time recorded as 21:05, and a check through the please-return-call box. I turned it so that Sutherland could see it. “Were you here when Dayan called?”
“No, sir.”
“Huh,” I said. Dayan had called before the Sisson tragedy, so there was the possibility he wouldn’t even remember what he had wanted. Not that a call from the publisher of the
Posadas Register
was unusual at any hour. He was either an insomniac like myself or a twenty-hour-a-day workaholic—I wasn’t sure which. The
Register
came out on Fridays, reduced from its heyday as a twice-a-week rag, and most of the time Dayan and his staff of three did a pretty fair job selling ads and sandwiching a little news in what space was left.
I folded the note into a wad and tossed it in the trash. “Huh,” I muttered again, the nagging feeling that some creep had sent Dayan the same anonymous note that had been dispatched to at least two of the county commissioners sinking to the pit of my stomach. That was all we needed.
“If Linda Real comes in, I need to talk to her,” I said over my shoulder.
“She’s downstairs with Tom Pasquale,” Sutherland replied, and I stopped in my tracks. My reaction flustered him, and he stammered, “At least I flink they are. Linda said that she wanted to finish printing the photos.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” I said. I couldn’t imagine there being enough room in the small darkroom for both Linda Real and Thomas Pasquale. Maybe that was the point of the whole exercise.
The door downstairs was beyond the drinking fountain and conference room. I opened it and then stopped, groping for the buzzer button below the light switch. The wiring was one of Bob Torrez’s brainstorms and more than once had saved a valuable piece of film from someone inadvertently opening the wrong door and letting in a blast of light.
I tapped the button twice tightly, hearing its bray down in the bowels of the basement. In a couple of seconds, the stairwell light snapped on and the doorway at the bottom unlatched with the sharp, quick
snick
of an electric dead bolt, activated when the folks in the darkroom knew that any unexposed film or paper was safely stowed.
I made my way down and pushed open the door at the bottom of the stairs. The darkroom shared the basement with the heating and cooling plant and the concrete fireproof evidence locker that had been built a couple years before during the renovation. A dozen steps ahead, the darkroom’s black doorway was partially obscured by the corner of the furnace. The door was open and the light on. Thomas Pasquale was bent over the counter examining a display of photos.
Linda Real, about half his size, stood beside him, and she was using Pasquale’s broad back as a leaning post, her elbow comfortable on his shoulder, her head supported by her fist.
“How do they look?” I said.
Linda jerked her arm off Tom’s back. I didn’t know who she had been expecting, but evidently it wasn’t me.
“Really good, sir,” she said, and traded places with the deputy. Pasquale made for the door and I stood to one side to let him pass.
“Are you going to be around for a while, or are you going home?” I asked him.
“I can stay as long as needed, sir.”
I waved a hand, wishing sometimes that he didn’t have to be so goddamn formal when he talked to me. “I just need to talk to you a minute. But it can wait if you have something you need to do.” To Linda I added, “Let’s see what you’ve got here.”
“Nasty, nasty,” Linda said.
I didn’t share her enthusiasm for watching crime scene photos appear under the magic of the darkroom safelight. Corpses in their natural habitat were bad enough without special effects.
A live Jim Sisson may have been photogenic, but he certainly had made a mess of himself this time. “These were taken after Sisson’s body was moved by the medical examiner,” Linda explained needlessly, indicating the set on the right. “And this is what Bob was
“No, sir.”
“Huh,” I said. Dayan had called before the Sisson tragedy, so there was the possibility he wouldn’t even remember what he had wanted. Not that a call from the publisher of the
Posadas Register
was unusual at any hour. He was either an insomniac like myself or a twenty-hour-a-day workaholic—I wasn’t sure which. The
Register
came out on Fridays, reduced from its heyday as a twice-a-week rag, and most of the time Dayan and his staff of three did a pretty fair job selling ads and sandwiching a little news in what space was left.
I folded the note into a wad and tossed it in the trash. “Huh,” I muttered again, the nagging feeling that some creep had sent Dayan the same anonymous note that had been dispatched to at least two of the county commissioners sinking to the pit of my stomach. That was all we needed.
“If Linda Real comes in, I need to talk to her,” I said over my shoulder.
“She’s downstairs with Tom Pasquale,” Sutherland replied, and I stopped in my tracks. My reaction flustered him, and he stammered, “At least I flink they are. Linda said that she wanted to finish printing the photos.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” I said. I couldn’t imagine there being enough room in the small darkroom for both Linda Real and Thomas Pasquale. Maybe that was the point of the whole exercise.
The door downstairs was beyond the drinking fountain and conference room. I opened it and then stopped, groping for the buzzer button below the light switch. The wiring was one of Bob Torrez’s brainstorms and more than once had saved a valuable piece of film from someone inadvertently opening the wrong door and letting in a blast of light.
I tapped the button twice tightly, hearing its bray down in the bowels of the basement. In a couple of seconds, the stairwell light snapped on and the doorway at the bottom unlatched with the sharp, quick
snick
of an electric dead bolt, activated when the folks in the darkroom knew that any unexposed film or paper was safely stowed.
I made my way down and pushed open the door at the bottom of the stairs. The darkroom shared the basement with the heating and cooling plant and the concrete fireproof evidence locker that had been built a couple years before during the renovation. A dozen steps ahead, the darkroom’s black doorway was partially obscured by the corner of the furnace. The door was open and the light on. Thomas Pasquale was bent over the counter examining a display of photos.
Linda Real, about half his size, stood beside him, and she was using Pasquale’s broad back as a leaning post, her elbow comfortable on his shoulder, her head supported by her fist.
“How do they look?” I said.
Linda jerked her arm off Tom’s back. I didn’t know who she had been expecting, but evidently it wasn’t me.
“Really good, sir,” she said, and traded places with the deputy. Pasquale made for the door and I stood to one side to let him pass.
“Are you going to be around for a while, or are you going home?” I asked him.
“I can stay as long as needed, sir.”
I waved a hand, wishing sometimes that he didn’t have to be so goddamn formal when he talked to me. “I just need to talk to you a minute. But it can wait if you have something you need to do.” To Linda I added, “Let’s see what you’ve got here.”
“Nasty, nasty,” Linda said.
I didn’t share her enthusiasm for watching crime scene photos appear under the magic of the darkroom safelight. Corpses in their natural habitat were bad enough without special effects.
A live Jim Sisson may have been photogenic, but he certainly had made a mess of himself this time. “These were taken after Sisson’s body was moved by the medical examiner,” Linda explained needlessly, indicating the set on the right. “And this is what Bob was
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