Parallelities by Alan Dean Foster Read Free Book Online Page B

heaved it back up off the coffee table while his companions cleanly and efficiently disconnected his stereo and desk computer. In response to his frantic pleading they graciously left him his backup disks, whereupon after making a quick check of the hallway to insure that it was empty, they filed out the door and closed it behind them. His neighbors, he knew, would invariably tell the police they hadn’t seen or heard a thing.
    His restraints were tight but not painfully so. In less than an hour he managed to twist and wriggle free. Though far too late to do any good, the police responded with admirable speed.
    He sat morosely in his den while a middle-aged officer with short blond hair and the first stirrings of middle-aged paunch dispensed professional empathy, asked questions, and took notes. Her partner made the obligatory sweep of the apartment, looking for nonexistent fingerprints (true pros that they were, the three thieves had never removed their black gloves) and other information that would prove useful. Neither they nor Max held out much hope of seeing his property again, but they were at least sympathetic.
    “I’m sorry we can’t be more encouraging, Mr. Parker, but I’ve learned it’s better to be straight with people than raisefalse hopes. We do solve many of these household burglaries, but not as many as we’d like.” She put her pen and pad back in her shirt pocket.
    He nodded listlessly. “I can imagine how many petty thefts you have to deal with every week,” he muttered.
    She looked down at him. “I won’t lie and say they’re a priority, Mr. Parker. This is Los Angeles, after all. At least they didn’t get away with anything irreplaceable.” Recognition brightened her expression. “Parker, Parker. Maxwell Parker? Don’t you write for that newspaper, the
Investigator?”
    He offered a wan smile. “That’s me.”
    “I remember reading your story on the Mexican Bermuda Triangle and how it was all tied in with those descendants of the Aztecs who are still living up in the mountains. You’re a good writer.”
    “Thank you. That story took a lot of research.” To be precise, ten minutes with a little-used library copy of DeSoto, he remembered.
    “Yeah, I could tell. I read a lot, and you can always tell when a writer’s done their homework or not.” Frowning, she pulled the pad and pen back out and returned to her note-taking. “You’re sure these three guys all looked alike?”
    “I told you.” He looked up tiredly from where he was seated. “They didn’t just look alike. They were triplets. For all I know, all their talk about not knowing each other was part of some demented routine they use to disorient their victims. Or amuse themselves. There are a lot of frustrated stand-upcomics in this town. Maybe these three hope that someday they’ll be robbing someone in the entertainment business who’ll hire them to appear at the Comedy Club.” He eyed the vacant shelving where his stereo had previously reposed. “Wouldn’t surprise me a bit. Instead of the Brothers Karamazov we’d have the Brothers Sutton.”
    “The brothers who?” The cop gave him a blank look.
    “Forget it.”
    She scratched at the back of her blond crew cut and shrugged. “Triplets, huh? Well, that’ll save space on the duty board. One artist’s rendering will be enough.” She grinned and turned toward the bedroom as her partner emerged. “Find anything, Remar?”
    “Cigarette butts.” The cop held out a palmful of crumbled debris. “Three of ’em. Same brand, all smoked down to the same length before being discarded.”
    “Well, that’s it, then. We’ve got them now,” Max muttered.
    “There’s no call for sarcasm, Mr. Parker.” The female and senior half of the investigating team eyed him disapprovingly. “Don’t knock the evidence before it’s processed. You never know what’s going to give the bad guys away. Neither do they, or they’d be more careful. The department recovers