gorgeous starlets—and face it, Connie wasn't any beauty."
He leaned over and kissed her chastely on the cheek. Feeling sorry for Connie Francis...God!
2
W hile Puckett and Anne were sightseeing, a police detective named Cozzens was trying to gulp down the last of his submarine sandwich before speaking into the telephone receiver he'd picked up.
"'lo."
"Detective Cozzens?"
" Ummmhmmm ."
"I beg your pardon?"
There. One last lumpy, bumpy swallow and the rest of the sandwich—wedge of salami, wedge of turkey, onions, hamburger dills, lettuce, catsup, mustard—managed to get sucked down into his esophagus and into the roiling cauldron that was his stomach.
He was already reaching in his desk drawer for some Pepto-Bismol.
"Sorry. I was just finishing my lunch."
"Oh." Hesitation. "This is Mrs. Swallows again, Detective. From North Carolina?"
"Right, Mrs. Swallows. I remember you."
"It's been three days."
"No word from her at all?"
"Nothing. And I tried her friends at the clinic several times. She hasn't called in there, either."
"How about other friends?"
"I tried those, too. At least, the ones Beth mentioned in her letters."
So maybe there was trouble , Cozzens thought glumly. If it was his daughter involved, he'd probably assume the worst, too .
"You can do something now, Detective Cozzens?" There was just a hint of anger in the woman's voice. The law in Chicago dictated that if an adult is reported missing, seventy-two hours must pass before the police can act on the report.
"Now I can do something, Mrs. Swallows," he agreed.
"You'll go out to her apartment house?"
"This afternoon, Mrs. Swallows. Soon as I can, in fact."
"I'm trying to be optimistic," she said.
"I know it's difficult, Mrs. Swallows, but there could be a very logical explanation for this."
"I suppose you're right."
"There's always the possibility that she met somebody and went somewhere with him."
"She'd call first."
"You're sure of that?"
Mrs. Swallows sounded irritated again. "I don't have any illusions about my daughter being an angel, Detective Cozzens, but she is very, very responsible. She'd never miss work without calling in, and she'd call me, too. She knows how I worry."
"I've got your phone number here, Mrs. Swallows. I'll let you know what I find out. In the meantime—"
"—in the meantime, I'm praying."
"That's a good idea, Mrs. Swallows. A very good idea."
After he hung up, Cozzens sat staring out at the squad room, realizing he hadn't been very good with Mrs. Swallows. He should have been more consoling. Hell, if it was his daughter missing, he'd be ten times more hysterical than Mrs. Swallows.
His phone rang again and, as he grabbed for the receiver, he looked out at the squad room.
It was usually empty in the early afternoon, three long if ragged rows of desks and telephones and typewriters resembling a stage set with nobody to man them. That had been one of his early discouragements about detective status. You spent a lot of time alone. When he'd worn a uniform, he spent most of his time with a partner. He'd had an especially good one, a woman named Sharon Rosenthal.
A lone bar of dusty, golden sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the surface of Detective Cozzens' desk. The exact color and texture and quality of the sunlight made him recall, momentarily, his days back in Catholic school, sitting in the back of the classroom, chin cupped in his hand, daydreaming. He'd been a great daydreamer; hell, still was. He'd wanted to be, in those days, a pirate, an airplane pilot, a football hero and, most especially, a really neat guy like his hero, Roy Rogers.
But then he grew up and found that he wasn't any of these things. He was just this little, stubby bastard with a wife and two kids living in Chicago. Roy would never have settled for that; sometimes, Cozzens wondered why he had.
"'lo."
"Mitch?"
His wife. Or, to be exact, his soon-to-be-ex-wife.
"Hi."
"Did you see Dr. Sondegard this
He leaned over and kissed her chastely on the cheek. Feeling sorry for Connie Francis...God!
2
W hile Puckett and Anne were sightseeing, a police detective named Cozzens was trying to gulp down the last of his submarine sandwich before speaking into the telephone receiver he'd picked up.
"'lo."
"Detective Cozzens?"
" Ummmhmmm ."
"I beg your pardon?"
There. One last lumpy, bumpy swallow and the rest of the sandwich—wedge of salami, wedge of turkey, onions, hamburger dills, lettuce, catsup, mustard—managed to get sucked down into his esophagus and into the roiling cauldron that was his stomach.
He was already reaching in his desk drawer for some Pepto-Bismol.
"Sorry. I was just finishing my lunch."
"Oh." Hesitation. "This is Mrs. Swallows again, Detective. From North Carolina?"
"Right, Mrs. Swallows. I remember you."
"It's been three days."
"No word from her at all?"
"Nothing. And I tried her friends at the clinic several times. She hasn't called in there, either."
"How about other friends?"
"I tried those, too. At least, the ones Beth mentioned in her letters."
So maybe there was trouble , Cozzens thought glumly. If it was his daughter involved, he'd probably assume the worst, too .
"You can do something now, Detective Cozzens?" There was just a hint of anger in the woman's voice. The law in Chicago dictated that if an adult is reported missing, seventy-two hours must pass before the police can act on the report.
"Now I can do something, Mrs. Swallows," he agreed.
"You'll go out to her apartment house?"
"This afternoon, Mrs. Swallows. Soon as I can, in fact."
"I'm trying to be optimistic," she said.
"I know it's difficult, Mrs. Swallows, but there could be a very logical explanation for this."
"I suppose you're right."
"There's always the possibility that she met somebody and went somewhere with him."
"She'd call first."
"You're sure of that?"
Mrs. Swallows sounded irritated again. "I don't have any illusions about my daughter being an angel, Detective Cozzens, but she is very, very responsible. She'd never miss work without calling in, and she'd call me, too. She knows how I worry."
"I've got your phone number here, Mrs. Swallows. I'll let you know what I find out. In the meantime—"
"—in the meantime, I'm praying."
"That's a good idea, Mrs. Swallows. A very good idea."
After he hung up, Cozzens sat staring out at the squad room, realizing he hadn't been very good with Mrs. Swallows. He should have been more consoling. Hell, if it was his daughter missing, he'd be ten times more hysterical than Mrs. Swallows.
His phone rang again and, as he grabbed for the receiver, he looked out at the squad room.
It was usually empty in the early afternoon, three long if ragged rows of desks and telephones and typewriters resembling a stage set with nobody to man them. That had been one of his early discouragements about detective status. You spent a lot of time alone. When he'd worn a uniform, he spent most of his time with a partner. He'd had an especially good one, a woman named Sharon Rosenthal.
A lone bar of dusty, golden sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the surface of Detective Cozzens' desk. The exact color and texture and quality of the sunlight made him recall, momentarily, his days back in Catholic school, sitting in the back of the classroom, chin cupped in his hand, daydreaming. He'd been a great daydreamer; hell, still was. He'd wanted to be, in those days, a pirate, an airplane pilot, a football hero and, most especially, a really neat guy like his hero, Roy Rogers.
But then he grew up and found that he wasn't any of these things. He was just this little, stubby bastard with a wife and two kids living in Chicago. Roy would never have settled for that; sometimes, Cozzens wondered why he had.
"'lo."
"Mitch?"
His wife. Or, to be exact, his soon-to-be-ex-wife.
"Hi."
"Did you see Dr. Sondegard this
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