"Right."
"If you see Harney, give him my regrets."
"For what?"
"Keeping you out of his arms on your anniversary, of course." With a grin, he walked away.
Pac went to an elevator. She pushed the UP button. As she waited for the metal doors to slide open, she looked down the hallway. A man with a flower arrangement entered a far room. The minute arm of a clock on the wall made a quick jump sideways. She saw a drinking fountain and realized how dry her mouth felt. As she started toward it, the elevator door opened.
She wanted water worse than the elevator.
Ignoring the open door, she hurried over to the drinking fountain. The water tasted fine and cold, hurting her teeth.
When she was done, she headed again for the elevator. Halfway there, she walked past a telephone stall.
The clock thumped, its arm jerking.
She stepped over to the phone, set her purse on the metal shelf beside it, and took out a quarter. Then she stared at the phone. It took several seconds to recall the father's first name.
The local directory assistance operator connected her to an operator in the 425 area. "I'd like the number of Elton Everett in Burlingame."
Moments later, a recorded voice gave her the number.
Using her phone card, she placed her call to Faye's parents.
The phone rang seven times before someone picked it up.
"Hello?" answered a woman. The voice was much like Faye's, but more husky.
"Is Mr. Everett there?"
"Just a moment, please."
A few seconds passed, then a man said, "Yes?"
"Mr. Everett, this is Mary Hodges." She waited, but he made no sound of recognition. "I'm a friend of Faye's."
"Oh?"
"I met you and your wife last Thanksgiving."
"Oh, is this Pac?"
"That's right."
"Well, how are --" Abruptly, he stopped. "Oh Lord Jesus, you're the dep . . . Has something happened to Faye?"
"We don't know. Has she been in touch with you?"
"When?"
"Today."
"No. Why? What's happened?"
"We don't know where she is. We thought she might've headed your way."
"We haven't heard from her."
"She and Bass found a body this morning. A murder victim."
"Oh, sweet Jesus."
"She seemed pretty upset about it. This afternoon, she disappeared. Apparently, she packed a suitcase before leaving."
"Did she drive?"
"Her car's gone."
"And Bass doesn't know where she went?"
"Nobody does. We thought maybe she'd decided to pay you and your wife a visit."
"What time did she leave?"
"About two-thirty, we think."
"Well, then she would've gotten here by now."
"Unless she stopped somewhere," Pac said.
"She always drives straight through. She won't even stop for a meal. Nothing. She likes to get the driving over with."
"If she does show up, will you give us a call at the Sheriff's Department?" She gave him the phone number.
"You don't suppose anything's happened to her?"
"I sure hope not, Mr. Everett."
"Sweet Jesus, if anything's happened to her . . ."
"I'm sure she's just fine," Pac said, and hoped the man couldn't detect the lie in her voice.
Chapter Forty-three
Bass Fishing
Rusty pushed open a glass door and entered the brightly lit office of the Lakeview Motor Hotel. The office was deserted. From an open door to the rear came the sound of television laughter.
He dropped his palm on the ringer.
A few seconds passed, then a white-haired woman appeared. She smiled at Rusty with lips like a bright, shiny heart. Up close, he saw that the lipstick had been applied with little concern for the borders of her lips.
"Sheriff. What can I do for you?"
"I'm looking for a man who registered to stay here tonight."
"Oh, I bet I know just the one you mean. A handsome, dark-haired boy with a tongue as smooth as whipping cream."
Rusty smiled. "I never noticed about his tongue."
"Oh, my yes. A real charmer, that boy. He put me in mind of my first husband. A real charmer he was, too. Charmed his way straight into San Quentin. Enough of him, says I. He won't drag me down to perdition with his fancy ways. No sir, not me. I divorced that man quicker than you can spit, you bet I did." She plucked out a guest registration card. "This'll be your boy."
Rusty read the name: Bill Palmer. The wrong name, but the right initials. "Was he in his late twenties, six-two, about a hundred and eighty pounds?"
"Oh, my yes. And he had the most fetching blue eyes. Who'd he bamboozle?"
"Nobody that I know of."
"Now really," she said, as if ashamed of Rusty for lying to her.
"He's just a witness."
"I'd lay he's a con man or a card sharp, one or the other." She winked.
"He sells boats at the Silver Lake marina."
"A salesman! Ha! I knew it, a con man!"
"What room is he in?"
"Two-thirty. Upstairs and to your right."
"Thank you."
"My pleasure, Sheriff."
He left the office, took the stairs two at a time, and hurried along the concrete balcony. The balcony, apparently supported by steel beams, rang each time one of his feet came down. He knocked on the door of two-thirty.
Nobody answered.
Light filled the room's window, but he could see nothing through the curtains. He knocked again, then hurried back to the motel office.
He hit the ringer four times.
The woman came in, blinking.
"Get me the key. Hurry."
"Oh, my! Is there trouble?"
"Hope not."
She put it in his hand. "I'll come with you, if it's . . ."
"You'd better stay here."
He ran from the office, slipping sideways past a man about to enter, and rushed up the stairs. Running along the balcony, he unholstered his Smith & Wesson. He shoved the key into the lock, turned the knob and threw open the door.
"Bass?"
No answer.
After a quick scan of the room, he stepped inside. Nothing moved. He flung open the sliding door of the closet. Empty. He hurried to the far side of the bed. Nobody. He entered the bathroom. Nobody there, either.
Holstering his revolver, he returned to the bed. He knelt and glanced under it, then sat on the side of the mattress. He was lighting a cigar when the powdered face with the heart-shaped lips appeared in the doorway, blinking.
"I take it he slipped through your ringers."
Rusty nodded. "Okay if I use the phone?"
"A local call?" she asked, coming into the room and looking nervously into corners as if she expected to find a corpse.
"It's local."
"Be my guest. Dial nine for an outside line." Craning her neck, she peered into the bathroom.
Rusty tapped the nine, then called directory assistance. With the number of the hospital, he placed a call to room four-oh-four. Pac answered after the first ring.
"I'm at the motel," he told her, "but Bass isn't. Do you have any idea where else he might've gone?"
"I don't know. Is he registered there?"
"A guy by the name of Bill Palmer is. He checked in at the right time and fits Bass's description."
"He sure is being careful."
"I guess I would, too, with somebody trying to kill me."
The woman gasped, and Rusty looked up at her. Her red mouth hung open and her hand was pressed to her heart. "Are you all right?" he asked her.
She whispered, "Murder."
"If you want me to," Pac said, "I'll go over and check at his house. He might've gone back for some reason."
"No, you stay with Ina."
"It isn't really necessary. She woke up a few minutes ago."
"You show her the pictures?"
"I sure did. Merton LeRoy is the one who attacked her, no question about it."
"All right!" He slapped his leg. "We'll find Bass later. Let's pick up Merton. You want in on it?"
"I'm ready when you are."
Rusty took out his notebook and leafed through it. "Let's try his home, for starters. It's at six eight two Pine Street. Can you make it there by twelve-thirty?"
"I'll be there," Pac said.
Chapter Forty-four
Merton's Place
Pac watched Rusty step away from the dark window of the garage and wipe a hand on his trousers. "Damn spider webs. The van's not here."
She felt disappointment like an emptiness in her stomach. "Do we go in anyway?"
"We do."
She followed Rusty toward the front door.
"He's a mean sucker, Pac, so watch out for yourself."
"He's probably a hundred miles from here."
"On the other hand, his van could be parked on the next block and he might be watching us from one of these windows."
Three dark windows faced them. The curtains all were open. Pac's disappointment faded. She reached into her purse and pulled out her .380 Sig Sauer.
"We'll assume he's in there until we know otherwise. You cover the back."
She ran along the side of the house to the rear. Four wooden steps led up to the back door. She rushed up them.
The door had glass panes. She could easily break one and be inside in seconds. But she waited.
Through the glass, she could see only darkness.
A mosquito buzzed close to her ear. She didn't move. It landed on the side of her neck. With her left hand, she brushed it off.
A drop of sweat slid down her side. She wished she had taken time to go home and change into her uniform. She sure didn't want to ruin her brand new dress. And it was much too revealing. Fine for a nice restaurant, but she didn't much like the idea of chasing after suspects in it.
Not that a guy like Merton'll be interested, she thought.
A kitchen light came on, startling her.
She saw Rusty stride through the kitchen, the big .44 magnum in his hand.
He opened the door for her. "Merton's not here," he said. He glanced at her breasts, then quickly turned away.
She knew from their feel how they must look, but she checked as she stepped into the kitchen. Her nipples were erect under the light, clingy fabric. They stuck out like a couple of fingertips.
Just terrific, she thought.
"Let's have a look around," Rusty said. "You start with the kitchen."
He went out, and Pac took a deep, trembling breath. She returned the pistol to her purse. Then she began to search. She started with easy places: the counter top, the oven, the refrigerator. In the vegetable drawer of the refrigerator, hidden under grapes and oranges, she found a stainless steel .22 caliber semi-automatic.
There's a felony, she thought. A convicted felon in possession of a firearm.
We'll have to come back with a warrant.
She removed the weapon's magazine, drew back the slide and ejected the round from the chamber. Then she thumbed the cartridges out of the magazine. As they fell into her cupped hand, she was surprised by how heavy they felt. The weight of ammunition, even little .22s, nearly always took her by surprise.
When the magazine was empty, she dumped all the rounds into her purse. She slid the magazine back into place, closed the action, and returned the pistol to its hiding place under the fruit.
"Come back for you later," she muttered.
Continuing her search, she pulled a chair close to one of the counters, climbed onto it, and inspected the upper cupboards. They were bare enough to make the search easy. When she finished, she found a clean dish towel in one of the drawers, spread it on the floor to protect her dress, and knelt down to look through the lower cupboards.
She was reaching deep into a cupboard when someone walked into the kitchen. She pulled out, careful not to bump her head, and looked over her shoulder.
Rusty stood in the doorway, grinning. "Look what I found in the John." His arms were raised. From each hand dangled a glassine bag: one held white powder; the other held a dark chunk that looked to Pac like black tar heroin.
"Our boy Merton's doing a little business in illegal substances," Rusty said.
"So it would seem," Pac said, nodding and blushing. Except for the tie behind her neck, she couldn't feel the top of her dress touching her anywhere. It was obviously hanging well away from her front. She was giving Rusty a terrific view of her bare left side all the way down to her hip. Not just her side, but her left breast.
He seemed determined to keep his eyes on Pac's eyes, but he had to be aware of her problem.
He was blushing, too.
"Anyway," he said. "Come and have a look at his stash when you get done there." He turned away.
"I'll come now," Pac said.
When he was out of the kitchen, she stood up and straightened her dress. Then she found her way to the bathroom.
Rusty was waiting for her there.
The toilet seat was piled with socks and a wadded sheet. A white-painted wicker hamper lay on its side. Plastic bags littered the floor. Rusty toed one. "More heroin." The point of his boot touched another. "Hash. And here's uppers, downers, speed, pot. That's probably angel dust in that one."
"Quite an inventory," Pac said.
Rusty set the hamper upright and began dropping the bags in. "We'll have to come back with a search warrant."
"When we do," Pac said, "there's a .22 semi-auto hidden in his fridge."
Rusty frowned. "I'm not sure we should wait on that one. Don't want him using it on anyone."
"I took liberties with it."
Rusty's frown changed to a smile. "Good girl."
"What next?" she asked.
"First we make this place look like we were never here. Then we split up. You try to dig up Bass."
"I'll check at his house," she said.
"And I'll drop in on one of Merton's customers. Maybe he can tell me where to find the guy."
Chapter Forty-five
Backtracking
No light showed through the windows of the old wooden house on Muir Road. Rusty's headlights flashed off its windows as he pulled onto the driveway. His car rocked on the pitted dirt. He climbed out, stepping carefully.
The screen door was still propped against the house wall. This time, however, the front door was shut and no sounds came from inside. He pushed the doorbell, but heard nothing. Probably out of order.