Distant Memory (17 page)

“How many kinds are there?” McCullers asked, eager to get to work.

“The government kind, the foreign interest kind, the industrial spy kind, your kind. Get the picture?”

“Yeah, I get it. Can we go now?”

“Do the truck first, then break in through the side garage door. Here,” he said handing him a small, soft plastic kit. McCullers recognized it as locksmith’s pick set, used to open locks. “Be careful of alarms. If you’re lucky he won’t know you’re there. If you’re not lucky, you will have to earn your money the hard way.”

“You make it sound like I’m going alone.”

“You are. I’m going to pull down the street and wait for you to reappear.”

“Why aren’t you coming? You’re not afraid, are you?”

Massey shook his head. “I am traceable to my boss; you’re not. It’s that simple. Here, take this.” He pulled a pistol from beneath his suit coat. “In case you get caught.”

“Well, now,” McCullers said. “Isn’t this a cutie? I prefer something with a little more weight—”

“And that is a little more obvious. This ‘cutie’ as you say is a nine-millimeter PT111 Millennium by Taurus. It’s my personal weapon. It is unregistered so it can’t be traced. Despite its size, it will get the job done.” He reached in his pocket and removed a black oxide cylinder. “This is a noise suppressor that has been designed just for that gun. Use it. It’s close to dinnertime around here, and the neighbor houses are sure to be filled with families. When you’re done, come back to the car. Now get going. We’ve been here too long as it is.”

After retrieving a pair of latex gloves and sticking them in his pocket, McCullers exited the car with the briefcase. First things first, he told himself. Position the tracking device. Kill the girl and the guy. Make his escape. Then he could plan how to get even with Massey for sucker-punching him. Massey was going to pay for that. For now, he would play along.

The clothing felt odd but good. Lisa was having trouble putting aside the thought that she was wearing another woman’s clothes; a woman she had never met. Still she felt slightly refreshed. The nap had been helpful, at least until the unwanted dream had so frightened her. The long, private cry in the shower had been cathartic. Some of the emotional weight that had been pressing upon her had dissipated.

Standing at the top of the stairs, she took a deep breath and started down. She had been hearing familiar but indistinct sounds coming from the lower floor ever since she had left the shower. Nick was up to something, and it was time to find out what.

Each step down caused her some pain. Her body was stiff, and her injured foot throbbed. She would be glad to be on the flat surface of the first floor.

A sizzling sound radiated through the living room, as did a wonderful aroma. Lisa’s stomach growled. Until then, she had not realized that she was hungry. She had eaten only a couple of bites of a breakfast sandwich at the McDonald’s in Mojave and just a few more bites at lunch. She had no idea when she had last eaten before that. Judging by her stomach’s reaction, it had been awhile.

Inhaling deeply, she sniffed the wonderful aroma. Eggs. Nick was cooking eggs. Passing through the spacious living room, she found the kitchen, a large room with oak cabinets and peach-colored tile. Standing before a six-burner stove was Nick. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. It was clear from the adroitness of his movements that he was comfortable at a stove.
Rugged good looks and domestic
, Lisa thought.
Why isn’t this guy married?

“Good evening,” Lisa said softly.

Nick jumped. “Whoa! You startled me.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” She couldn’t help smiling. “I thought you said you were out of food.”

“I did,” Nick said easily, “but then I got to thinking that I might be able to scrounge up a few things. I knew I had some eggs, but I also found some enchilada sauce, a few corn tortillas, and a can of refried beans. Voilà! Nick Blanchard’s famous huevos rancheros. How do you like your eggs?”

Lisa paused.

“Oops,” he said quickly. “That’s probably not a good question.”

“That’s okay. Over easy, I think.”

“Over easy it is.” Nick turned back to the stove and spoke over his shoulder as he continued to cook. “I hope you don’t mind eating here. If you’d rather go out, we can do that. I know a great little Italian place.”

“Actually, this will be fine.”

“I like to cook. It’s different from anything else I do, and I don’t get to do it enough. It’s creative and productive. How was your nap?”

A shudder ran through Lisa, but she chose to keep the nightmare a secret. Talking about it would make no difference. “It was fine. I took a shower. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all. By the way, you look good in those clothes.”

“Thanks. Lucky for me your sister and I are about the same size.”

He turned to look at her. “Exactly the same size I would say.”

“Can I help?” she offered.

“No. I’ve got a system going. But thanks for asking.”

Lisa watched as Nick worked. Everything he needed was arranged neatly on the counter: plates, silverware, napkins, a large can of frijoles, a carton of eggs, a package of corn tortillas, and a can of enchilada sauce. It was well organized, everything in reach. He would have to look for nothing.

“It smells wonderful,” she said.

“I think you’ll like it. This is going to take a few more minutes, and then we can eat on the rear deck. Eggs by the ocean. Life doesn’t get better than that. Feel free to look around.”

“Okay. A little walk might be good for me. My muscles have stiffened up a little.” The comment was an understatement.

“Well?” Massey asked impatiently.

“It was a cakewalk,” McCullers answered as he situated himself in the front seat of the rental car. “The truck was the easiest. I put the device under the cab instead of the trailer, just in case they decide to take the rig and leave the rest behind.”

Massey nodded his assent. “Good idea.”

“I had a little trouble getting into the garage. The lock is a high-end Yale. It took me awhile to pick it.”

“But you got in and put the tracer on the car?”

“Yeah, it’s a Mitsubishi Gallant, silver. I put the device on the undercarriage.”

“Good job.”

“It’s a waste of time,” McCullers said, his enthusiasm waning as he sat with Massey a half-block away from the house. Massey had moved down the street, waited for McCullers to reemerge from the house, and then returned to pick him up. He then drove a quarter-mile down the boulevard, turned around, and parked on the side of the road. They - could see the house, but Massey was sure they could not be seen by anyone inside—not without coming out to the street.

“Be patient.”

“You be patient. I was in striking distance when I was in the garage. I could have walked straight in, done the deed, and walked out.”

“Too risky. It’s important that we not be identified.”

“You worry too much,” McCullers said. “You should have just left this up to me.”

“If I had, you’d still be trying to figure out how to get out of that
Bakersfield hospital. We’re here because of the work I’ve done. You didn’t find them, I did.”

“You know, Raymond, you have a big mouth. Someone ought to shut it for you.”

Massey turned a steel-cold glance at him and watched as the arrogance washed from McCullers’s face. “When this task is finished, I’ll give you the opportunity to try. Until then, we’ll do this the right way—which happens to be
my
way. You’ll have your chance to finish the job as soon as it’s dark enough.”

“When will that be?”

“When I say it is and not a minute before. I figure an hour.”

“Anything can happen in an hour.”

“That’s why we’ve taken precautions. Now sit back and relax. Your moment will be here soon enough.”

I
t sure looks like our truck,” Bill Hobbs said. He took a sip of 7UP from a can. His stomach was still unsettled from the helicopter flight from Mojave to Ventura. He and Tanner were in the small conference room of the Ventura office of the California Highway Patrol. Hobbs had already checked in with local law enforcement to identify himself and his mission. Since the CHP was a state organization and since Tanner was with him, Hobbs had set up shop in the CHP administrative center on Valentine Road.

“Best we can tell, anyway,” Tanner said. They were studying a video taken by a highway patrol helicopter. “The pilot did another flyby, and the truck had been moved to the end of the block.”

“Makes sense,” Hobbs said. “The street isn’t very wide, and I don’t imagine the neighbors would like looking out their front window and seeing the broadside of a tractor-trailer rig. It’s a good picture.”

“It could have been better, but he didn’t want to fly too low. That might alert the people we’re looking for.”

“A wise decision,” Hobbs agreed. Then, using the remote control he held in his hand, he rewound the tape and paused it on the street scene. The image came to a stop. Hobbs could see the truck parked along the curb. “I count fifteen houses.”

“And all right on the beach. Must be nice.”

“We’re lucky he parked in front of the houses for a while. That limits our choices. I’d hate to have to go door to door trying to find someone.”

“We still don’t know which house,” Tanner commented. “Assuming he parked in front of his own home, we’re still looking at three possible houses. It’s not like he pulled into the driveway.”

“That would have been nice. You’re right, of course. We’re close, but not close enough. How do we pick the right house?”

“That’s not our only problem,” Tanner said. “The biggest crime we have is leaving the scene of an accident. I don’t think we can get a search warrant on that, especially if we don’t know the exact address.”

Tanner was right. Leaving the scene of an accident was a serious matter, but hardly deserved a forced entrance. There was also the matter of the untraceable VIN and license plate numbers, but that too seemed a little thin to obtain a search warrant. “Can you get me the addresses of these five houses?” Hobbs pointed at the screen, making a circular motion with his index finger. “We can check ownership through the county. Maybe we’ll see the name Nick Blanchard.”

“Unless he’s renting,” Tanner said.

“You’re starting to depress me with all this negative talk,” Hobbs joked. “If we’re lucky, we’ll at least know which door to go knocking on. If that doesn’t pan out, then we may have to stake out the area for a while. Maybe we’ll catch a neighbor coming home. We could show the pictures we got from the motel video.”

“I’ll get on it,” Tanner said. “It should only take a few minutes to make the call. My guess is that the name won’t show up.”

Hobbs knew that Tanner would be right.

Aside from its size and location on the beach, Nick’s house was - everything Lisa expected it to be. There was a hint of luxury, but in a
modest way. Everything looked new, and that struck Lisa as odd. The furniture seemed unused, the art on the walls looked fresh from the studio, and the carpet bore no marks of wear or stains. It was as if he had bought the house last week and had everything delivered over the weekend.