saturday night, and the last night but one of the old year: the night watch, sitting snug in the sergeants’ office with the desk downstairs relaying calls, could only imagine what Traffic detail was handling on the streets: the drunk drivers, the accidents, the pile-ups on the freeways. It might be a busy night for them too, or not; they’d be finding out.

“Did you hear about that pawnbroker’s receipt?” asked Galeano. They all had. “Sometimes I think Mendoza attracts the offbeat ones.”

Conway opened a new pack of cigarettes. “I’ll be just as glad to get off night tour. I’ve heard this and that about him, he should be interesting to work under.”

“Too much so sometimes,” said Landers. “Hackett says he jumps. No logical deduction from A to B to C, way we’re trained. His mind jumps, like A to L. He says his poker game’s ruined, but I don’t know I’d like to sit in a hand with him. He’s an artist with the cards.”

“I heard he’s a gambler. Also quite a chaser.”

“Was,” said Galeano sadly, “was. He got caught up to belatedly by a redhaired Irish girl. God, what a combination—I’ll bet those twins are terrors.”

They were called out around nine-thirty; there was a collision on the freeway with two D.O.A.’s, later a mugging up on Olive, but it was a quieter night than they might have expected. At eleven-fifty the desk relayed a phone call.

“H—Robbery-Homicide, Detective Galeano.”

“I want Robbery-Homicide, the Robbery-Homicide office, he said that was—”

“Yes, sir, can I help you? Detective Galeano speaking.”

“I want Sergeant Palliser—” It was an uncertain male voice.

“I’m sorry, Sergeant Palliser is on day watch, not here now. Can I—”

“When will he be there?”

“Any time after eight, sir. Who is this sp—” But the phone was dead at the other end. “That’s funny,” said Galeano.

Mendoza was supposed to be off Sundays; sometimes he was. When he drifted into the office that Sunday morning, he walked in on an argument between his two senior sergeants.

“Listen, it’s wild,” said Hackett. “There’s no evidence at all—”

“I don’t say there is, Art, I just say there might be. If we look. I know I don’t usually get these spells, making like Luis, but on this one I just saw it—”

“Jumped,” said Hackett. “As if Luis wasn’t enough to cope with! And as for looking at it, my God, George, that doctor said somewhere between sixty and seventy students—and another thing that strikes me, they won’t be an average lot. Medical students, solid academic records and older than the usual college kids, not very likely to be the type—”

“What is the type? I just saw—”

“Break it up,” said Mendoza. They swung to face him, the pair of them looming over him.

“I’d just like your opinion,” began Higgins, and Hackett swore.

“You just want him to back up your starting to have hunches. Look, Luis—”

“No,” said Mendoza. “For the moment, forget about Dr. Loose and his students.” He went into his office, sat down at his desk (polished and neat courtesy of their policewoman, who was off on Sunday) and lit a cigarette.

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