Dead Letter (Digger) (18 page)

"About fifty minutes ago."

"Thank you. Any other calls?"

"No, sir."

Where were Allison and Danny? His mind turned that question over as he used his credit card to call Koko in Las Vegas. She answered on the first ring.

"Yeah, sweetmeat," he said.

"Digger," she said excitedly, "it’s the stolen car."

"What is?"

"I remember you told me it didn’t have any prints on it."

"That’s right."

"None at all," she said.

"Right."

"Digger," she said, her voice rising in pitch, "would a car thief wipe off all the fingerprints in a car?"

"I never heard of it," Digger said.

"You know who would?" she asked.

"Who?"

"Only the owner. If he stole the car himself. He might make the mistake of wiping off all the prints, just to make sure no one noticed there were no strange prints. To make it look like a real thief. Maybe because he was a little spooked and nervous. Digger, check the owner."

"I just tried to," Digger said. His stomach felt as if it were sinking into his shoes.

"Well?" she said.

"He’s gone. With Allison," Digger said.

"Get going," Koko said crisply. "Call me later."

Chapter Fifteen

All of a sudden, it was the kind of night God had in mind when he created Boston. The skies opened and poured water down onto the city. The summer heat seemed to shiver for a moment and then surrender before the bone-soaking chill.

Digger ran along Dartmouth Street, trying to stay under awnings and overhangs, until he saw a cab and ran out in front of it to stop it.

The driver bitched about being asked to take such a small fare, to the Copley Arms Hotel, and Digger overtipped him for his trouble.

He rode the elevator to the hotel’s third floor and let himself into Room 309 with his spare key. Allie and Danny were not there. The bed was still unmade, and Allie’s small overnight bag still sat in a corner of the bedroom. But what gave Digger a chill was the large tray of food on the small coffee table in the sitting room. The food had not been touched and when Digger poked at it, it was still lukewarm. There were two steaks. But there was only one knife. As he rode downstairs in the elevator, Digger could visualize what had happened. He had opened his big, stupid mouth to Allie about her typewriter. Danny had been out of the room. When he came back with the food, she had told him what Digger had been asking and Gilligan—suddenly realizing that Digger was zeroing in on him—had scooped her up and left.

Where the hell had they gone?

The doorman in front of the hotel was dressed in the traditional British Beefeaters’ uniform. It struck Digger as odd that Boston and the colonies had fought so hard for their independence, so that, two hundred years later, they could seize on any excuse to wear costumes that showed their English heritage.

Digger caught the doorman by the arm. He was big and husky with wind-burned cheeks and whiskey-burned nose.

"Listen," Digger said. "I’m looking for two young people. A beautiful redheaded girl, and a little guy, yay big, kind of dirty blond hair. Did you call a cab for them?"

The doorman looked at Digger casually. "Might have," he said.

Digger said, "There’s good news and bad news. The good news is you help me and you’ll make some bucks. The bad news is you fuck around with me and in ten minutes, you’ll be in police headquarters telling your story. The rest of the bad news is you won’t talk so well because I’ll punch your teeth out of your face."

"No need to get upset, Mister. Yeah, I called them a cab. About an hour ago."

"Is the same cab here?" Digger asked.

"Let me think," the doorman said. He looked down the short line of cabs in front of the hotel, their windshield wipers swishing back and forth noisily.

"I think it was a…yeah, it was…a Liberty cab that took them," he said triumphantly.

"Do you know where they went?" Digger asked.

"No. They just asked for the cab. Didn’t even tip me."

"Is one of these a Liberty cab?" Digger asked.

The doorman shook his head.

"Get on your phone over there," Digger said, "and get hold of the Liberty cab people. Try to find that driver and where he took them. If he’s nearby, tell him to get over here." Digger pulled out his wallet and handed the doorman fifty dollars. "I’ll be inside for a few minutes. Hurry, Mister, this is an emergency."

Digger darted back into the hotel, went to the telephone booth in the corner of the lobby and called Muggsy’s Restaurant.

He asked for Lieutenant Terlizzi to be paged. A moment later, the maître d’ was back on the line. Terlizzi had just left, he advised Digger.

At the desk, Digger borrowed a pen and paper from the clerk. He wrote a brief note: "It was Gilligan. Going after him. Wait for my call. Burroughs."

He dropped the note and Doctor Langston’s keys into a hotel envelope and on the front printed: "Lt. Edward Terlizzi. Personal."

He called the clerk back over.

"This is important. I’m Mister Burroughs in Room 309 and this is a life-and-death matter. In exactly fifteen minutes, I want you to call the cocktail lounge and page Lieutenant Terlizzi, the name on this envelope. Call him to the desk and give him this. If he isn’t there, call every fifteen minutes until he is. You got that?"

The clerk nodded. "Every fifteen minutes."

Digger looked at him hard. "Don’t mess up. This is police business and it’s important."

"I understand."

Digger ran back outside. The rain was pouring down now even harder and puddles were building in the streets.

"You’re in luck," the doorman said. "The driver was just around the corner. He’ll be here in a minute."

"Thanks," Digger said. "I appreciate it."

"Just doing my job," the doorman said unctuously.

Less than a minute later, a white-and-black Liberty cab pulled up in front of the hotel’s main entrance.

"That’s it," the doorman said.

Digger hopped over the curbside lake and jumped into the rear seat of the cab.

"What’s going on?" the driver said. He wore a traditional hackman’s cap and the line of its sharp pointed bill was repeated in his sharp hook nose, when he turned in profile to glance back at Digger.

"The redhead and the little guy you picked up? Where’d you take them?"

"Who wants to know?" the cabbie said.

"The guy who’s going to cancel your fucking reservation unless you tell him fast," Digger said. He reached forward to the front of the cab and dug his right hand into the driver’s neck. "You got it, pal?" he said.

"Yeah, yeah. Let go, let go."

Digger released him.

"I took them to the airport," he said.

"Oh, shit," Digger said. "Do you know what airline?"

"It wasn’t no airline," the driver said. "They asked me where was the nearest place they could rent a car. The airport’s like the only place around at night that’s always got them. So I took them there."

"Listen, pal, what’s your name?"

"Eddie."

"Eddie, listen, I’m sorry for the temper. This is an emergency. I’ll square it with you. Take me to the same car rental place."

"Okay, mister," Eddie said, rubbing his neck. "You got it."

Why a car rental? Digger wondered. Where were they going?

The driver had started up onto the elevated highway that cut through city traffic, when Digger barked, "We’ve got a stop first. Over at the Harbor View Apartments."

"Okay, Mac," the driver said. He reached the top of the ramp, pulled onto the highway, then cut off two lanes of traffic to get to the left lane and sped down an exit. Two minutes later, he was pulling up in front of the Harbor View.

"Wait for me," Digger said.

"I got to keep this meter running," the cabbie said.

"There’s twenty extra in it for you," Digger said. "Just wait for me."

Arlo Buehler was sitting in the living room in front of the Space Invaders’ machine when Digger came in. He looked over his shoulder and sipped from the Scotch on the footstool in front of him.

"Well, if it isn’t Willie Wanderlust," he said. "Catch any murderers lately?"

"Trying to," Digger said as he ran back into the bedroom. He came out stuffing small tape cassettes into his pockets. "Gotta go."

"Where you going?"

"Allie’s vanished. I think she’s with Gilligan and I think Gilligan’s a killer."

"I’m going with you," Buehler said.

"No," Digger said.

"Why not?"

Digger paused for a moment.

"No goddam good reason. Come on," he said.

Buehler drove his own car and followed Digger’s cab to the airport. Digger tipped the cab driver twenty dollars over the fare and walked through the airport door. He was faced with four car rental booths. Which one? He stopped at the one on the right-hand side nearest the door. A young black woman wearing a yellow uniform was behind the counter. When Digger approached, she looked up from the magazine she was reading.

She smiled mechanically and said, "Good evening, sir."

Digger returned the smile and said, "Did you rent a car in the last hour to a young man named Gilligan?" Digger held out his hand at chest level to indicate Danny’s height. "There was a pretty redheaded woman with him."

The girl hesitated. "I’m sorry, sir, but…"

She had, Digger knew, or she would simply have said no.

"Listen, Miss," Digger said rapidly. "That’s my sister and her boyfriend. They just finished college tests and they’re going away for a few days. I’ve got to reach her. Our mother’s dying in the hospital." He let pleading come into his voice. "You’ve got to help. Please."

The girl paused, then nodded. "About an hour ago, I rented them a car. Mr. Gilligan had a credit card."

"Did they say where they were going?"

She shook her head. "They seemed in a hurry, though."

"How long did they take the car for?"

"Mr. Gilligan said just one day," the clerk said.

Digger nodded. "Thank you. Oh, what kind of car was it?"

"A yellow Pinto," she said. "Want the license number?"

"Please. It might help."

She turned to a rack on the wall behind her and took out one of the car contracts. She opened it and read him the license number.

"Thank you," Digger said. "I appreciate it." He turned and ran from the airport. Behind him, he heard her call: "I hope your mother gets better."

Buehler was sitting behind the wheel of his car in front of the terminal, motor running. Digger jumped into the passenger’s seat.

"Get going," he said.

"Fine," said Buehler. "Where?"

"I don’t know. Go toward Lexington. I’ll tell you as we go."

"Are we chasing a criminal?" Buehler said.

"Yeah."

"Wahoo. I feel like fucking Doctor Watson," he said. He peeled away from the curb with a screech of tires and skidded on the wet pavement.

"Just don’t get us in an accident," Digger said. "You know how tough it is to find a doctor on a Wednesday."

"Up yours," said Buehler.

As he drove, Digger began to dig through the tapes in his jacket pocket. He found the tape numbered One. He reached under his shirt and pulled the small recorder loose from the belt he wore next to his skin. The wires yanked loose the adhesive tapes along his side and he winced from the pain.

He held the recorder on his lap and inserted Tape Number One.

He pressed "Play" and heard Allie and Danny’s voices on the tape along with his own, his own loudest because he was nearest to the frog microphone he wore on his tie. He hoped he was right; that he remembered correctly. It was perhaps his only chance.

He fast-forwarded the tape. He heard himself discussing with Danny the young man’s stolen car. That was when Allie was in the ladies’ room. Then he heard his voice ask Allie:

"Do you love him?"

He turned up the volume so it reverberated sharply through the car.

"Listen," he told Buehler.

"Yes, but not that way," she said. He fast forwarded again just for a few seconds. Again Allie’s voice: "A drive about a month ago and Danny drives up toward Lexington, but then he turns off and we wind up in East Sudbury. Well, just as you get out of town, just past the big inn, he pulls off to the side of the road and points off into a field. There’s a deserted farmhouse there. Don’t ask me how he found it. Well, it turns out that he wants to buy that for us. So we can get married and fix it up and live there. Our honeymoon house, he called it."

Digger stopped the tape. "Did you hear that?" he asked Buehler.

"Yeah?"

"Can you find it? Do you know where the hell it is?" Digger asked.

"Sit back, pal. You’re on your way," Buehler said. "Hi, ho, Sherlock Holmes."

"Shit," Digger said. "I should have left you home." He noticed that Buehler was hunched forward, his face close to the windshield as he sped through the sheets of rain. The water hit the top of the small sedan in thumps.

"Screw you," Buehler said. "You never could have made it without me. What’s going down, anyway?"

"I don’t know," Digger said honestly. "But it’s all starting to come together. First, there’s this kid, Danny, and you’ve got to see him with Allie. He’s absolutely fixated about her; she can’t be out of his sight for a couple of minutes without him getting batty. He wants her to marry him and he’s worried, especially now with school almost over and them maybe going their separate ways. She gets knocked up but has an abortion."

"You didn’t tell me that," Buehler said.

"You were too busy yelling at me about my missed appointments," Digger said. "I think he wanted the baby so that she’d have to marry him. When she got rid of it, I think that was pushing him to the edge."

"What about those letters?" Buehler said. "The letters."

"They were written on an old typewriter of Allie’s," Digger said. "She had it when she was living with this guy Hatcher, who’s the dean. Gilligan was always hanging around when she was living with Hatcher. I think she threw the typewriter away and he picked it up. Don’t ask me why. But the other day, I stopped in to see Danny in his room and he was typing. He made me wait out in the hall for a few minutes. Then when I went inside, there wasn’t any typewriter and there was a pair of gloves on his desk. Now, what in the hell would gloves be doing on his desk at this time of year? Except, maybe, he used them so he didn’t get finger-prints on anything? And he stashed the typewriter so I wouldn’t see it. Watch out for that goddam truck," Digger barked. "How the hell far is this East Sudbury place anyway?"