Free Whispers by Dean Koontz Page A

who sat in clouds of smoke that, Tony felt sure, had come partly from cigarettes and partly from burning eardrums. The musicians pretended to tune their instruments.
    â€œWhen Bobby Valdez comes across an uncooperative woman,” Tony explained to Otto, “he pistol-whips her a little to make her more eager to please. Five days ago, he went after victim number ten, and she resisted, and he hit her on the head so hard and so often that she died in the hospital twelve hours later. Which brought the homicide squad into it.”
    â€œWhat I don’t understand,” the blonde said, “is why any guy would take it by force when there’s girls willing to give it away.” She winked at Tony, but he didn’t wink back.
    â€œBefore the woman died,” Frank said, “she gave us a description that fit Bobby like a custom-made glove. So if you know anything about the slimy little bastard, we’ve got to hear it.”
    Otto hadn’t spent all his time watching spy movies. He had seen his share of police shows, too. He said, “So now you want him for murder-one.”
    â€œMurder-one,” Tony said. “Precisely.”
    â€œHow’d you know to ask me about him?”
    â€œHe accosted seven of those ten women in singles’ bar parking lots—”
    â€œNone of them in our lot,” Otto interrupted defensively. “Our lot is very well lighted.”
    â€œThat’s true,” Tony said. “But we’ve been going to singles’ bars all over the city, talking to bartenders and regular customers, showing them those mug shots, trying to get a line on Bobby Valdez. A couple of people at a place in Century City told us they thought they’d seen him here, but they couldn’t be sure.”
    â€œHe was here all right,” Otto said.
    Now that Otto’s feathers had been smoothed, Frank took over the questioning again. “So he caused a commotion, and you did your beer glass trick, and he showed you his ID.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œSo what was the name on the ID?”
    Otto frowned. “I’m not sure.”
    â€œWas it Robert Valdez?”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œTry to remember.”
    â€œIt was a Chicano name.”
    â€œValdez is a Chicano name.”
    â€œThis was more Chicano than that.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWell . . . longer . . . with a couple Zs in it.”
    â€œZs?”
    â€œAnd Qs. You know the kind of name I mean. Something like Velazquez.”
    â€œWas it Velazquez?”
    â€œNah. But like that.”
    â€œBegan with a V?”
    â€œI couldn’t say for sure. I’m just talking about the sound of it.”
    â€œWhat about the first name?”
    â€œI think I remember that.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œJuan.”
    â€œJ-U-A-N?”
    â€œYeah. Very Chicano.”
    â€œYou notice an address on his ID?”
    â€œI wasn’t looking for that.”
    â€œHe mention where he lived?”
    â€œWe weren’t exactly chummy.”
    â€œHe say anything at all about himself?”
    â€œHe just drank quietly and left.”
    â€œAnd never came back?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œYou’re positive?”
    â€œHe’s never been back on my shift, anyway.”
    â€œYou got a good memory.”
    â€œOnly for the troublemakers and the pretty ones.”
    â€œWe’d like to show those mug shots to some of your customers,” Frank said.
    â€œSure. Go ahead.”
    The blonde sitting next to Tony Clemenza said, “Can I get a closer look at them? Maybe I was in here when he was. Maybe I even talked to him.”
    Tony picked up the photographs and swiveled on his barstool.
    She swung toward him as he swung toward her, and she pressed her pretty knees against his. When she took the pictures from him, her fingers lingered for a moment on his. She was a great believer in eye contact. She seemed to be trying