Free Prime Witness by Steve Martini Page B

children it seems have no concept of parents’ unconditional love. In Sarah’s limited view, I think, she feels the need to make some partial payment in the coin of acceptance, some compensation for our continued affections. She does not realize that she is compensation enough.
    The phone rings in the kitchen. Nikki answers it.
    “Just a moment,” she says.
    “It’s for you.” She looks at me, an expression that says “this better not be what I think it is.” She hands me the receiver.
    “Hello.”
    “Mr. Madriani. It’s Claude Dusalt.”
    “Yes.”
    “Sorry to call you at home at this hour,” he says, “but it was important. We have a break in the case. Out near the university. Some evidence in a van. A lead on the Putah Creek killer. We need a warrant, tonight,” he says. “Can you meet me at your office in half an hour?”
    I swallow hard and look at Nikki. She is watching me through the practiced eyes of cynicism. On my face, in the cast of my expression, she reads the message of still another disappointment.
    “I understand,” I say. “I’ll be there in half an hour,” I tell him.
    Dusalt hangs up.
    “I have to go,” I tell her. “It’s a major break in the case. They need a warrant.”
    “What else?” she says, shrugging her shoulders.
    She’s already moving, grabbing her coat and purse.
    With my wife I have learned over the years that it is not so much her words as her actions that convey true emotions. There is little hostility detected in her tone, more an expression of resignation. But Nikki is going about the routine of departure in stiff, measured movements, the sign of a deep, brooding fury.
    “I’m sorry,” I say. “These things happen.”
    “Sure,” she says. She gathers up Sarah and heads for the door. “You’d better hurry. It wouldn’t do to be late,” she tells me.
    “Daddy’s not coming?” My daughter is looking at her mother with big oval eyes.
    “Daddy has other, more important things,” says Nikki.
    Sarah’s little saucers are now aimed at me.
    I smile a little pained expression. I bend down to give her a hug to tell her that I am sorry.
    Before I can, Nikki ushers her toward the car in the garage like some shepherded lamb. They are late, and in a hurry. My wife’s words are the last thing I hear as the door slams closed behind them.
    “Daddy has work to do tonight,” she says.
    Another debit in the parental account of a father’s love.

Chapter Six
     
    “ I want the van left where it is,” I say, “under surveillance for now, until I can work up a warrant. Nobody’s to touch it further without my approval. Understood?”
    Claude has Denny Henderson taking notes as the three of us move at a quickstep across the commons and up the stairs of the county administration building. The lights out front have come on, though it is not yet completely dark.
    “And I will need a good stenographer, somebody who can take dictation and who knows how to do a warrant.” I look at Henderson. “Do we have anybody?” He looks at Claude, who nods his assurance.
    “Sheila Aikens,” he says, “the older gal in your office. Feretti used her, said she was pretty good.”
    “Find her. Get her here now. I want the van watched around the clock. And get the owner registration.”
    “We’ve already got it,” says Claude, “the vehicle registration.”
    We push our way through the main door to the office.
    Dusalt pulls a little notebook from his pocket. “It’s a 1973 GMC. Guy’s name is Andre Iganovich,” he says. He rattles off an address on the west side of town. “We’ve had the apartment under surveillance for a couple of hours. DMV is sending us a photo from his driver’s license for identification. Should we pick him up if he shows?”
    “No. First we line up the legal ducks,” I say, “a search warrant for the van. Then assuming what we’ve seen inside is golden, we get another warrant for the apartment. If he hasn’t flown the coop, we can detain