Blood Test

I told him and he turned businesslike immediately.

“All right. Stay there. Don’t let anyone touch anything. I’ll get everything moving. There’s gonna be a lot of people converging so don’t let the girl get spooked. I’ll crap out of this meeting and be there as soon as I can but I may not be the first, so if someone gives you a hard time, drop my name and hope they don’t give you a harder time because you did. Bye.”

I hung up and went to Beverly. She had the drained, lost look of a stranded traveler. I put my arm around her and sat her down next to the clerk, who’d progressed to muttering to himself in Farsi, no doubt reminiscing about the good old days with the Ayatollah.

There was a coffee machine on the other side of the counter and I went through and poured three cups. The Iranian took his gratefully, held it with both hands, and gulped noisily. Beverly put hers down on the table, and I sipped as we waited.

Five minutes later we saw the first flashing lights.

6

The two uniformed policemen were muscular giants, one white and blond, the other coal-black, his partner’s photographic negative. They questioned us briefly, spending most of their time with the Iranian desk clerk. They didn’t like him instinctively, and showed it in the way L.A.P. D. cops do — by being overly polite.

Most of their interrogation had to do with when he’d last seen the Swopes, what cars had come in and out, how the family had been behaving, who had called them. If you believed him, the motel was an oasis of innocence and he was the original see-no-evil, hear-no-evil kid.

The patrolmen cordoned off the area around room fifteen. The sight of their squad car in the center of the motor court must have ruffled some feathers — I saw fingers drawing back corners of curtains in several of the rooms. The policemen noticed, too, and joked about calling Vice.

Two additional black and whites pulled into the lot and parked haphazardly. Out of them stepped four more uniforms, who joined the first two for a smoke and a huddle. They were followed by a crime scene technical van and an unmarked bronze Matador.

The man who got out of the Matador was in his midthirties, big and heavily built, with a loose, ungainly walk. His face was broad and surprisingly unlined, but bore the stigmata of severe acne. Thick drooping brows shadowed tired eyes of a startling bright green hue. His black hair was cut short around the back and sides but worn full on top in defiance of any known style. A thick shock fell across his forehead like a frontal cowlick. Similarly unchic were the sideburns that reached to the bottom of his soft-lobed ears and his attire — a rumpled checked madras sportcoat with too much turquoise in it, a navy shirt, gray-and-blue striped tie, and light blue slacks that hung over the tops of suede desert boots.

“That one’s got to be a cop,” said Beverly.

“That’s Milo.”

“Your friend — oh.” She was embarrassed.

“It’s okay, that’s what he is.”

Milo conferred with the patrolmen then took out a pad and pencil, stepped over the tape strung across the doorway to room fifteen, and went inside. He stayed in there awhile and came out taking notes.

He loped over to the front office. I got up and met him at the entrance.

“H’lo, Alex.” His big padded hand gripped mine. “Hell of a mess in there. Not really sure what to call it yet.”

He saw Beverly, walked over, and introduced himself.

“Stick with this guy,” he pointed to me, “and inevitably you’re going to get into trouble.”

“I can see that.”

“Are you in a hurry?” he asked her.

“I’m not going back to the hospital,” she said. “All I’ve got, otherwise, is a run at three thirty.”

“Run? Oh, like in cardiovascular stimulation? Yeah, I tried that but the chest began to hurt and visions of mortality danced before my eyes.”

She smiled uneasily, not knowing what to make of him. Milo’s great to have around — in more ways than one — when your preconceptions get overly calcified.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be out of here long before then. Just wanted to know if you could wait while I interview Mr. — ” he consulted the pad, “Fahrizbadeh. Shouldn’t take long.”

“That would be fine.”

He escorted the desk clerk outside and over to fifteen. Beverly and I sat in silence.

“This is horrible,” she said, finally. “That room. The blood.” She sat stiffly in her chair and pressed her knees together.

“He could be okay,” I said without much conviction.

“I hope so, Alex. I really do.”

After a while Milo returned with the desk clerk, who slunk behind the counter without a glance at us and disappeared into the back room.

“Very unobservant guy,” said Milo. “But I think he’s on the level, more or less. Apparently his brother-in-law owns the place. He’s studying business administration at night and works here instead of sleeping.” He looked at Beverly. “What can you tell me about these Swope people?”

She gave him a history similar to the one I’d received in the Laminar Airflow Unit.