The Door to December

you can do that.'
     'Don't worry. I can manage. They aren't that heavy.'
     'That's not what I mean.'
     'What's Mondale want?'
     Staring unhappily at the box in Dan's arms, Padrakis waited until the motor home had passed like a brontosaurus making its way through a primeval swamp. Its wake of cold air and exhaust fumes washed over them.
     'I called in to let Mondale know you were here.'
     'How thoughtful of you, George.'
     'He was about to head over to the Sign of the Pentagram on Ventura.'
     'Good for him.'
     'He really wants you to meet him there.'
     'What the hell's the Sign of the Pentagram? Sounds like a bar where werewolves hang out.'
     'I think it's a bookstore or something,' Padrakis said, still frowning at the box of books. 'Guy's been killed over there.'
     'What guy?'
     'The owner, I think. Name's Scaldone. Mondale says it's like the bodies in Studio City.'
     'There goes dinner,' Dan said. He headed along the sidewalk, through alternating pools of purple-black shadows and wan amber light, toward his own car.
     Padrakis followed him. 'Hey, about those books—'
     'Do you read, George?'
     'They're the property of the deceased—'
     'Nothing like curling up with a good book, though they're not nearly so entertaining when you're deceased.'
     'And this isn't like a crime scene where we can just cart away anything that might be evidence.'
     Dan balanced the box on the bumper of his car, unlocked the trunk, put the box inside, and said, '"The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who can't read them." Mark Twain said that, George.'
     'Listen, until a member of his family has been located and gives approval, I really don't think you should—'
     Slamming the lid of the trunk, Dan said, '"There is more treasure in books than in all the pirates' loot on Treasure Island." Walt Disney. He was right, George. You should read more.'
     'But—'
     '"Books are not merely lumps of lifeless paper, but minds alive on the shelves." Gilbert Highet.' He clapped George Padrakis on the shoulder. 'Expand your narrow existence, George. Bring color to this drab life as a detective. Read, George, read !'
     'But—'
     Dan got in the car, closed the door, and started the engine. Padrakis frowned at him through the window.
     Dan waved as he drove away.
     After he turned the corner and went a couple of blocks, he pulled the car to the curb. He got out Dylan McCaffrey's address book. Under the S listings, he found a Joseph Scaldone, followed by the word 'Pentagram,' a phone number, and an address on Ventura.
     Almost certainly, the murders in Studio City, the death of Ned Rink, and now the Scaldone killing were linked. It was looking more and more as if someone out there was desperately trying to cover up a bizarre conspiracy by eliminating everybody involved in it. Sooner or later, they would either eliminate Melanie McCaffrey as well — or snatch her away from her mother. And if those faceless enemies got hold of the girl again, she would vanish forever; she would not be fortunate enough to be saved a second time.
    * * *
    At 7:05, Laura was in the kitchen, preparing dinner for herself, Melanie, and Earl. A big pot of water was working up to a boil on the stove, and a smaller pot of spaghetti sauce and meatballs was also heating. The room was filled with mouthwatering fragrances: garlic, onions, tomatoes, basil, and cheese. Laura rinsed off some black olives and added them to a big bowl of salad.
     Melanie sat at the table, silent, unmoving, staring down at her hands, which were folded in her lap. Her eyes were closed. She might have been asleep. Or perhaps she was just withdrawn farther than usual into her secret, private world.
     That was the first meal Laura had made for her daughter in six years, and even Melanie's depressing condition could not entirely spoil the moment. Laura felt maternal and domestic. It had been a long time since she had experienced either of those feelings, and she had forgotten that being a mother could be as satisfying as anything that she accomplished in her profession.
     Earl Benton had prepared the table with plates, glasses, silverware, and napkins. Now he sat across the table from Melanie, in his shirtsleeves — and shoulder