"Thanks anyway."

As quitting time drew near, the other employees began to perk up with the thank-G.o.d-it's-Friday flow of adrenaline. Joana became steadily more depressed. Glen had not called. Although they had never made it a formal arrangement, spending weekends together had become a regular thing for her and Glen. She hoped the little disagreement they'd had at his place yesterday would not be one of those foolish arguments that ballooned into a major quarrel and wrecked a relationship.

Joana was a little surprised to discover just how much she really cared for Glen Early. Being a liberated young woman with a lively career and a bright future was well and good, but as far as Joana was concerned it didn't amount to beans if there was no man to share it with. A strong, caring man. Glen.

Five o'clock came, and still no call.

One of the girls from the art department stopped by her desk.

"A bunch of us are going over to Serior Pico's for margaritas," she said. "Want to come?"

"No, thanks," Joana said. "I've got some copy to get ready for the printer by Monday morning, so I'm going to hang in here a while."

"listen to the company woman. Anyhow, if you get through before too long, come on over."

Joana gave her a noncommittal smile. Friday night after-work parties with the gang usually turned into b.i.t.c.hing sessions about the job, the bosses, and the company. Joana liked it here. In her opinion, anybody who was unhappy with a job should leave and find something else to do. The complainers got no sympathy from her.

The copy she had stayed to prepare was not much of a job, and in half an hour she had finished it and stacked it in her out box. The big empty office oppressed her, and now she was anxious to leave. She said good night to the security guard and rode the elevator down to the first sub-bas.e.m.e.nt.

Most of the people who worked in the building were gone now, and it was too early for the dinner and theater crowd to start coming in. Joana's footsteps echoed in the concrete cavern as she walked toward her car.

She got out her key and inserted it in the door lock, then froze at the sound of running feet behind her. She whirled and saw a man running down the aisle toward her.

Glen Early came pounding up and stopped in front of her, breathless and a little red in the face.

"I was afraid I'd missed you," he said. "I went up to your floor, but the security man told me you had just left."

"What is it, Glen? Something important?"

"You're d.a.m.ned right it's something important." He pulled her into his arms and kissed her hungrily. Joana let her body respond, and when they broke apart there were tears in her eyes.

"I love you, lady," he said. "And I've missed you."

"It's only been a day."

"So what? I was worried that I might have messed up somehow yesterday by not telling you how important you are to me."

"Me too," she said, laughing and hugging him. "I tried to call you at Datatron."

"I was out of the office all day, in meetings, and couldn't get to a phone. I'm sure glad I caught you."

"So am I."

"Got any plans for the weekend?"

"I was going to start a new thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, but I suppose I could postpone that if I got a better offer."

"Want to go to the mountains?"

"You and me? All weekend?"

"Yeah. We'll get a cabin off by ourselves at Big Bear. No parties, no discos, no swimming pools, just us and nature."

"It sounds like fun."

"Great. My car's outside in a red zone. I'll follow you home, and you can throw a couple of things in a bag, and we'll take off."

Joana drove Glen up to the street level and waited while he jogged back up the street to his car. Davy, the young flower seller, rolled up beside her car on his skateboard.

"You're about the last one out tonight, Joana."

"Do you keep track of everybody in our building?" she asked, smiling.

"Just the people I like. You look happy."

"Do I? I guess I am, Davy. How many bouquets do you have left?"

"Only these two-one roses and one carnations."

"I'll take them both."

Joana took the flowers through the window and pa.s.sed the money out to Davy. Glen pulled up behind her in his dusty Camaro and beeped the horn. She drove off toward Hollywood feeling warm and buoyant. Suddenly the weekend ahead was bright with promise, the dark thoughts that had clouded her mind were forgotten.

Chapter 10.

It was the irregular thwok, thwok of a tennis match on the court outside his apartment that woke Dr. Warren Hovde on Sat.u.r.day morning. He had left the sliding gla.s.s door open during the night with just the screen across the doorway, to let the fresh air in. Marge had taught him to sleep with the window open, winter and summer, and now he found it impossible to sleep otherwise.

He rolled over and squinted at the alarm clock on the bedside table. Half past eight. A whole day stretched out in front of him with nothing to do. Sat.u.r.day had always been family day when the kids were little. He and Marge had taken them on picnics or to the beach or to Disneyland. Then when the kids grew older and found their own friends and activities, he and Marge had gone out on their own little trips of exploration in and around Los Angeles. They had found dozens of delightful little shops and restaurants and picnic spots that way, which were not in any guidebooks.

All right, enough of this nostalgic horses.h.i.t, he told himself, and rolled out of bed. He did his morning quota of sit-ups, push-ups, and isometrics, then took a shower. It would be a good day for a round of golf, but he had not enjoyed going to the club since he and Marge split up. People didn't come right out and ask questions, but he could tell they were curious. They expected some sort of explanation, and he was not ready to give one.

The night just pa.s.sed had been a restless one for Warren Hovde. A troubling dream had fragmented his sleep. While he shaved he tried to remember what the dream was about. Then it came to him-Yvonne Carlson, the D.O.A. at the hospital yesterday. His mind, waking or sleeping, would not let go of the contradictions between the condition of the body, dead at least twelve hours, and the accident report, with witnesses seeing Mrs. Carlson getting out of a car and falling to the ground some ten hours after she should have been dead.

After a quick look in his poorly stocked refrigerator, Dr. Hovde went out to a nearby Sambo's for breakfast. He bought a copy of the Times and read it over a breakfast of sausage and eggs. There was no mention, of course, of Yvonne Carlson or the accident. One unspectacular death, more or less, on the streets of Los Angeles was hardly newsworthy.

He finished his breakfast and returned to his apartment at the Marina Village. This morning the sight of all the tanned, energetic young people coming and going depressed him. They all seemed so thoroughly satisfied with themselves, so confident about the direction of their lives. Hovde went inside and sat down to try to catch up on his medical journals.

After less than a hour he gave up. He went to the telephone and punched the number of the West Los Angeles Receiving Hospital. He asked the switchboard operator to connect him with Dr. Breedlove. After a series of clicks and buzzes the pathologist came on the line.

"h.e.l.lo, Kermit, Warren Hovde here."

"Yeah, Warren, what can I do for you?"

"Remember the woman who came in yesterday afternoon, Yvonne Carlson, D.O.A.?"

"Female Caucasian, fifty-seven."

"Yes, that's her. Did you finish the autopsy?"

"Last night."

"What did you find?"

"Hang on, I'll get the sheet on her."

There was a clunk as Breedlove set the receiver down on something hard. Hovde gazed out the window at the tennis players while he waited for the pathologist to come back on the line.

"Okay, here it is. Cause of death, ventricular fibrillation. Significant findings, congestion of viscera, slight edema of the lungs, and petachial hemorrhages in the conjunctiva, pleura, and pericardium. Irregular charring and blistering of the fingers and palm of right hand. Deep symmetrical burns on the b.a.l.l.s of both feet."

"And that adds up to what?" Hovde asked.

"Instantaneous cardiac arrest due to the pa.s.sage of low-tension current through the body."

"You're telling me she was electrocuted?"

"Exactly."

"And the time of death?"

"Midnight Wednesday, give or take a couple of hours."

"But none of that jibes with the accident report. The woman was seen alive by several witnesses on Thursday afternoon."

"So, like I said at the time, the accident report was f.u.c.ked up. It wouldn't be the first time. And autopsies do not lie."

"Who identified the body?"

"Let me seea" Paper rattled on the other end of the line. "Here it is. The husband, Avery Carlson. Came in at four o'clock and made a positive I.D."

"Do you have Carlson's address?"

"Yeah." Breedlove read off a street and number in Glendale. Hovde thanked him and hung up.

Now what the h.e.l.l, he wondered, did he do that for? Everything about the case made him uncomfortable-the wide discrepancies between the accident report and the autopsy findings in the cause and time of Yvonne Carlson's death, her relation if any to Joana Raitt, and Joana's bizarre story of drowning Wednesday night right here in the swimming pool. It was definitely not the kind of thing a nice conservative G.P. should get mixed up in.

With that decided, Warren Hovde went out and got into his car and headed for Glendale.

Tucked in between Burbank and Pasadena, just north of Los Angeles, the city of Glendale backs gingerly up to the San Gabriel Mountains like a fastidious middle-aged lady edging away from raffish fellow pa.s.sengers on an elevator. Unaffected by the cavortings of its better-publicized neighbors, Glendale had changed little since World War II.

The Carlsons' house was a white frame bungalow on a quiet street lined with tall palm trees. The house was freshly painted, with apple-green shutters at the windows. The square of lawn that lay between the house and the sidewalk showed the results of affectionate care. Dr. Hovde followed the flagstone path to the front door and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a dark, slim woman in her mid-thirties.

"Yes?"

"How do you do. I'm looking for Mr. Avery Carlson."

"May I ask what it's about?"

"It's about Mrs. Carlson. I'm Dr. Warren Hovde." He had learned, not long out of medical school, that the t.i.tle Doctor opened more doors than a twenty-dollar bill.

"Just a minute, please."

The woman left the door ajar and moved out of sight. Hovde could hear her conversation with someone in the room adjoining the small hallway.

"Who is it?" said a low-pitched man's voice.

"It's a doctor. He asked for you, Daddy."

"I don't want to talk to anybody unless it's really important."

"He said it's something about Mama."

"What's his name?"

"Dr. Hovde, I think he said."

A pause, then, "I don't remember him. But never mind, I'll talk to him."

A man of about sixty came to the door. The flesh of his face sagged, and there were brownish patches under his eyes from lack of sleep.

"I'm Avery Carlson," he said.

"Mr. Carlson, I'm very sorry about your loss. I hope you'll forgive me for intruding at this time."

"Yes, thank you," the man said absently. "What is it you want?"

"I was at the hospital yesterday when your wife was brought in, and there are some things about her case that I find confusing. I'd appreciate it if you could clear them up for me."

"I don't suppose this is idle curiosity, Doctor?"

"Not at all. You see, in a roundabout way your wife's accident is connected with a patient of mine. It could be very helpful to me, and beneficial to my patient, if I knew more of the facts."

Avery Carlson studied his face for a moment, then apparently decided he was sincere. "Come inside."

Hovde entered the neat little living room. The furniture was st.u.r.dy and old, and wore bright, fresh slipcovers.

Carlson gestured toward the woman who had answered the door. "This is my daughter Nadine. She's staying with me untilafor a few days."

"How do you do," said Hovde.

"Nice to meet you, Doctor. Can I get you a cup of coffee?"