Part 11 (2/2)

With a wrench, he brought his mind back to the subject at hand. ”Do they get into much trouble?” he said.

”Well, no,” Lynch said reluctantly. ”As a matter of fact, they don't.

For a bunch like that, around here, they're pretty well behaved, as far as that goes.”

”What do you mean?” Malone said.

Lynch's face took on a delicately unconcerned appearance. ”I don't know,” he said. ”They just don't get into neighborhood trouble. Maybe a sc.r.a.p now and then--nothing big, though. Or maybe one of them cuts a cla.s.s at school or argues with his teacher. But there's nothing unusual, and d.a.m.n little of anything.” He frowned.

Malone said, ”Something's got to be wrong. What is it?”

”Well,” Lynch said, ”they do seem to have a h.e.l.l of a lot of money to spend.”

Malone sat down in a chair across the desk, and leaned eagerly toward Lynch. ”Money?” he said.

”Money,” Lynch said. ”New clothes. Cigarettes. Malone, three of them are even supporting their parents. Old Jose Otravez--Ramon's old man--quit his job a couple of months ago, and hasn't worked since.

Spends all his time in bars, and never runs out of dough--and don't tell me you can do that on unemployment insurance. Or social security payments.”

”Okay,” Malone said. ”I won't tell you.”

”And there's others. All the others, in fact. Mike Fueyo's sister dresses fit to kill, like a high-fas.h.i.+on model. And the Grito kid--”

”Wait a minute,” Malone said. ”From what you tell me, this isn't just a little extra money. These kids must be rolling in the stuff. Up to their ears in dough.”

”Listen,” Lynch said sadly, ”Those kids spend more than I do. h.e.l.l, they do better than that--they spend more than I _earn_.” He looked remotely sorry for himself, but not for long. ”Every one of those kids spends like a drunken sailor, tossing his money away on all sorts of things.”

”Like an expense account,” Malone said idly. Lynch looked up. ”Sorry,”

Malone said. ”I was thinking about something else.”

”I'll bet you were,” Lynch said with unconcealed envy.

”No,” Malone said. ”Really. Listen, I'll check with Internal Revenue on that money. But have you got a list of the kids' addresses?”

”I can get one,” Lynch said, and went to the door.

It closed behind him. Malone sat waiting alone for a few minutes, and then Lynch came back. ”List'll be here in a minute,” he said. He sat down behind his desk and reached for the notebook again. When he turned to the third page his expression changed to one of surprise.

”Be d.a.m.ned,” he said. ”There does seem to be a connection, doesn't there?” He held up the picture of the red Cadillac for Malone to see.

”Sure does,” Malone said. ”That's why I want those addresses. If there is a connection, I sure as h.e.l.l want to find out about it.”

Ten minutes later, Malone was walking out of the precinct station with the list of addresses in his pocket. He was heading for his Great Adventure, but he didn't know it. All he was thinking about was the red Cadillacs, and the eight teenagers.

”I'm going to get to the bottom of this if it takes me all summer,” he said, muttering to himself.

”That's the spirit,” he told himself. ”Never say die.”

Then, realizing he had just said it, he frowned. Perhaps it hadn't really counted. But then again...

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