Free Fala Factor by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

cell.
    â€œCome on,” said Seidman.
    â€œShe was going to tell me the answer,” I said, sitting up and looking over at my cellmate, whose arm was still covering his eyes.
    â€œSure,” said Seidman. His jaw was slightly swollen.
    â€œYou snore,” said the guy from the other bunk.
    â€œYou did it,” I answered, following Seidman out of the cell.
    Some bookwork, discussion, and dirty looks passed between Seidman and Downs, but in a few minutes the final touches were made and I was on my way, seated next to Seidman.
    â€œI got the report from Hindryx,” he said, heading into the night. “That the way it was?”
    â€œThe way I said it.”
    That was all we said for the next half-hour till we got to the Wilshire station. It was four in the morning according to the clock downstairs and the night man had replaced Veldu. I didn’t know the night man so we exchanged nothing. We bypassed the squadroom and went to an office in the hall with C APTAIN L OWELL B. P RONZINI stenciled on the door in black letters that were peeling off from years of scratching and a few dozen washings. Lowell B. had just retired. It was, I found, the office of Captain Phil Pevsner. It was bigger than his old one, had three chairs besides the one behind the desk, and probably looked out on the parking lot. I couldn’t tell. It was too dark. The desk was just as old as the last one and there were two battered file cabinets in the corner.
    â€œComing up in the world, ain’t you Rico?” I said to Phil, who sat rocking in his new swivel chair behind the desk.
    â€œWhat’s Eleanor Roosevelt got to do with this shit?” he said, still rocking.
    Seidman took one of the chairs, moved it to the corner, and sat down to swallow a pill and massage his right cheek, beneath which lurked the work that Shelly had done on him.
    â€œNothing,” I said.
    Phil stopped rocking for a second, looked forward at me, a day’s stubble of gray beard on his chin. He said nothing and went from rocking to swiveling in his chair.
    â€œTry again,” sighed Seidman from the corner.
    Phil paused, looking bored, and reached for the metal cup of coffee on his desk. He discovered it was empty, got mad at the cup, and threw it in the garbage can near the desk. The garbage can was brown, metal, and not new.
    â€œRuth can make some curtains,” I said, “turn this into—”
    â€œEleanor Roosevelt,” Phil said, rubbing his temples.
    â€œEleanor Roosevelt,” I agreed, and told him everything, her fears, the dog, everything. “You believe me?” I concluded.
    Phil’s hands went up in a resigned gesture of indecision. He looked at Seidman, whose tongue was in his cheek testing his inflamed gums. He had no opinion.
    â€œGo home,” Phil said, swiveling away from me to look out of the dark window.
    â€œAren’t you going to tell me to stop looking for the dog?” I asked. “To keep out of it, to—”
    â€œWould it do any good?” Phil said.
    â€œNo,” I agreed, “but that’s the routine. Aren’t we partners anymore?”
    â€œWe never were, “sighed Phil. “Downs and Hindryx gave me four days to come up with something or they’re pulling you back in. I leaned on them a little. They’re a pair of shits.”
    â€œThey have great respect for you too,” I added.
    â€œAnd they’ve got a friend in the Wilshire who’ll be watching things for them,” Seidman added behind me.
    â€œLet me guess,” I said. “Cawelti? Hell, Phil, just pull in Anne Olson. She must have panicked. She’ll back my story.”
    â€œGo home,” said Phil. “Now.” He spun around, stood up, and turned his red face to me. The tie was back on. Old habits.
    â€œI’m going,” I said, backing away. “My car is in Sherman Oaks. It’s on your way back to North Hollywood. How about dropping me