F is for Fugitive (15 page)

I surveyed my personal belongings. My duffel seemed untouched, though it was perfectly possible that someone had eased a sly hand among the contents. I went back to the kitchen table and checked my papers. My portable Smith-Corona was sitting open as it had been, my notes in a folder to the left. Nothing was missing as far as I could tell. I couldn't tell if the papers had been disturbed because I hadn't paid any particular attention to them when I tucked them away. That had been before supper, six hours ago.

I checked the lock on the sliding glass door. Now that I knew what I was looking for, the tool marks were unmistakable and I could see where the aluminum frame had been forced out around the bolt. The lock was a simple device in any event, and hardly designed to withstand brute force. The thumb bolt still turned, but the mechanism had been damaged. Now the latch lever didn't fully meet the strike plate, so that any locking
capacity was strictly illusory. The intruder must have left the bolt in its locked position and used the corridor door for egress. I got the penlight out of my handbag and checked the balcony with care. There were additional traces of sand near the railing. I peered the one floor down, trying to figure out how someone could have gotten up here—possibly through one of the rooms on the same floor, climbing from balcony to balcony. The motel driveway ran right under my room and led to covered parking along the perimeter of the courtyard formed by the four sides of the building. Someone could have parked in the driveway, then climbed up on the car roof, and from there swung up onto the balcony. It wouldn't have taken long. The driveway might have been blocked temporarily, but at this hour there was little or no traffic. The town was shut down and the tenants of the motel were probably in for the night.

I called down to the desk, told Bert what had happened, and asked him to move me to another room. I could hear him scratch his chin. His voice, when it came, was papery and frail.

“Gee, Miss Millhone. I don't know what to tell you this time of night. I could move you first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Bert,” I said, “someone broke into my room! There's no way I'm going to stay here.”

“Well. Even so. I'm not sure what we can do at this hour.”

“Don't tell me you don't have another room somewhere. I can see the ‘vacancy' sign from here.”

There was a pause. “I suppose we
could
move you,” he said skeptically. “It's awful late, but I'm not saying we can't. When do you think it might have happened, this break-in you're referring to?”

“What difference does it make? The lock on the sliding glass door's been jimmied. I can't even get it to shut properly, let alone lock.”

“Oh. Well, even so. Things can fool you sometimes. You know some of those fittings have warped over the years. Doors down here, some of them at any rate, you have to—”

“Could you connect me with Ann Fowler, please?”

“I believe she's asleep. I'd be happy to come up myself and take a look. I don't believe you're in danger. I can understand your concern, but you're up on the second floor there and I don't see how anyone could get up on that balcony.”

“Probably the same way they got up here in the first place,” I said snappishly.

“Unh-hunh. Well, why don't I come up there and take a look? I guess I can leave the desk for a minute. Maybe we can figure something out.”

“Bert. Goddamn it, I want another room!”

“Well, I can see your point. But now there's the question of liability, too, you know. I don't know if you've considered it in that light. Truth is, we've never had any kind of break-in all the years I've been here,
which is, oh . . . nearly eighteen years now. Over at the Tides, it's different of course . . .”

“I . . . want . . . another . . . room,” I said, giving full measure to each syllable.

“Oh. Well.” A pause here. “Let me check and see what I can do. Hang on and I'll pull the registration.”

He put me on hold, giving me a restful few minutes in which to get my temper under control. In some ways it felt better to be irritated than unnerved.

He cut back into the line. I could hear him flipping through registration cards in the background, probably licking his thumb for traction. He cleared his throat. “You can try the room next door,” he said. “That's number twenty-four. I can bring you up a key. Connecting door might be open if you want to give it a try. Unless, of course, you got some notion that's been tampered with, too. . . .”

I hung up on him, which seemed preferable to going mad.

I hadn't paid much attention to the fact that my room connected to the one next door to it. Access to room 24 was actually effected through two doors with a kind of air space between. I unlocked the door on my side. The second door was ajar, the room in shadow. I flashed my penlight around. The room was empty, orderly, with the slightly musty smell of carpeting that's been dampened too often by the trampling of summer feet. I found the switch and turned the light on, then checked the sliding door that opened out onto the balcony adjacent to mine.

Once I determined the room could be secured, I tossed my few loose personal items into my duffel and moved it next door. I gathered up my typewriter, papers, wine bottle. Within minutes, I was settled. I pulled some clothes on, took my keys and went down to the car. My gun was still locked in my briefcase in the backseat. I stopped in at the office and picked up the new room key, curtly refusing to engage with Bert in any more of his rambling dialogues. He didn't seem to mind. His manner was tolerant. Some women just seem to worry more than others, he remarked.

I took the briefcase up to my room, where I locked the door and chained it. Then I sat at the kitchen table, loaded seven cartridges in the clip, and smacked it home. This was my new handgun. A Davis .32, chrome and walnut, with a five-and-a-quarter-inch barrel. My old gun had gotten blown to kingdom come when the bomb went off in my apartment. This one weighed a tidy twenty-two ounces and already felt like an old friend, with the added virtue that the sights were accurate. It was 1:00
A.M.
I was feeling a deadly rage by then and I didn't really expect to sleep. I turned the light out and pulled the fishnet drapes across the glass doors, which I felt compelled to keep locked. I peered out at the empty street. The surf was pounding monotonously, the sound reduced to a mild rumble through the glass. The muffled foghorn intoned its hollow warning to any boats at sea. The sky was dense with clouds, moon and stars blanked out. Without fresh air coming in, the room felt like a prison cell,
stuffy and dank. I left my clothes on and got in bed, sitting bolt upright, my gaze pinned on the sliding glass doors, half expecting to see a shadowy figure slip over the railing from below. The sodium-vapor street-lights washed the balcony with a tawny glow. The incoming light was filtered by the curtains. The neon “vacancy” sign had begun to sputter off and on, causing the room to pulsate with red. Someone knew where I was. I'd told a lot of people I was staying at the Ocean Street, but not which room. I got up again and padded over to the table, where I picked up my file notes and tucked them in my briefcase. From now on, I'd take them with me. From now on, I'd tote the gun with me, too. I got back in bed.

At 2:47
A.M.
the phone rang and I jumped a foot, unaware that I'd been asleep. The jolt of adrenaline made my heart clatter in my chest like a slug of white-hot metal on a stone floor. Fear and the shrilling of the phone became one sensation. I snatched up the receiver. “Yes?”

His tone was low. “It's me.”

Even in the dark, I squinted. “Bailey?”

“You alone?”

“Of course. Where
are
you?”

“Don't worry about that. I don't have much time. Bert knows it's me, and I don't want to take a chance on his calling the cops.”

“Forget it. They can't get a trace on a call that fast,” I said. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. How are things there, pretty bad?”

I gave him a brief rundown on what was happening. I didn't dwell on Royce's collapse because I didn't want to worry him, but I did mention that someone had broken in. “Was it you, by any chance?”

“Me? No way. This is the first time I've been out,” he said. “I heard about Tap. God, poor bastard.”

“I know,” I said. “What a chump he was. It looks like he didn't even have a real load in the gun. He was firing rock salt.”

“Salt?”

“You got it. I checked the residue at the scene. I don't know if he realized what it was or not.”

“Jesus,” Bailey breathed. “He never had a chance.”

“Why did you take off? That was the worst move you could possibly have made. They probably have every cop in the state out. Were you the one who set it up?”

“Of course not! I didn't even know who it was at first, and then all I could think to do was get the hell out of there.”

“Who could have put him up to it?”

“I have no idea, but somebody did.”

“Joleen might know. I'll try to see her tomorrow. In the meantime, you can't stay on the loose. They've got you listed as armed and dangerous.”

“I figured as much, but what am I supposed to do? The minute I show up, they're going to blow me off the face of the earth, same as Tap.”

“Call Jack Clemson. Turn yourself in to him.”

“How do we know it wasn't him set me up?”

“Your own attorney?”

“Hey, if I die, it's over. Everybody's off the hook. Anyway, I gotta get myself out of here before—” I heard an intake of breath. “Hang on.” There was a silence. His end of the conversation had reverberated with the hollow echo of a phone booth. Now I heard the metal bi-fold door squeak. “All right, I'm back. I thought there was somebody out there, but it doesn't look like it.”

“Listen, Bailey. I'm doing what I can, but I could use some help.”

“Like what?”

“Like what happened to the money from the bank job you did?”

A pause. “Who told you about that?”

“Tap, last night at the pool hall. He says you left it with Jean, but then the last he heard, the whole forty-two thousand had disappeared. Could she have taken it herself?”

“Not Jean. She wouldn't have done that to us.”

“What was the story she told you? She must have said something.”

“All I know is she went to lay hands on it and the whole stash was gone.”

“Or so she said,” I put in.

I could hear him shrug. “Even if she did take it, what was I going to do, turn her in to the cops?”

“Did she tell you where she'd hidden it?”

“No, but I got the impression it was somewhere up there at the hot springs where she worked.”

“Oh, great. Place is huge. Who else knew about the money?”

“That's all as far as I know.” He hissed into the phone.

I could feel my heart do a flip-flop. “What's wrong?”

Silence.

“Bailey?”

He severed the connection.

Almost immediately, the phone rang again. A sheriff's deputy advised me to remain where I was until a car could pick me up. Good old Bert. I spent the rest of the night at the county sheriff's department, being variously questioned, accused, abused, and threatened—quite politely, of course—by a homicide detective named Sal Quintana, who wasn't in a much better mood than I was at that point. A second detective stood against the wall, using a broken wooden match to clean the plaque off his teeth. I was certain his dental hygienist would applaud his efforts when he saw her next.

Quintana was in his mid-forties, with closely cropped black hair, big, dark eyes, and a face remarkable for its impassivity. Dwight Shales's face had the same deadpan look: obdurate, unresponsive, aggressively blank. This man was probably twenty pounds overweight, with a shirt size that hadn't quite conceded the point. The extra weight across his back had pulled his sleeves up an inch, and where his wrist extended, there were already a few gray hairs mingled with the black. He had good teeth, and my assessment of his
looks might have been upgraded if he'd smiled. No such luck. He seemed to be operating on the theory that Bailey Fowler and I were in cahoots.

“You're crazy,” I said. “I only saw the man once.”

“When was that?”

“You know when. Yesterday. I signed in at the desk. You've got it right there in front of you.”

His gaze flicked down to the papers on the table. “You want to tell us what you talked about?”

“He was depressed. I tried to cheer him up.”

“You fond of Mr. Fowler?”

“That's none of your business. I'm not under arrest and I'm not charged with anything, right?”

“That's right,” he said patiently. “We're just trying to understand the situation here. I'm sure you can appreciate that, given the circumstances.” He paused while the second detective leaned down and murmured something indistinct. Quintana looked back at me. “I believe you were present in the courtroom when Mr. Fowler escaped. You have any contact with him at the time?”

“None. Zippity-doo-dah.”

He didn't react at all to my flippancy. “When you spoke with Mr. Fowler on the telephone, did he give you any indication where he was calling from?”

“No.”

“Was it your impression he was still in the area?”

“I don't know. I guess so. He could have called from anyplace.”

“What'd he tell you about the escape?”

“Nothing. We didn't talk about that.”

“You have any idea who picked him up?”

“I don't even know which direction he went. I was still in the courtroom when the shots were fired.”

“What about Tap Granger?”

“I don't know anything about Tap.”

“You spent enough time with him the night before,” he remarked.