“Besides, hard work builds character,” I said out loud.
Before leaving for the day I called Lotty. She was still at Max’s but thought she would be well enough to go to the clinic for half a day in the morning. I asked her if she’d talked to the police.
“Yes. Sergeant Rawlings drove out here yesterday afternoon. They don’t know anything, but he seemed to think you were obstructing their investigation—I think that was his phrase. Vic…” She paused and fished for words. “If there’s something you’re keeping from the police, tell them, please. I’m not going to be able to drive without looking over my shoulder every five seconds until the men who beat me up are caught.”
My shoulders slumped. “I told the police about the guy who threatened to put a tail on me, but they think he’s clean. I don’t know what else I can do, except try to conduct my own investigation.”
“There’s telling and telling. I’ve watched you operate for years and I know you often hold back the—the key emphasis, maybe, or some little thing that will make them able to make the same connections you do.”
Her voice, which lacked its usual crisp vitality, was more depressing than her words. I tried to remember my conversations with Conrad Rawlings and Terry Finchley. I hadn’t told them about the person masquerading as Mitch Kruger’s son who’d lifted his papers from Mrs. Poker’s. Maybe I should do that. I couldn’t bear the thought of Lotty suddenly aging out of fear, especially a fear I’d helped foster.
I was silent so long she said sharply, “There is something, isn’t there?”
“I don’t know if there is or not. It didn’t seem relevant to me, but I’ll call Detective Finchley and tell him before I leave.”
“Do that, Vic,” she said, her voice cracking. “Pretend I matter, that I’m not just a little piece of your game plan that didn’t work the way you hoped.”
“Lotty! That’s not fair—” I began, but she hung up before I could hear her crying.
Was I really that lacking in feeling? I loved Lotty. More than any living person I could think of. Was I treating her like a pawn? I didn’t have a game plan; that was half my trouble. I was floundering from action to action, not knowing in what direction I was going. Nonetheless, the distaste I’d felt for myself after breaking into Carver’s office last night came back to me. A knot of self-disgust twisted my stomach.
I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to go back to bed. My lids were so leaden I could scarcely open my eyes. I leaned back in the couch and let the wave of depression wash over me. After a time, not feeling better but knowing I had to get moving, I called over to Area One to talk to Finchley. He wasn’t in; I left my name and number and asked him to phone me this evening. At least no one hung up on me mid-sentence. That was a distinct improvement over my first two calls.
I moved drearily down the stairs. Before heading for the street I knocked on Mr. Contreras’s door. It was a sign of my desperate state that I even accepted a cup of his overboiled coffee before setting out. This afternoon the old man had enough zip for two, maybe even four. He’d spent the morning drafting our ad and calling around Arizona to get the names and rates of their biggest dailies; he was eager to show me his handiwork. I tried to drum up an appropriate level of enthusiasm, but he suddenly noticed my spirits didn’t match his.
“What’s eating you, doll? Rough night?”
I gave a self-conscious laugh. “Oh, I just feel like I let Lotty in for a bad time and haven’t done anything to help her.”
Mr. Contreras patted my knee with one horny palm. “Your way of helping people ain’t the same as most people’s, Vic. Just because you’re not rushing around with flowers and a tub of soup don’t mean you’re not helping her.”
“Yeah, but she feels I should cooperate more with the police, and she’s right,” I muttered.
“Yeah, cooperate with them,” the old man jeered. “Ninety percent of the time they don’t listen to you. I was there when you talked to that black detective, what’s his name, Finchley, and I saw how he listened to you. Far as the cops are concerned, Mitch hit his head and fell in the canal. Mitch, who knew every inch of that waterfront! They sure don’t care that you was tailed for a week before those goons attacked your car and beat up the doc. I don’t see you’ve got any cause to go around blaming yourself, not for one minute, doll. You just pull yourself together and go do the work God made you fit for.”