“No,” Mason admitted, “I think he’ll be sore we’ve done as much as we have. — And I can’t get over my hunch that John Milicant is really L. C. Conway.”
“Has Paul Drake found out anything?”
“I haven’t been in touch with him for a while,” Mason said. “He telephoned he had some routine stuff to report. I told him to let it wait until after the habeas corpus. I’ll step on it and get back to the office in time to hear what he has to say before we go back to court.”
“You’re stepping on it now, Chief,” she said, glancing at the speedometer.
Mason grinned. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Look at this.”
“I’m looking,” she observed, “—and you missed that boulevard stop entirely.”
“I didn’t miss it,” Mason said. “I took it in my stride.”
“Stride is right. You...” She broke off as the low wail of a siren directly behind them signaled them over to the curb.
In stolid silence, Mason sat at the wheel while the officers pulled alongside. One of them, leaving the prowl car, started to make out a ticket. The other stood with an arrogant foot on the running board and bawled, “Where’s the fire?”
“Central and Clark,” Mason said.