Earth Angel (29 page)

“So,” he said lightly, “I say it’s Colonel Mustard in the kitchen with the pipe. What do you say?”

“What’s the name of the Jewish camp Rachel wants to attend?”

“Eliezer Ben-Yehuda School. It’s named after the man who single-handedly reestablished the Hebrew language. Kind of an interesting
guy, not especially religious, but
dedicated to reviving Hebrew as a spoken language. He emigrated to Palestine at the beginning of the twentieth century. Even
there people spoke mostly Yiddish. Hebrew was a dead language, like Latin. They didn’t even have a dictionary, in fact, they
didn’t have a word for dictionary, or for soldier, newspaper, toothbrush. This guy starts making words up, taking them from
Hebrew root words and then just creating them. Now Hebrew is the official language of the whole country.” He tapped the sheets
of paper with his notes. “But more people know about this serial kidnapper than they do about Eliezer.”

Now that I knew the camp, I could check into the fee, maybe prepay it and have them give it to her as a form of scholarship
so she’d never know it was from me. As for Josh’s car, a new Mustang should do. That’s what I drove when I was a teenager,
my mother’s turquoise convertible Mustang. Finally, the water heater. I’d just call up some company and order the best. I
felt a sense of accomplishment more profound than if I’d actually identified the kidnapper.

David ejected the tape from his little recorder. “If I hear this song once more I’m going to throw myself under the 3:10 to
Yuma.”

I pulled the street map across the coffee table. One of us had dripped jelly on it, though I couldn’t remember who. I yawned,
exhausted. “Well, we’ve got a Leonard Street and an Indian Wells Road, which covers the writers. I don’t see anything named
Daves, after the director.”

“Maybe it’s a variation. Like David.”

“Are you saying you’re the kidnapper?”

“Maybe there’s a synagogue or something like that with David in the name. Or maybe there’s a Star of David.”

“Like on a Jewish delicatessen.” Like the one on my parents’ sign. “You have any phone books?”

David returned with half a dozen phone books. “Take your pick. They keep arriving at my door.”

I took the thickest white pages and looked up Daves, hoping for a business. My heart actually buzzed when I saw Dave’s Donuts
on Elmore Street. The director and the story’s writer at the same address. I showed it to David.

“But the address is twelve forty-five, not one fifty-five,” he said.

“Maybe one fifty-five isn’t an address,” I said. “Maybe it’s a time.”

We both looked at our watches. Two-thirty.

“Could be 1:55 tomorrow or the next day,” David said. “We don’t know if it’s afternoon or morning.”

“We don’t know that it means a time at all. We don’t even know if any of this is accurate or just our own too-clever bullshit.”

“We should call them, the donut shop,” David suggested. “Tell them to be careful.”

I shook my head. “What if the kidnapper works there and we end up warning him?”

“Then let’s call the cops. Tell them what we think. They’ll check it out.”

I got up, went to the door. “I need sleep.”

“Aren’t we going to call first?”

“I’ll call on the way home, from a public booth. That way they can’t trace it back to you. Believe me, you don’t want the
kind of media attention something like this could bring. And if by some miracle we are right, we don’t want the kidnapper
to know who we are.”

“I could hang up before they completed the trace,” David said.

“They don’t have to run a trace, David. The moment you call them, they’ve got your number. It’s not like TV.”

David walked me to my car and kissed me. Neither of us had much energy to make too much out of it.

“You’ll call, right? The cops?”

I nodded. “I’ll call.”

* * *

The next morning I was awakened by loud knocking on my door. It was David.

He brushed past me with an anxious look on his face. He carried a newspaper, which he snapped open and dropped on the bed
for me to see. The headline was bold: THIRD KIDNAPPING!

“Shit!” I said.

“A twelve-year-old girl was kidnapped from the parking lot of Dave’s Donuts at about two in the morning. A guy inside saw
her get yanked into a van. A Ford van.”

“
Van
Heflin. Glenn
Ford
. We hadn’t even thought of that.”

“I heard on the radio on the way here that they found the abandoned van. It was stolen.”

“And the girl?”

“She’s still missing.” David paced to the window and back again. “We’ve got to go to the police, Grace. You know that, don’t
you?”

Saving Grace

A
T THE SAME TIME THE COPS ARRIVED
I
NOTICED THE DRIED SEMEN
on my bedspread. They pounded on the door while I stared at the stain, shaped with two peaks like Batman’s cowl. Apparently
the motel housekeepers, which consisted of the old man’s wife and middle-aged daughter, either didn’t see it, or didn’t think
it significant enough to merit changing the whole bedspread. Did they discuss it between themselves first? “Look, Ma, the
whore left a slut-puddle.” The mother’s face may have hardened. “Let her wallow in her own sin, daughter. Just change the
pillowcases and make sure there’s a Bible in the nightstand.”

Stupid thoughts. Especially with the police knocking insistently on the door. And me just sitting on the edge of the bed,
circling the spot with my finger.

David came out of the bathroom, adjusting his zipper. He looked at the door then over at me. “You okay?” he asked.

“Ms. Weiss?” a man’s voice called. “Are you in there?”

“Are you?” David asked. “We can ignore them until they go away.”

I felt like one of those rodeo bull-riders, straddling
twenty-five hundred pounds of stomping, bucking bull in a tiny wooden chute. That motel door was like the chute door that
released the bull. Once it opened, I was in for the ride of my life. I nodded to David. “Let it rip.”

He opened the door.

A man and a woman entered. He was tall and stocky, the general size and shape of a vending machine. His Adam’s apple stuck
out as if he’d swallowed an egg and it was hard not to stare. He had a coffee stain on his tie, but it didn’t look like Batman
or anything else I could recognize. “I’m Sergeant Ian McCauley. This is Lieutenant Darlene Trump.”

She was even taller than he, maybe six one, but thin and angular. He was in his early thirties, she was in her mid-forties.
She carried a large leather briefcase and wore a nondescript cotton dress, stockings, and brown penny loafers, like a high
school history teacher. I had the feeling that none of the clothes she bought ever fit her just right, that shopping was always
an act of necessity and frustration. Nevertheless, she smiled brightly and stuck out a large hand at me. Her hand was cool
and dry, despite the early morning heat. “Grace? I’m Darlene Trump,” she said, shaking my hand, “and yes, I’m related to Donald
Trump. Something like third or fourth cousins. But I’ve never met him and I’m broke. You were wondering, weren’t you?”

“Actually, yes,” I said.

“Everyone does.” She turned to David. “David Payton?”

“Yes.” He shook her hand. “Have they found the missing girl yet?”

“Not yet,” she said.

“I’m sorry we were too late,” I said.

“Don’t blame yourselves. You didn’t kidnap anyone. It’s surprising how in a case like this, so many people blame themselves
much more than the kidnapper ever does. The counterman at Dave’s Donuts broke down and cried. Anyway,
we appreciate your calling us. No one wants to get involved in this kind of case if they don’t have to.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say we’re involved, really,” I said. “I just recognized one thing, one phrase. Probably a million people
who could do the same. Frankie Laine for one.”

I watched her face, looking for any sign of recognition that she knew who I really was. But there was nothing, just a friendly
smile as she crossed the room and took a chair at the counter of the kitchenette. Sgt. McCauley followed her, though he didn’t
sit. He leaned on the counter.

“What we’d like to do right now is show you some of the previous notes we’ve received. Have you look them over, see what you
make of them.” She opened her briefcase and pulled out some photocopies.

I backed away. “I just got lucky that one time. You must have experts who can do whatever I can do much better.”

Sgt. McCauley snorted. “We’ve got experts on everything. We’ve got certified Mensa geniuses and a couple of Nobel Prize winners.
So far they’ve given us zip.”

“He’s right,” Lt. Trump said. “It’s a measure of our desperation that we took that note you videotaped to a psychic. By the
way, we’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention that fact to anyone. The public likes to think we’re cracking the case with
DNA matching and ultrasound gismos and such. They find out about Mrs. Hudson and there might be a panic.”

“Could be worse if they find out you came to me,” I said. “I don’t have any abilities at all, psychic or otherwise.”

She got up and walked to me. She towered over me. Her straight hair was shoulder-length and the same nondescript shade of
brown I had dyed my hair to look like. She “handed me the photocopies. “Just have a look. Tell us what you think. If it doesn’t
work out, we’ll be on our way.”

I looked over at David. He came over and put his arm around me. “You want me to stay?”

I shook my head. “You better go check on the kids. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

“Wait a minute,” Lt. Trump said. “I thought the two of you worked on this together.”

“Not really,” David said. “I just held her jacket, she’s the one who belted the home run. I’d never even heard of
3:10 to Yuma
, let alone knew there were two versions of the theme song.”

“I hate this shit,” McCauley groused. “Six o’Clock Killers.”

“Six o’Clock Killers?” I said.

Lt. Trump nodded. “It’s what we call these kind of criminals. The ones who leave notes or send tapes to the press.”

“They want to be stars on the six o’clock news, they want to be on
Hard Copy
.” Sgt McCauley took out a piece of Trident and stuck it in his mouth. “At least with your normal criminal, they just want
to do whatever it is they do and get away with it. These sick fucks… sorry… these idiots just want someone to play with. Probably
were the last ones picked to play ball in the neighborhood so now they’ll show the world.” He chewed his gum fiercely.

David kissed me on the cheek. “Call me as soon as you’re done, right?”

“Right.”

He hesitated. “You sure you don’t want me to stay, Grace?”

Of course I wanted him to stay, but I didn’t want him around in case they questioned me in such a way that I had to reveal
who I really was. “Go,” I said. “I’ll call.”

He squeezed my hand and left. When he was gone, I sat on the bed, covering the stain, and read the three previous notes from
the kidnapper. They all began the same, with the same memo-style heading: To: Santa Barbara Police Dept. From: Secret Admirer.
Re: Next Kidnapping. The first one read: “Of this I never tire of saying, ‘I need cash!’ ” The second one read: “Keep this
key: No one
should ever be separated.” The third read: “Like the apple says: There is no gravity, the earth sucks.”

I reread the notes several times. I put them on my lap and rubbed my eyes.

“Anything?” Lt. Trump asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Is it a movie thing like the other notes?” Sgt. McCauley asked. “Or is he mixing it up?”

I sighed. “I really don’t know. I told you it was a fluke before. I knew one little bit of trivia and it paid off. You’d be
better off with a film expert, somebody who really knows their stuff. They probably have a few over at the university.”

“Yes they do,” Lt. Trump said stiffly. “Naturally we were hoping to consult as few people as possible. The more people we
talk to, the better the chance the kidnapper will find out and change his MO. Right now, you’re the best lead we have. After
your tip we’ve started combing the video rental stores, see who might have rented
3:10 to Yuma
. We’re checking when the last time that movie was broadcast locally, see if it was on a cable system, maybe get a list of
local subscribers. Because of you, we’re at least doing something other than hoping he’ll try to kidnap me by mistake.”

“I’m sorry, this stuff is gibberish to me. I don’t recognize anything.” I shrugged for emphasis.

Lt. Trump nodded, looking disappointed. “Well, it was a long shot.” She stared at me without speaking.

I felt itchy under her gaze. I stood up and walked to the door. “If I think of anything, I’ll call,” I said.

Sgt. McCauley quickly spoke up. “Make sure you speak only to us, okay? No one else. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Lt. Trump looked over at him and said, “Ian, will you wait for me in the car?”

Sgt. McCauley unpeeled another stick of Trident and
shoved it into his mouth to join the other piece. He left without saying anything.

I stood by the door, a not-so-subtle hint that I wanted her to leave. She ignored me and began strolling around the room,
her hands behind her back but looking at everything of mine that was lying about. “You play guitar?”

I expected her to pick it up and play, just as David had. “A little,” I said. “You?”

“Nope. My mom had me at piano lessons three days a week for five years, I still can’t play ‘Heart and Soul.’ I don’t listen
to music much, not even the oldies. Hell, I didn’t listen when I was a teen, so they don’t have any nostalgia value. My daughter
walks around with Walkman headphones all day. The world’s wisdom is reduced to song lyrics.” She bent over my song book. “Paul
Simon. I know him. He married that young singer.” She looked over at me and smiled. “I like gossip. Probably why I became
a cop. You get all the gossip first.”

I stood by the door and watched her walk around the room. I felt as if I were watching a lion circling its prey.