“I want service, Bradley,” I said, “and I want it fast. Do I get it from you or do I go to Brandon?”
The pale brown eyes looked startled.
“You don’t have to talk to me like that, Malloy,” he said. “What’s biting you?”
“Plenty, but I haven’t time to go into details.” I crossed the small space between the door and his desk, put my fists on his blotter and stared at him. “I want all you’ve got on Anona Freedlander. Remember her? She was one of Dr. Salzer’s nurses up at the Sanatorium on Foothill Boulevard. She disappeared on May 15th, 1947.”
“I know,” Bradley said, and his bush eyebrows climbed an inch. “You’re the second nuisance who’s asked to see her file in the past four hours. Funny how these things come in pairs. I’ve noticed it before.”
“Who was it?”
Bradley dug his thumb into the bell-push on his desk.
“That’s not your business,” he said. “Sit down and don’t crowd me.”
As I pulled up a chair a police clerk came in and stood waiting.
“Let’s have Freedlander’s file again,” Bradley said to him. “Make it snappy. This gent’s in a hurry.”