Clandestine

"No, he isn't. I'll be too big. The case will make the papers. I'll have too much support—from the press, plus from within the department. I'll be untouchable."

Lorna poked her chopsticks at her fried rice.

"Will you help me?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "It's my job, my duty."

"Good. Thank you."

"You're very, very cocky."

"I'm very, very good."

"I don't doubt it. My father talks of you often. He misses you. He told me you don't play golf anymore."

"I gave it up last winter, shortly after I met you."

"Why?"

"My best friend got killed, and I killed two men. Golf didn't seem important anymore."

"I read about it in the papers. My sister was very upset. It bothered me, too. I wondered how you were affected. Now I can tell that you weren't, really. You were cocky then and you're more cocky now. You're a hard case."

"No, I'm not. I'm a nice guy and I'm flattered that you thought of me."

"Don't be. It was purely professional."

"Yeah, well purely unprofessionally, I've been thinking about you ever since we met. Nice, warm, unprofessional thoughts."

Lorna didn't answer—she just blushed. It was a purely feminine, unprofessional blush.

"Are you finished eating?" I asked.

"Yes," Lorna said softly.

"Then let's leave."

Ten minutes later we were back at the parking lot on Temple Street. I got out of the car and walked around to the driver's side.

"Please smile before we say good night, Lorna," I said.

Lorna grudgingly obliged, parting her lips and gritting her teeth.

I laughed. "Not bad for a neophyte. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night? I know a place in Malibu. We can take a seaside drive."

"I don't think so."

"That's right, don't think."

"Look, Mr.—"

"Call me Freddy."

"Look, Freddy, I . . ." Lorna's voice and resistance trailed off, and she grimaced and smiled again, unsolicited.

"Good," I said buoyantly. "Silence implies consent. I'll meet you in front of city hall at six o'clock."

Lorna stared at the steering wheel, unwilling to meet my eyes. I leaned into the car window and gently turned her head to face me, then kissed her softly on her closed mouth. Her hand came off the wheel and closed tightly on my arm. I broke the kiss.

"Don't think, Lorna. Tomorrow at six."

I ran off in the direction of my car before she could answer.

10

Dudley Smith and his female brood lived in a modest, spacious house a mile south of Westwood Village. I pulled up in front of it with five minutes to spare, wearing my only light-colored suit, which was somewhat wrinkled and soiled. I rang the doorbell and heard myself announced by several girlish giggles:

"Daddy, he's here!"

"Daddy, your policeman is here!"

"Daddy, visitor, Daddy!"

Curtains were pulled back in the picture window adjoining the doorway. A freckle-faced little girl was staring at me. She stared until I grinned and waved to her. Then she stuck out her tongue and retreated.

Dudley Smith threw open the door a moment later. As usual, he was wearing a brown vested wool suit. In September. The freckle-faced little girl was atop his shoulders, in a pink cotton dress. She giggled down at me.

"Freddy, lad, welcome," Dudley said, bending over and lowering the little girl to floor level. "Bridget, darling, this grand-looking young gentleman is Officer Fred Underhill. Say hello to Officer Fred, darling."

"Hello, Officer Fred," Bridget said, and curtsied.

"Hello, fair Bridget," I said, bowing.

Dudley was laughing loudly. It almost seemed genuine. "Oh, lad, you're a heartbreaker, you are. Bridget, get your sisters. They'll be wanting to meet the young gentleman."

Bridget scampered off. I felt the momentary loss I sometimes do around big families, then pushed it aside. Dudley seemed to notice my slight change in mood. "A family is something to cherish, lad. You'll have yours in time, I expect."

"Maybe," I said, glancing around at the warmly appointed living room. "Why the light-colored suit, Dudley?"

"Symbolism, lad. You'll see. Let's not talk about it here. You'll find out soon enough."

Bridget returned with her sisters in tow, all four of them. The girls ranged in age from six to about fourteen. They all wore identical pink cotton dresses and they all looked like soft, pretty versions of Dudley. The Smith girls lined up behind Bridget, the youngest.

Dudley Smith announced proudly, "My daughters, Fred. Bridget, Mary, Margaret, Maureen, and Maidred."

The girls all curtsied and giggled. I bowed exaggeratedly.

Dudley threw a rough arm around my shoulders. "You mark my words, lassies, this young man will be chief of police someday." He tightened his grip and my shoulder started to numb. "Now, say goodbye to your old dad and Officer Fred, and wake up your mother, she's slept long enough."

"Bye, Daddy. Bye, Officer Fred."

"Bye-bye, Mr. Officer."

"Bye-bye."