Free Death Was in the Picture by Linda L. Richards Page A

know,” Dex said with a grin, “and I don’t wanna tell, so I guess that works out about even.”
    “Huh,” Mustard said cheerfully. “Well, that’s a fine how do you do. I’ll remember that the next time you ask a favor.” With that the dark red Marmon growled powerfully away from the curb. Dex looked after it longingly. “Golf,” he said with a shake of his head as we watched the car disappear. “Imagine!”
    Mustard’s banter and his jovial presence had danced my attention away from the business at hand. Now Dex and I stood on the pavement outside the imposing exterior of Number 11, and I felt the apprehension I’d been unconsciously suppressing rise like a live thing.
    Dex must have seen my discomfort. “You sure you want to go through with this?” he said. “‘Cause you don’t have to, you know. You’re the one who wanted to tag along. You could sit out here in the sunshine if you wanted. Wait for me.”
    “I know I don’t have to,” I said, conscious that we were already moving toward the building, approaching an imposing front entrance via a half score of stairs. “Like you said, it was my idea to come. Anyway, if I’m not there, who would hold your hand when things get rough?”
    Inside, you could tell the building was so new the paint had yet to dry: you could smell it thick on the air. The building was even newer than that, it wasn’t quite finished and, as soon as we passed through the large front doors, we could see teams of workmen completing details. The Los Angeles City Jail was so new it had yet to be officially opened. But it was so badly needed and so overdue that, even before its opening, the brand new six-story building was moving toward capacity.
    The officer on duty at the front desk was approaching middle age, but was beyond middle size. He filled his uniform near to overflow and the cloth tugged unmercifully at the brass buttons that cinched him up in front.
    “We’re here to see Laird Wyndham,” Dex said without embarrassment or preamble, just as though Wyndham’s fanshadn’t been constantly trying to get in to meet the star almost from the moment he was arrested.
    “Are you now?” the officer said. His eyes slid over Dex but lingered on me overlong. I didn’t like to wonder if it was insult or invitation, nor did I have to. I could see where the eyes stopped, where they rested. He didn’t bother raising them to our faces as he spoke. “‘Fraid you’re gonna hafta do better n’ that,” he said.
    “His lawyer asked me to come down here,” Dex said. His voice a low growl. You didn’t have to know him to figure it was a dangerous sound. “I’m Dexter J. Theroux.”
    “The shamus?” the man said, to my relief meeting Dex’s eyes.
    “That’s right.”
    “Let me see your ticket.”
    “Here you go,” Dex said as he produced a billfold and handed his license across.
    “OK,” the cop said when he’d scrutinized the thing as close as could be. “This looks jake. But what about the frail?” he said, jerking a thumb at me.
    “This is Miss Katherine Pangborn,” Dex said, drawing out the syllables and holding them taut. “She is my secretary and I require she record my meeting with Mr. Wyndham.”
    “Record, huh?” the cop said skeptically. “That’s a good one. Lookee here Theroux, your name is on the list.” He did indeed have a list and Dex’s name was on it. Wyndham’s lawyer must have fixed things, just as he’d said he would. But he’d had no way of knowing about me. “But see? No Kathleen Pambo, or whatever it was you said. ‘Fraid she’s gonna hafta wait right here.” His eyes leeched across me again. “But she’ll be OK,” he said. “I’ll keep her company.”
    I suppressed a shudder. Visible revulsion didn’t seem absolutely politic.
    Dex took out his billfold again and drew out his license, fiddling with it quickly but carefully before handing it across oncemore. “I don’t think you looked closely enough at this, officer.