Early Graves
“It fell on the cars in the parking lot now, Dave’s brown Jaguar, and the off-white LAPD car. The detective with the moustache stood beside this one, smoking a cigarette, and talking to Tom Owens. Owens had shed the trenchcoat but still wore the Irish hat. Dave parked the BMW, took the keys from the ignition, climbed out of the car, slammed the door, and walked over to the men.
“They said you were slippery.” The detective pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his nose. “But you shouldn’t have done... it to me.” He pushed the handkerchief away. “You shouldn’t have involved Mr. Owens, here. You know that.”
“And I apologize,” Dave said. “But let’s count our blessings—I wasn’t shot and I wasn’t stabbed.” He brought out the letters—both typewritten on crisp stationery—and peered at them. The one with Berman’s letterhead he passed to the detective. “Call Lieutenant Leppard about this man. He’ll want to question him.”
The detective sneezed. “Damn. I think I’m getting a cold.”MoreLess
“They said you were slippery.” The detective pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his nose. “But you shouldn’t have done... it to me.” He pushed the handkerchief away. “You shouldn’t have involved Mr. Owens, here. You know that.”
“And I apologize,” Dave said. “But let’s count our blessings—I wasn’t shot and I wasn’t stabbed.” He brought out the letters—both typewritten on crisp stationery—and peered at them. The one with Berman’s letterhead he passed to the detective. “Call Lieutenant Leppard about this man. He’ll want to question him.”
The detective sneezed. “Damn. I think I’m getting a cold.”MoreLess
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