Innuendo (31 page)

“Can't see, not yet. It's a white Saab, black convertible roof, no doubt about that. Just one guy in the car. He's coming this way Don't look over, Rawlins. I think he's checking us out. He's got sunglasses on, so I can't really tell, but I think he's looking this way. And… and… yes, big guy, completely bald. Maybe his head is shaved, but it's gotta be him, the same guy you saw last night.”

Forcing himself not to turn around as he heard the car go shooting past, Rawlins demanded, “What about the plates? Are they California?”

“Ah… you bet”

“Can you get a number?”

“Okay, okay, okay… let me see. Got it!” said Foster, who quickly started jotting it down.

“Excellent.”

His eyes still on the speeding vehicle, Foster added, “Yeah, but I think we've been made.”

“Oh, my God, that tip caller was just a little gold mine of information.” Rawlins reached for the ignition. “Shall we?”

“Yeah, like right now.”

Rawlins brought his car to a roar of a start, then stomped on the gas and steered the Taurus in a screeching U-turn. As he did so, Foster reached again for the radio, this time calling dispatch.

“Car 1110.”

“Go ahead, Car 1110.”

“Emergency check on a California plate,” he said, and then read off the plate number.

As before, Rawlins knew this could be instant information—data the computer could retrieve in seconds—or something that could take ten minutes or more to access. In the meantime, they couldn't lose him, and Rawlins didn't waste a moment speeding after the Saab, which had already disappeared around one of the undulating bends of Mount Curve. He passed a towering, castlelike house on his left, a red-brick mansion with a slate roof on his right, then came around a slope and saw nothing, only a quiet street lined with huge homes and the last of the century's majestic elms.

“Shit,” muttered Rawlins.

With the microphone in hand, Foster calmly pointed ahead, saying, “I bet he turned left just up there.”

It was, actually, the only possibility, and Rawlins raced toward the next street, braking at the last moment, then swooping around the corner much too fast. And there was the white Saab, accelerating with each moment and shooting down the perfectly straight block, which was lined with tall clapboard houses with Midwesternly front porches.

Noting how fast the Saab was shooting along, Rawlins, pressing the gas pedal to the floor, said, “Obviously you were right—he made us as soon as he came out the gates.”

“So he's worried enough to be on the lookout, which means things are getting curiouser and curiouser.”

“Yeah.” As the Saab approached the intersection ahead, Rawlins asked, “So what do we do, pull him over?”

“He's speeding, that's for sure. We could ticket him for that and reckless endangerment. You got a kojack with you?”

“It's right here,” replied Rawlins, reaching under his seat and pulling out a small red bubble of a light.

Into the microphone, Foster said, “Car 1110.”

“Go ahead, Car 1110.”

“Any information on that plate check?”

The voice over the radio speaker replied, “Still checking.”

Their computer was linked to the NCIC, which in turn would check the California Department of Transportation's records in Sacramento. So they should be able to get a name on this guy, but then they'd have to call down to Criminal History, which was part of the court services division, to see if he had any record.

Tossing the end of the kojack light at Foster, Rawlins said, “Get this thing plugged in, would you?”

As he grabbed the end and crammed it into the cigarette lighter, Foster said, “This guy's scared shitless, there's no doubt about it. Think we should call for a marked squad?”

“Yeah.”

Up ahead a long yellow school bus rumbled through the intersection. The Saab's brake lights flashed red, and then the bald man turned left, following after the bus, his tires squealing as he barely made the turn. In an instant he disappeared around a white house with a tall stand of lilacs.

As they neared the cross street, Foster placed one hand on the dash. “How's this thing corner?”

“We'll find out,” replied Rawlins.

Rawlins rolled down his window and was about to reach out and slap the kojack light and its magnetic base on the roof, but there wasn't enough time. Instead, he clutched the steering wheel with both hands and swerved as far right as he could. Like a race driver approaching a difficult turn, Rawlins didn't brake but only let up on the gas. Then swooping to the left in as wide a turn as possible, his tires screamed and the car dipped deeply to the opposite side. It suddenly became clear that he was going too fast, that he might not be able to control the car, and Rawlins was tempted to tap the brakes but didn't for fear of rolling. All he could do was clutch the wheel, hold it steady, and as he did so, he checked the streets feeding into the intersection, relieved at least that no one was approaching. But he couldn't do it, couldn't quite control the car, and the lighter rear end of the vehicle started fishtailing out to the side. He punched the brakes once, then let up.

“Damn it!” cursed Rawlins.

With a large scream of burning rubber, they skidded sideways into the intersection. Rawlins leaned hard against the steering wheel, his powerful arms battling the force. He glanced over, realized that they were sliding toward a red fire hydrant standing firmly on the corner. He had no choice but to trounce on the brake. They swirled around a hundred and eighty degrees, then in one noisy second came to a jerk of a halt.

His eyes wide, Foster looked straight at Rawlins, and said, “Well, don't stop now!”

Rawlins took a deep breath, pressed down on the gas, then spun the steering wheel in the opposite direction. In a moment they were whipping around, once again in pursuit of the white Saab, which had just soared past the yellow school bus like a hawk swooping past a hare.

The radio cracked, and the dispatcher called, “Car 1110?”

Lifting the microphone to his mouth, Foster said, “1110.”

“That California plate comes back clear. A white 1998 two-door convertible Saab, registered to Victor Michael Radzinsky, DOB August 23, 1959, of Santa Monica, California.”

“Copy.” Foster glanced at Rawlins, saying, “That's got to be him. Do we need a driver's license check?”

Rawlins nodded, wanting it all—height, weight, eye color—and said, “Yeah, let's get as good a physical description as possible.”

“Car 1110,” said Foster into the microphone.

“Go ahead, 1110.”

“DL check Victor Michael Radzinsky”

“Copy.”

As they quickly gained on the bus, Rawlins leaned slightly to the left and peered around the side of the bus. There was no doubt about it, the Saab was racing faster than ever down the street.

“He's getting away—call it in!”

Foster said, “Car 1110.”

“Go ahead, 1110.”

“We're in pursuit of a possible homicide suspect and need marked assistance.”

As Foster gave them the approximate location, Rawlins reached into his lap and grabbed the kojack light. Lifting it out the window, he realized the cord was tangled, and so he glanced out, tried to ascertain how he could get it up and on the roof.

Foster shouted, “Jesus!”

Rawlins's heart shot up the back of his throat. The reason he'd been gaining so quickly on the school bus was because it was stopped now only a matter of feet before him. He swerved to the left to bypass it, but then the bus driver extended the red stop sign on the side of the bus. The next instant a young girl with glasses and a ponytail stepped out from in front of the bus. Using both feet, Rawlins plunged down on the brake, and the car immediately bucked and started screeching. But there wasn't enough space, Rawlins could see that right away, knew it as soon as the girl turned toward him, eyes and mouth wide open, her small body frozen in fear. He twisted the wheel to the left, the car veered across the lane, then shot over the curb with a horrendous thud and flew a foot or two in the air.

And then came to an awkward halt on the sidewalk.

Rawlins took a deep breath, leaned forward, bowing his head onto the steering wheel. A moment later he reached down and turned off the ignition.

“Hail Mary,” mumbled Foster. “Just let me live until the day I retire.”

“Oh, my God,” said Rawlins, shaking his head. “I usually do a little better than that.”

“Sure you do.”

He looked down the street, saw the Saab now a block or more away and growing more distant by the moment. No, there was no stopping him now, even if a marked squad was in the immediate area. But now at least they had a name to go with the face, and a plate number to go with the car.

Out of nowhere a woman came screaming onto the sidewalk, her eyes spitting hate at Rawlins as she ran past the car. She charged into the street, lunging for the little girl, who still stood quite paralyzed on the pavement and who, upon seeing her mother, broke into a siren of tears. Rawlins let out a deep sigh. No, this hadn't ended in total disaster. And thank God for that.

Suddenly the inside of the Taurus was filled with a ringing. Rawlins felt his jacket, found nothing, then searched the seat next to him. He found the telephone on the floor beneath his left foot.

“Watch,” he said as he stretched to pick it up, “it'll be my mother.” Flipping open his cell phone, he said, “Yeah, this is Rawlins.”

“Hey, it's me,” said Kathy Lewis, the investigator. “Actually there was a police call to that address—just last week, as a matter of fact.”

All he could muster was a banal, “Really?”

“Yeah, but here's the interesting part—you know who lives there?”

“Suzanne Buttons is listed as the owner.”

“Well, maybe, but right now it's leased out to some huge Hollywood star who's in town making a movie.”

Knowing but wanting confirmation, Rawlins said, “Some huge Hollywood star like who?”

“Grab this: Tim Chase.”

“No shit. So what about the complaint? Was it made by him?”

“No, the call was made by Maggie Eastman, who called about a photographer who was—”

“About who?”

“A photographer. Apparently some guy with a camera was lurking around the property.”

“No kidding.”

“Yeah, but by the time two police officers arrived the guy was long gone.” Sergeant Lewis added, “Sounds like it was one of those paparazzi guys, you know, trying to get a picture of Tim Chase or something.”

“You know what,” replied Rawlins, as things were becoming clearer, “I think you're exactly right.”

The Minnesota State Fair—the
“Great Minnesota Get-Together”— was supposedly the largest twelve-day fair in the country, with an attendance of nearly two million people. It was also one of the most tacky events on the face of the earth, featuring combines and tractors, chickens, rabbits, gargantuan swine, pop stars from Bonnie Raitt to Wynonna Judd, fireworks, roller coasters, and a riot of food from deep-fried cheese curds to corn dogs and fried ice cream on a stick, not to mention a semi-truck of all-you-can-drink milk. Todd had gone nearly every year since he'd moved to Minnesota and oddly, like so many gay men, always ended up at the Dairy Pavilion with its butter sculptures of Princess Kay of the Milky Way and her smiling attendants. Which, he thought, said a lot about gay stereotypes.

Turning off of Snelling Avenue, Todd drove through the green-and-blue entry gates that only three or four weeks ago were swarming with pedestrians pushing to get in. He headed directly up one of the main boulevards, finding not a mass of people but a huge, deserted street lined on either side with food shacks now boarded up for the year. Where recently upward of two hundred thousand people had strolled each day, there was now virtually no one, a ghost town of fun. It was weird, Todd had never seen the place abandoned, per se, let alone driven right through the four hundred acre site.

He passed the grandstand where horses raced and where rock and country-western stars performed, then veered off to the left. On
one
side stood a Quonset hut topped by a steeple, which promised the best church breakfast ever, followed by a dark green shack in the shape of a bell pepper, which advertised its fare, deep-fried of course. Then came the Root Beer Hut and a foot-long chili dog place. Todd took a right at Tiny Tim Donuts and headed straight down toward a sea of pavement, now completely empty but which had so recently boasted the Mighty Midway, an extravaganza of amusement rides and arcade games.

Human beings, of course, weren't the only fair guests. Todd had recently read that something like ten thousand animals also attended, exhibiting and competing for the biggest, the tallest, the fattest, and the fastest of breed, and Todd now entered their territory. Large buildings appeared, marked simply SHEEP, POULTRY, SWINE BARN, CATTLE BARN, and finally HORSES.

Glancing down the street, Todd saw that it was totally empty except for one pile of horse manure and an empty black pickup truck. Obviously, he thought as he parked, John Lyman was waiting inside. Not at all pleased with how deserted the area was, Todd grabbed his cellular phone and climbed out.