Authors: Thomas Laird
‘Where shall we take lunch?’ Doc asked.
Without even looking over at him, I already knew the answer. I headed us toward Berwyn and the Garvin Inn.
The hypnotist came up almost empty. Diane Swanson had never got a clear look at her attacker’s face. All she remembered was the name ‘Ralph’ on the tag on the shirt the supposed maintenance man was wearing. ‘Ralph’ popped into her classroom and popped back out. She got a look at the back of his head as he left the room. She saw the color of his hair and the height of his body, but she couldn’t even be certain about his build or approximate weight.
We heard from the psycho-hypnotist downtown, but Jack Wendkos had been to see Diane in person.
‘She’s dry, Jimmy. There’s nothing there. She never really got a look at this bastard.’
‘Whoa. Are you taking all this personally, young man?’ Doc teased.
‘Yeah. I am.’
There was no amusement in Wendkos’s tone.
‘Oh-oh,’ Doc murmured.
‘Yeah, I’m personally involved, but like I already said —’
‘It’s still on the border, Jack. And I know I’m not the guy who should be telling you, but I took a hell of a risk when I walked over the line.’
‘But she was part of your case, Jimmy. Diane’s not on our board. She’s in another goddamned county!’
‘All right. I’m not complaining. But you better keep your travel plans private from here on out. The Captain won’t give a shit if we’r
e
indirectl
y
involved with this woman as a witness in a murder-rape case.’
‘Okay, okay. I’ll keep it to myself ... It isn’t anything romantic yet, anyway. At least, not on her end. She’s scared. No matter how tough she tried to look. She’s on the edge and I think I can help her.’
‘It’s all right with me. I surrender,’ I told him. ‘Just don’t let it get in the way of what we’re doing around here. Yeah, I’ve been where you are. And a lot deeper into it than you are. Just don’t let the two of you get in the way of business and I’ll hope for the best.’
He was in this personally, all right. I’d seen anger on him before. His face read like an open script. He couldn’t disguise gut-level reactions. Like love.
Or hate.
He had a personal thing for The Farmer. This cutter’d hurt one of his own. At least, Jack thought so. I didn’t know what the teacher felt toward the man who had nearly ended her life and her career, but my young partner had been bloodied on the inside. He didn’t respond for givingly to that kind of insult. He’d only known Diane Swanson for a few days, but it didn’t make any difference. It was what we guineas call the vendetta
—
th
e
vengeanc
e
. It was in his eyes, in his voice. It was an obsession that got hold of your insides and twisted them all in one direction. Then there was nothing left to do but go after the point of your hang-up. It was a holy crusade, once it started. All that pain was housed in that pretty professor, and Jack had taken it upon himself to cut her loose, to free her. Falling for a woman did that to you.
I ought to know.
I
tak
e
he
r
ou
t
t
o
th
e
dancefloo
r.
Th
e
rhyth
m
oblige
s
he
r
t
o
begi
n
t
o
swa
y.
Th
e
musi
c
i
s
no
t
fro
m
he
r
generatio
n.
It’
s
a
decad
e
olde
r
tha
n
sh
e
i
s.
I
t
come
s
fro
m
th
e
tim
e
tha
t
I
wa
s
ou
t
o
f
th
e
countr
y.
W
e
hear
d
thi
s
musi
c
ove
r
th
e
Arme
d
Force
s
Networ
k.
It’
s
calle
d
‘Classi
c
Roc
k
‘n
’
Roll
’
t
o
he
r
an
d
t
o
al
l
th
e
othe
r
thirt
y-
yea
r-
old
s
wh
o
hav
e
n
o
musi
c
o
f
thei
r
ow
n
.
Th
e
Rus
h
Stree
t
ba
r
i
s
loade
d
wit
h
ou
t-
o
f-
towner
s.
She’
s
on
e
o
f
the
m.A
stewardes
s
ou
t
o
f
th
e
Ba
y
Are
a.
Whe
n
sh
e
bega
n
t
o
tal
k
t
o
m
e
a
t
th
e
ba
r,
sh
e
aske
d
m
e
i
f
ther
e
wer
e
an
y
goo
d
seafoo
d-
sush
i
bar
s
i
n
th
e
Rus
h
Stree
t
distric
t.I
tol
d
he
r
I
didn’
t
kno
w,
bu
t
I’
d
fin
d
ou
t
i
f
sh
e
dance
d
wit
h
m
e
.
‘Yo
u
kno
w,
tha
t
dar
k
hai
r
an
d
mustach
e
don’
t
g
o
wit
h
you
r
eyebrow
s,’
sh
e
tell
s
m
e
whe
n
sh
e
get
s
u
p
clos
e
fo
r
a
slo
w
danc
e
.
I
fee
l
a
bur
n
o
f
anxiet
y
ove
r
th
e
lac
k
o
f
a
matc
h.I
pu
t
th
e
hairpiec
e
an
d
th
e
mustach
e
o
n
i
n
a
hurr
y
an
d
I
neglecte
d
t
o
colo
r
th
e
eyebrow
s.
Bu
t
it’
s
to
o
lat
e
no
w.
She’
s
no
t
a
s
drun
k
a
s
I
though
t
sh
e
wa
s.
N
o
on
e
els
e
i
n
thi
s
disc
o-
loung
e
i
s
sobe
r
enoug
h
o
r
clos
e
enoug
h
t
o
b
e
a
s
observan
t
a
s
she’
s
bein
g
.
‘
I
hav
e
t
o
tel
l
yo
u
th
e
trut
h.
’
‘An
d
what’
s
tha
t?’
sh
e
ask
s
.
‘
I
hav
e
t
o
wea
r
thes
e
thing
s
becaus
e
I
ge
t
maule
d
i
f
I
don’
t.
’
‘Wh
y
d
o
yo
u
ge
t
maule
d?
’
I
pul
l
he
r
close
r
t
o
m
e.
Th
e
jukebo
x
i
s
playin
g
‘M
e
an
d
Bobb
y
McGee
’
a
t
th
e
momen
t.
We’r
e
on
e
o
f
th
e
fe
w
couple
s
stil
l
lef
t
o
n
th
e
danc
e
floo
r
.
‘I’
m
a
n
acto
r.
’
‘N
o!
You’r
e
no
t!
’
Sh
e
shove
s
m
e
awa
y
playfull
y.
Bu
t
I
pul
l
he
r
bac
k
t
o
m
e.
Re
d
an
d
gree
n
an
d
blu
e
light
s
twir
l
ove
r
ou
r
head
s
a
s
i
f
it’
s
a
goddamne
d
pro
m
instea
d
o
f
a
nightclu
b
.
‘Pleas
e
don’
t
tal
k
s
o
loudl
y.
That’
s
wh
y
I
hav
e
t
o
wea
r
a
hairpiec
e
an
d
a
mustach
e
..
.
I’
m
Aaro
n
Jacobse
n
..
.
Yo
u
kno
w,
fro
m
The Heartbeat of Love ..
.
Yo
u
kno
w,
th
e
daytim
e
soa
p
oper
a?
’
Sh
e
watche
s
m
y
eye
s.
The
n
sh
e
decide
s
t
o
li
e
i
n
respons
e
t
o
th
e
fals
e
televisio
n
sho
w
I’v
e
jus
t
mad
e
u
p
.
‘O
h
m
y
Go
d!I
watc
h
i
t
al
l
th
e
tim
e!
’