Deadline by Campbell Armstrong Page B

LAPD, flashing his ID quickly in front of me. At first I imagined he must be here on account of Sondra, that he had some information to relay, that he was going to tell me she was safe.
    But that wasn’t it at all.
    â€˜You reported an incident last night,’ he said. He had very thin lips, almost like two lengths of purple twine. ‘An attack.’
    â€˜Look, I’m really pressured for time right now,’ I said. ‘Can’t this wait?’
    I was thinking about the voice on the phone and the cocktail bar where I’d been commanded to go, and I longed to be outside in the smoggy sunlight. Petrosian didn’t seem interested in what I said.
    â€˜You left the scene before anyone could question you,’ he said. ‘The perpetrator managed to get away.’
    â€˜I’m not a cop, it’s not my job to arrest people.’
    â€˜It took the patrol car four minutes to reach you,’ he said. ‘Which I consider a fast response time. But you didn’t hang around, did you? You didn’t wait.’
    I stepped past the detective, moved towards the doors. ‘Talk to me later. Call my office. Make an appointment.’
    â€˜You always in a hurry, doc? I appreciate you’re a busy guy, but this is only going to take five minutes tops.’
    â€˜I’m in … look, it’s an emergency,’ and I kept moving.
    I thought of saying: It’s like this, Petrosian, a stranger’s voice on the phone tells me my wife has been kidnapped, get the picture ? Please help me. But I said no such thing. I stepped outside, and he came after me.
    â€˜You get a look at the assailant, doc?’
    â€˜No, his face was concealed.’
    â€˜How?’
    â€˜He had a scarf wrapped round his mouth.’ I couldn’t keep the impatience out of my voice.
    â€˜And he assaulted you in what way?’
    â€˜This is going to have to wait, Petrosian. I mean that.’
    â€˜How did he assault you?’
    â€˜You don’t take no, do you? OK. He punched me here,’ and I pointed to the side of my neck. ‘Then he tried to knife me.’
    â€˜You fought him off?’ Petrosian said.
    â€˜There was a confrontation, sure.’ I moved along the sidewalk through the thick air. The details of an assault, for Christ’s sake – what did they matter? Petrosian kept coming after me; he had the persistence of a force of nature.
    â€˜You’d say it was a straightforward attempted mugging,’ he said.
    â€˜I can’t imagine what else it would be. Money. Drugs. That would be my best guess.’
    Petrosian scribbled in a little brown notebook. ‘This knife. Did you disarm him? Or did he run off with it in his possession?’
    â€˜I remember he dropped it.’ I looked across the parking-lot, trying to recall the precise spot where I’d had the encounter last night. ‘It fell under my car. Maybe it’s still lying in the same place.’ I pointed a little vaguely to one of the tall lampposts.
    Petrosian held my elbow and said, ‘Show me the spot, doc.’
    â€˜Jesus, I keep telling you, I don’t have time. Anyway, I’m not sure I remember.’
    â€˜Try. One minute is all I ask. Support your local cops. Remember, we’re the only thing that stands between you and outright anarchy, doc.’ The lips extended into a smile.
    I half-ran, half-walked to where I thought I’d parked last night. So many parking spaces, so many lamps – how could I be certain?
    The knife was on the ground, lying at the center of an old oil stain that looked like a blackened map of Scandinavia. Taking a plastic baggie from his pocket to avoid direct contact with it, Petrosian picked up the knife and examined it. I noticed the weapon had a dark rubber handle.
    Then Petrosian unexpectedly pressed the tip of the knife firmly with a finger; the blade disappeared inside the handle and there was the faint sound of a spring being