Free Kolchak: The Night Stalker: A Black and Evil Truth by Jeff Rice Page A

edition. You’ve finally got what you’ve been begging for, you bastard. So enjoy it while you can.”
    Vincenzo’s got some warped ideas of what my enjoyments are.
    “He wants to use on-the-scene shots [my ideas, which had died on Vincenzo’s desk only a day before] with portrait-art of the victims, quotes from friends–we got Meyer on that sidebar stuff–and, of course, quotes from all responsible officials.”
    I guess I did have some kind of grim satisfaction in seeing my colleagues trying to run the Daily News like a real newspaper. Even Vincenzo sounded interested, almost excided when he talked about it.
    “What about the Sunday takeout?” I asked.
    “Don’t push a good thing too far. A full page tonight and tomorrow morning is about all you can expect. It’s more than I’d give you. But, I don’t run this paper. I just take orders. Oh, yes. Forget about the holes in her neck. Until we get an OK from Jake, she was killed and the police are investigating the particular method used. Period!”
    “What about art on the suspect?”
    “What can you get me?”
    “Call the university.” I gave him the number, and the info I’d given Clabaugh. “This Rayeburn kid’s a pro. The sheriff’s boys may use him on this. He’ll do a good job on this thing. I think you can get him for… twenty dollars an hour. Not even one cent less.”
    “My ass,” said Vincenzo. “Nobody’s worth twenty dollars an hour. Not even Michaelangelo. He’ll take ten dollars and like it… if we use him.”
    “You’ll use him. And fifteen dollars an hour is as low as he goes. C’mon, Tony. Don’t you want to pretend just once in your life that you’re a real, live newshound? Don’t you want to cream the opposition? Let’s not give up an exclusive to the little yellow rag down the street. Remember Pulitzer and James Gorden Bennett? Remember?”
    With his usual courtesy, Vincenzo hung up in the middle of my pep talk. For a fleeting moment I had the bleak thought that he’d get mad enough to kill the whole deal. Then I forgot even Vincenzo isn’t that stupid, I told myself.
    As I walked back to the table, I thought about the walking-around-money I’d arranged for Rayeburn. My good deed for the year.
    The girls were sitting as I’d left them, looking glum. I slipped into my seat and started on the juice. It slithered into the pit of my gut like a cold lump of glue.
    The redhead looked at Michelle. “I don’t feel so good. I think I’ll go home.”
    “I think we all should,” said Michelle. They excused themselves and I got up to let Michelle out.
    I grinned sickly at her. “Thanks, kid. I appreciate you and your friends coming down.”
    “Yeah. Sure. Well, just spell our names right. And take care of yourself.”
I grabbed the check away from her and sat for a while feeling drained and grubby. Then I paid the check, by telling the cashier to put it on my city ledger, and headed out through the casino, turning into the artists’ entrance next to the showroom, and back on out to my car. I figured there was no sense in trying to catch any sleep, so I stopped off at my place just long enough to shower and shave, and put on a sportcoat and slacks. Then I was off for the sheriff’s office where the main effort of the law’s investigation was headquartered.
    On something like this, involving both Las Vegas and surrounding Clark County, the two agencies–LVPD and the Sheriff’s Office–joined forces with a command post at the Clark County Sheriff’s Office in the courthouse because of their bigger budget and better facilities. There has always been inter-service rivalry between them. The county, with its greater share of multi-million dollar hotel-casinos, has more money with which to operate. So, generally speaking, the sheriff’s office is better equipped.
    They haven’t always cooperated on cases, especially on narcotics raids where they once openly competed for the publicity. But after one particularly disastrous