by Stuart Woods
“No.”
“Did you ever speak to him on the phone?”
“Not exactly. When we were going out of town one of us would call him to let him know our schedule. I called once or twice, and his answering machine always picked up.”
“Do you recall what the announcement on the machine was?”
“Very brief; terse, you might say. ‘Hi, leave a message, I’ll get back to you.’ Something like that.”
“Can you describe his voice?”
“Sort of a medium voice, I guess. Not deep, not high-pitched. Pleasant enough.”
“Did he have any sort of accent?”
“Not that I recall. Sounded pure Californian.”
“When did James move out of the guest house?”
“Well, now that you mention it, I’m not sure that he has. His rent was paid until the end of this month. He put it in the mailbox, along with a neatly typed note of condolence; said he was looking for another place. I’ve been down here at the Springs for nearly two weeks. He might have moved; he might not have.”
Larsen’s heart leapt. “You said there was a telephone in the guest house. Was it in his name or yours?”
“Ours.”
“Is there anything else you can remember about him? Anything at all?”
“I’m afraid not. Is James in some sort of trouble?”
“Not exactly. I’d just like to speak to him.”
“I’d hate to think that some sort of criminal had been living in my guest house.”
“As far as I know, he’s never been arrested,” Larsen said, putting the best possible face on his reply. “Thank you for the mineral water. I’d better be going.”
She walked with him as far as her chaise longue. “Can you find your way?” she asked, stretching out her lithe body on the lounge again.
“Of course. Thanks for your help.”
She gave a little wave, then closed her eyes.
Larsen could not resist taking a moment to look her over again.
Mrs. Millman opened her eyes and smiled slightly. “Thank you, Detective,” she said.
Larsen fled the scene.
When he returned to the car, Chris was not in it. Alarmed, he looked up and down the street. She was nowhere to be seen. The radio was still playing.
CHAPTER
23
Larsen jumped into the MG, got it started, and drove off down the street, forcing himself to drive slowly, to look in every driveway and front lawn. He turned right and kept looking.
What had happened? Surely she wouldn’t have left the car, not unless she was enticed or forced to do so. He came to a driveway that disappeared behind a hedge; he turned in and drove a few yards until he could see the rest of the property. Nothing. He turned another corner. Why this route? Why not? He had no way of telling which way she might have gone. He made two more right turns and was back on Mrs. Millman’s block.
Suddenly there she was, sitting at a wrought-iron table on a side patio, chatting with an elderly woman. The house was two down from the Millmans’. He stopped and jumped out of the car. “Hello there,” he called out as he approached. His heart was banging around inside his chest. Chris turned toward him and stood up. “Are you all right?” he asked as he took her hand.
She squeezed his hand. “I’m fine. Jon, this is Mrs. Burgess; she was kind enough to come to my rescue.”
“Rescue?”
“I was waiting for you when some sort of large vehicle pulled up beside the car, and someone got out. I smelled roses.”
“I see.”
“I got out of the car and ran, ran right into Mrs. Burgess, in fact; nearly knocked her down.”
Mrs. Burgess spoke up. “The man appeared to be hurrying after her,” she said. “When he saw me, he ran back to his car—or rather, it was a van.”
“Did you see his face, Mrs. Burgess?” Larsen asked.
“Not really. He turned around quite quickly.”
“Can you describe the man?”
“Oh, I don’t know; he was not too tall, nicely dressed, I suppose; he wore a baseball cap.”
“Did you think to get the license number of the van?”
“Yes, but too late; he was already down the block, and my eyesight isn’t what it once was. It was a California plate, though; I’m sure of that.”
“Thank you, that’s very helpful.”
“The very idea of someone frightening a blind girl like that!” the woman said indignantly. “I wish I’d had time to go and get my pistol!”
Larsen laughed in spite of himself, and so did Chris. Was everybody in this country armed, even old ladies? “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll take Chris off your hands.”
Chris shook hands with the woman. “Thank you for rescuing me,” she said.
“Any time,” Mrs. Burgess replied. “Next time, I’ll blow him away!”
When they were back in the car Larsen heaved a sigh of relief. “I should never have left you alone,” he said.
“Nonsense; who would have thought he could find us in Palm Springs?” She laughed. “I’m like Mrs. Burgess; I wish I’d had my pistol.”
“I’m glad you didn’t; I wouldn’t want you to blow away the UPS man, or somebody like that.”
“You promised me lunch,” she said.
“I did.”
“Can I suggest a place?”
“Sure.”
“There’s a hotel here someplace called the Racket Club; it’s an old-time Hollywood hangout.”
“We passed it on the way in,” he said. “We’ll be there in five minutes.”
The Racket Club was not busy, but it was cool and dark, and Larsen wasn’t looking for a crowd anyway. From behind the bar, movie stars of another day smiled down on them—Clark Gable, Lana Turner, and Rita Hayworth mugged for the camera beside the pool.
“Can we lunch outside?” Larsen asked.
“Sure,” the bartender replied. “Pick a table, and I’ll send a waitress out.”
They found a table under a tree near the pool, and a waitress took their orders.
“This place was owned by Charlie Farrell, who was a big-time agent, and the actor Ralph Bellamy,” Chris said. “It was the place to be seen in the old days. I sometimes wish I had been in Hollywood during the thirties. I think I’d have liked being cossetted by MGM, having all my decisions made for me. The money’s better these days, but I think it must be a lot harder than it was.”
“My favorite movies were made then,” Larsen said. “Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, Gable, Jimmy Stewart, Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy.”
“I’d give anything to have worked with Spencer Tracy,” she said. “He may be the best actor the movies ever produced.”
“I can’t disagree.”
She was quiet for a moment. “The visit to Palm Springs was to do with Admirer after all, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was. I didn’t want you to know, unless I found out something.”
“And did you?”
“I know his first name—James—and I know where he lives,” Larsen said.
“Where?”
“Not half a mile from you, in a guest house.”
“Is somebody arresting him?”
“Not yet. He apparently works all day, comes home late. I’ll pay a call on him this evening.”
“At last,” Chris sighed.
Their food arrived, and they ate and chatted until mid-afternoon. “Well,” Larsen said, “I promised Danny I’d have you home in time for dinner.”
“Then we’d better go, or Danny will yell at me.”
“He sounds like a father,” Larsen said, taking her arm.
“More like a mother,” Chris replied.
They left the hotel and crossed the pavement to where Larsen had parked the MG. He stopped short of the car.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Wait here for just a moment,” he said. “I’ll only be a few yards away, and I won’t let you out of my sight
.”
“All right, but hurry.”
He walked to the car and surveyed the damage. The windshield was smashed, and the paint on the hood and front fenders was marred by deep scratches. But that wasn’t the only gift. The interior of the little car was practically filled with dead roses. He cleaned them out, being careful of the thorns, then went back for Chris.
“It’s okay,” he said. “We can go now.”
As he walked her to the car he began looking forward to calling on Admirer that evening.
CHAPTER
24
Larsen pulled into Chris’s driveway, and Danny met them at the door.
“Another half hour and you’d have been grounded, young lady,” he said, wagging a finger at her. He looked at the car. “What happened?”
“Don’t ask,” Larsen replied.
“Oh, Danny, Jon has found out something about Admirer. He lives near here, and his first name is James.”
“Good news,” Danny said. “Are you going to bust him?”
“You bet,” Jon said, “if I can get my hands on him.” He looked at his watch. “I’m going over there now and have a look around, and then I’ll wait for him to come home from work.”
“You be careful,” Chris said, reaching out for him and finding his hand. “You’re going to have backup, aren’t you?”
“Police jargon from a nice young lady like you!” Larsen laughed.
“Well, I had a featured role on ‘Hill Street Blues’ once,” she replied. “I’ll bet I can talk cop just as good as you—mug shot, a.k.a., murder one, freeze, dogbreath! See?”
“We could use you on the force,” Larsen said. “Do you mind if I leave my car here for a while?”
“Of course not; what are you up to?”
“I’m going over to the Millman place on foot. I don’t want my car visible on the street, since Admirer knows it all too well.”
“What about your backup?”
“I have a handheld radio in the car. You go on in, and I’ll get it.” He went back to the car, sat down in the passenger seat, and unlocked the glove box. The radio was there, charging, and so was his personal weapon, a 9mm Glock automatic, in a soft leather holster. He clipped it onto his belt, pocketed an extra clip, and retrieved a hooded windbreaker from behind the seat. Concealing the pistol and radio with the jacket, he walked back into the house. He didn’t think he was being watched, but he had learned, somewhat late in the game, not to underestimate Admirer.
“Would you like something to eat before you go?” Chris asked.
“I’d better get over there now,” he said. “There’s not that much time left before dark.”
“Be careful, and call me when it’s over,” she said. She reached up, found his face, and pulled him down to her for a kiss.
It was the first real affection that had passed between them, and it surprised him. The line between cop and victim had been crossed. “See you later,” he said.
Larsen went to the back door, looked carefully around, then let himself out and headed for the old bridle path. Once there he flipped up the hood on his jacket and with his khaki trousers and sneakers, he was just another neighborhood jogger. He briefly considered asking for backup, but he now had a strong desire to meet Admirer face-to-face—just the two of them.
He loped down the path and emerged onto a street, then followed it toward Sunset for a few blocks. When he met Copa de Oro, he turned left and jogged slowly up the hill toward the Millman house, doing an all-too-credible imitation of a jogger whose legs were slowing him down. He was not a regular runner, and he had underestimated the distance to the house.
Finally, in front of the house, he leaned against a tree, wiped his face with his sleeve, and tried to catch his breath, all the time stealing glances at the Millman driveway. The guest house was out of sight down the drive, so he couldn’t tell whether anybody was home.
His breathing and heart rate having returned to something like normal, he jogged on past the house, looked around to be sure he couldn’t be seen, then dashed into the woods. From there he worked his way around to the back of the Millman property, where he ran up against a rusted chain-link fence. At least there was no barbed wire at the top, he thought. He took a running start, planted a foot as far up the fence as he could, grabbed the top railing, and flung himself over, landing heavily, then rolling.
He found himself behind the swimming pool, and he worked his way to the left through the dense undergrowth, avoiding a walk across the exposed lawn. He was making a lot of noise, but it didn’t seem to matter. The sun streaked through the trees, low in the sky and red as blood through the L.A. haze.
He came to the end of the undergrowth and saw that he was another ten yards from the back of the guest house, across a patch of lawn. A light burned at the back of the little house. Larsen looked around carefully, then sprinted across the lawn to the rear wall of the building. He stopped there and caught his breath again.
He put an ear to the wall to see if he could hear anyone inside. Nothing, but the wall had to be at least six inches thick. He flipped back the hood of his jacket and looked carefully through a corner of the window into a kitchen. The light was on, but there was no one in the room. In the corner nearest him was a steel workbench bolted to the wall, and on the bench was a large open briefcase containing an extensive tool kit. Some sort of circuit board lay next to the briefcase, and a soldering iron lay beside that in its cradle. Larsen couldn’t tell if it was hot.
He worked his way around to the side of the house, away from the driveway, and looked through another window. A bedroom, but in the bad light he couldn’t see much, except an open suitcase on the bed. A dim light showed from the next room. He moved farther along the side of the house and tried still another window.
The living room. A small lamp was on next to the sofa, and beyond that Larsen could see several cardboard boxes, apparently full and sealed with silver duct tape. It looked as though Admirer had packed for his move and planned to come back for his belongings. Larsen peeked around the house at the open carport. He could see the front fender of a red motorcycle around the far corner of the house, but not well enough to judge its make. The van was nowhere to be seen.
How long before Admirer returned? Was he still in Palm Springs, or on the way back from his new residence? Five minutes, Larsen thought; surely he had that long. He went back to the kitchen door and carefully tried the knob. Locked. From his wallet Larsen took something thoroughly illegal, something that no police officer should have in his possession, although many did. Two small pieces of metal, milled from a hacksaw blade by a friend, came into his hand, and went into the lock on the kitchen door. Half a minute later, the door was unlocked.
Larsen turned the knob very slowly and opened the door two inches. He moved an ear to the opening and listened hard. Not a sound from the house. He stood up and opened the door.
The kitchen was small and equipped only on one side of the room. The other side was taken up by a stackable washer and dryer and the workbench. He eased the door shut behind him and walked softly to the workbench. He picked up the circuit board: it was about two by three inches and had a connecting edge on one side, but he couldn’t tell what equipment it might be a part of. He put down the circuit board and looked at the briefcase to see if there might be a nametag. Nothing.
The tools seemed to cover almost any sort of work—not just electronics but automotive and light carpentry. There was a set of socket wrenches, a small scroll saw, and a voltage meter. Nothing here that would help with an identity.
He turned and moved to the living-room door. Across the room near the little lamp was a stack of magazines, and on top was a Popular Mechanics. But what fixed his gaze was the white address label stuck to the magazine cover. It contained all the information he wanted.
Larsen stepped into the living room, and as he did, a shadow moved on the wall to his left. He started to turn toward it, and as he did, he was struck hard on the back of the neck. Emittin
g a cry of pain, he fell to one knee, but managed to grab the arm of a chair, steadying himself and hanging on to consciousness. He began to rise, and as he came up something came down to meet him. This time he pitched forward onto his face and blacked out.
CHAPTER
25
Chris jerked awake. She was sitting in a wing chair in her study, and she had been asleep. She could hear Danny’s regular breathing from the sofa. She felt for the face of her wristwatch; just after midnight. Why hadn’t Jon called?
She picked up the phone and called Jon’s direct line at police headquarters.
“Detective Larsen’s office, Officer Burns speaking.”
“Officer, my name is Chris Callaway; I’m looking for Detective Larsen. Is he in?”
“No, ma’am, he’s not due until nine tomorrow morning.”
“Have you heard from him at all this evening?”
“No, ma’am. Can I take a message?”
“Thanks, I’ll call again tomorrow.” She hung up, and she was frightened. “Danny, wake up!”
“Huh?” Danny rubbed his eyes and sat up. “What’s up? Did Jon call?”
“No, and I’m worried. There’s a phone book in the bottom desk drawer; see if there’s a Millman listed on Copa de Oro.”
She heard the desk drawer open and close and pages ruffled.
“Yeah, there is.”
“Remember the address; we’ve got to go over there.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Chris? Jon didn’t ask us to do that, and we don’t want to get in his way.”
“He said that Admirer came home from work after dark, and it’s been dark for hours, and he didn’t call for backup; I checked.” She got up. “I’ll be right with you.” She walked quickly to her bedroom, opened the drawer of the bedside table, and took out the little automatic Danny had bought for her. She shoved it into the pocket of her jeans, grabbed a sweater, and went back to the front of the house. “Come on,” she said, holding out a hand for Danny, “let’s get moving.”
