Snowball in Hell

«No Christmas lights at Christmas Tree Lane this year,» the younger one commented as they drove down the streets decked in garland.
The older cop said gravely. «You do know there's no Santy Clause, right Sullivan?»
The younger cop reddened and fell silent.
Spain was alone in his office when Nathan was shown in. He nodded to Nathan's police escort, who backed out, shutting the door behind them.
«Sit down,» Spain said, and Nathan took a chair across from the orderly desk. Spain looked crisp and clean-shaven in a navy suit. The wedding band on his left hand shone brightly.
«Coffee?» Spain asked politely. «Smoke?»
«Thanks.»
Spain poured him a cup of coffee from a flask. Nathan sipped, and the coffee, cut with chicory, wasn't bad, though nothing as good as pre-rationing coffee. The lieutenant had a
nice set-up here. Nathan's eyes were drawn to the photograph of a dark-haired woman on the bookshelf behind the desk. She looked pretty. She looked like the kind of wife someone like Lt. Mathew Spain would have. The bookshelf was full of books on the law and police procedure.
Spain proffered a pack of Camels. Nathan took one, and Spain leaned forward to light it for him. Spain's hands were large and well-shaped. His lashes made dark crescents against his cheekbones. As though he felt Nathan's stare, he raised his eyes-and Nathan couldn't look away.
He stared into Mathew Spain's long-lashed hazel eyes, and he realized with sudden terrible clarity that Spain knew all about him. Knew exactly what he was. Knew it as surely as though Nathan's ugly history were an open file on his Spain's tidy desk. In fact … Nathan glanced at Spain's desktop as though somehow the explanation could be found there, because how did Spain know? How? Had it become that obvious? Like a scarlet letter branded into his skin-or the mark of Cain?
Hot blood flushed Nathan's face, and just as quickly drained away, leaving him feeling light-headed. He drew back, drawing sharply on his cigarette. He sat very straight.
Spain flicked his lighter closed, put it away. He seemed to be in no hurry.
«Why am I here?» Nathan asked, blowing out a stream of blue smoke. His voice was just about steady.
Spain watched him, eyes very direct between his straight, black eyebrows. «Why didn't you mention you were with the Arlen kid on Saturday night?»
«I wasn't with him,» Nathan said. «I ran into him at the Las Palmas Club. We had a drink together.» He shrugged.
«Were you with him when Claire Arlen and her brother showed up?»
Nathan hesitated. «Me and half the bar.»
«What happened?»
«Claire arrived with her brother, Carl, and asked Phil to come home. He declined. She got upset and said some things. She'd been drinking, I think. Anyway, Carl convinced her to leave. That's pretty much it.»
Spain grinned, a white and charmingly crooked grin. All at once he looked a lot younger and a lot friendlier. «Well, that's a very careful, factual recounting of what took place; I bet you're a pretty good reporter. You understand the power of words. Other people we've interviewed have used words like 'screamed' and 'threatened' and 'demanded'.»
«Like I said, she'd had a few drinks. Her brother took her home before she could get into any real trouble.»
Spain leaned back in his swivel chair and rubbed his chin. «Listen, Sir Galahad, it might interest you to know that the lady in question didn't mind throwing you to the wolves. She said it looked to her like you were pretty angry with Philip yourself. Like you were mad enough to kill.»
«She doesn't know me very well.» Nathan studied the ashes on his cigarette.
«Did she threaten to kill her husband and Pearl Jarvis?»
«She might have.» Nathan smiled wryly. «I wasn't listening that carefully to tell you the truth.»
«Why's that?»
Nathan said slowly, «I went there for a few drinks and some laughs, but after I got there … I realized that really wasn't what I needed.»
«What did you need?» Spain asked-and Nathan, for the life of him, couldn't think of how to answer.
Neither of them spoke. Neither of them looked away.
Nathan's heart was jerking like a marlin on the end of a very short line; he felt like it was going to slip the hook and go banging around his rib cage.
The door opened behind him, and the tall, gray-haired detective Spain had called Jonesy, stuck his head in. «Loot, the Jarvis girl never came home last night either,» he said.
«Looks like she's lying low,» Spain said. «She didn't turn up for her show at the Las Palmas Club last night again.»
Jonesy inquired, «You think something happened to her?» He didn't sound too worried about it.
«Maybe.» Spain looked at Nathan. «But according to you, Mrs. Arlen wasn't mad enough to really hurt anybody. And I can't see why anyone else needs to get rid of the late Mr. Arlen's girlfriend. Can you?»
He was baiting Nathan a little, but not offensively so.
«Maybe she knew who kidnapped Arlen,» Nathan said. He wondered whether they had already interviewed Pearl and this was merely a follow-up, or if they hadn't questioned her at all yet. He suspected the latter, because as far as he could tell, she'd already skipped town.
It occurred belatedly to him that Spain probably knew he'd been trying to find Pearl too.
«Yeah,» Spain was saying thoughtfully. «Those kidnappers.»
«You don't think he was kidnapped?» Nathan glanced back at Jonesy. He was leaning against the office wall, arms folded. He could feel that Jonesy didn't like him, could feel it in the way Jonesy watched him. He couldn't tell how Spain felt about him.
«I like to keep an open mind,» Spain mused. He looked at Jonesy too, although he spoke to Nathan. «So tell me what happened after Mrs. Arlen made her threats and was escorted home by her brother.»
«Miss Jarvis returned to her table and friends. Not long after that they all left.»
«So she wasn't with Arlen?»
«They didn't speak once as far as I noticed. She doesn't perform there on the weekends, she was there as a guest like anyone else.»
«How long after she left before Arlen left?»
Nathan recognized this for the trap it was.
«Maybe half an hour. Phil and I walked outside together. We said goodnight. He walked east. I walked west. The next time I saw him he was lying in the grass at Brea Tar Pits. Dead.»
Spain glanced past Nathan to Jonesy. «Did anyone follow him? Any cars suddenly start up along the street?»
Nathan was tempted to lie, to make up a story that might keep them off his back for a while, but he shook his head. «I didn't see anything.»
Silence.
Nathan smoked his cigarette, waiting, refusing to indicate by so much as a flicker of eyelash how tense he was. Unless they knew about Phil Arlen, all they had on him was the fact that he'd left the club when Arlen had. It wasn't enough to hold him, let alone charge him.
But if they had already found out how young Phil supplemented his income, then they had him. Spain already suspected what Nathan was-and he could arrest him on suspicion alone.
«Why didn't you tell us you were with the Arlen kid?» Spain asked again, and his voice was a little harsher. «It looks a little suspicious from our perspective, if you see what I mean.»
«A lot of people were there that night,» Doyle said. «I guess I didn't think I had anything important to tell. I knew you'd find out about it, so it's not like I was trying to hide anything.»
Jonesy snorted. Nathan glanced back at him, stubbed his cigarette out, declining to respond.
«Anything else you want to tell us?» Spain asked finally.
Nathan looked up, and knew his surprised look gave the game away, but he couldn't help it. Of course he should have told them he was with Arlen. Of course his actions looked suspicious. Of course he was hiding something. He knew it. They knew it. So what was going on? Meeting Spain's eyes again, he understood that Spain wasn't fooled for one minute, but for some reason he was letting him walk away. For now.