F is for Fugitive (22 page)

“Pearl, I don't want to argue with you, but I won't give up.”

“Then you're a bigger fool than he is.”

I'd just about had my fill of argumentative old men. Who asked him? “I appreciate your assessment. I'll keep that in mind.” I glanced at my watch. “I better get back.”

Neither Rick nor Pearl seemed sorry to see me go. I could feel their eyes on me as I left the place, giving me the kind of look that makes you want to step up your pace a bit.

I walked the two blocks to the motel. It was just after ten, and two black-and-whites were parked side by side across the street. Two young cops were leaning on the fenders, coffee cups in hand while their radio kept up a running account of what was going on in town. I kept thinking about Rick. I knew he was lying, but I had no idea why. Unless he killed her himself. Maybe he'd made sexual advances and she'd laughed him off. Or maybe he'd just been trying to look important at the time, the last man who'd seen Jean Timberlake alive. It was bound to lend him status in a community the size of Floral Beach.

I took my keys out as I went up the outside stairs. It was dark on the second-floor landing, but I caught a whisper of cigarette smoke. I stopped.

There was someone standing in the shadow of the vending machine across from my room. I reached for the penlight in my handbag and flicked it on.

Cherie.

“What are you doing here?”

She stepped out of the dark, the dim glow of the flashlight washing her face with white. “I'm sick of Rick's b.s.”

I moved to my door and unlocked it, glancing back at her. “You want to come in and talk?”

“I better not. If he gets home and I'm out, he'll want to know where I've been.”

“He's been lying, hasn't he?”

“It wasn't midnight when he saw them. It was closer to ten. He was on his way to see me. He knew if his Daddy found out he'd left his granny by herself, he'd get the crap beat outta him.”

“So what happened then, he left and went back?”

“Right. He got back by the time the visiting nurse showed up for her shift. Later, when it turned out Jean Timberlake had been murdered, he said he saw her and Bailey. He just blurted it out before he realized how much trouble he'd be in. So then he had to make the time different so he wouldn't get his ass whipped.”

“And Pearl still doesn't know?”

“I'm not sure about that. He's real protective of Rick, so maybe he suspects. It didn't seem like it mattered, once Bailey pleaded guilty. He said he killed her, so nobody really cared what time it was.”

“Did Rick tell you what really happened?”

“Well, he did see 'em get out of the truck and go
down to the beach. He told me that at the time, but Bailey really could have gone back to his room and passed out like he claimed.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“It's no skin off my butt. I'm leaving him anyway, first chance I get.”

“You never told anyone else?”

“With Bailey gone all those years, who was I going to tell? Rick made me swear I'd keep my mouth shut and I've done it, but I can't stand listening to any more bull. I want my conscience clear and then I'm heading out.”

“Where will you go if you leave Floral Beach?”

She shrugged. “Los Angeles. San Francisco. I got a hundred bucks for the bus and I'll just see how far it goes.”

“Is there any chance Rick could have been involved with her?”

“I don't think he killed her, if that's what you mean. I wouldn't stick with him if I thought he did that. Anyway, the cops know he lied about the time and they never cared.”

“The cops knew?”

“Sure, I'd assume so. They probably saw her themselves. Ten o'clock, they're always down at the beach. That's where they have their coffee break.”

“Jesus, people in this town have sure been content to make Bailey the scapegoat.”

Cherie stirred restlessly. “I have to get home.”

“If you think of anything else, will you let me know?”

“If I'm still around, I will, but don't count on it.”

“I appreciate that. Take care.”

But she was gone.

 

 

 

 

 

It was eleven o'clock when I finally eased into bed. Exhaustion was making my whole body ache. I lay there, acutely aware of my heartbeat as it pulsed in my throbbing forearm. This would never do. I hauled myself into the bathroom and washed down some Tylenol with codeine. I didn't even want to think about the day's events. I didn't care what had happened seventeen years ago or what would happen seventeen years hence. I wanted healing sleep in excessive doses, and I finally gave myself up to a formless oblivion, undisturbed by dreams.

It was 2:00
A.M.
when the ringing telephone woke me from the dead. I picked up the receiver automatically and laid it on my ear. I said, “What.”

The voice was labored and slow, low-pitched, gravelly, and mechanically slurred. “You bitch, I'm going to tear you apart. I'm going to make you wish you'd never come to Floral Beach. . . .”

I slammed the phone down and snatched my hand
back before the guy got out another word. I sat straight up, heart thudding. I'd been sleeping so soundly that I didn't know where I was or what was going on. I searched the shadows, disoriented, tuning in belatedly to the sound of the ocean thundering not fifty yards away, discerning in the tawny reflection of the street-lights that I was in a motel room. Ah yes, Floral Beach. Already, I was wishing I'd never come. I pushed the covers back and padded, in my underpants and tank top, across the room, peering out through the sheers.

The moon was down, the night black, surf tumbling its pewter beads along the sand. The street below was deserted. A comforting oblong of yellow light to my left suggested that someone else was awake—reading, perhaps, or watching late-night TV. As I watched, the light was flicked off, leaving the balcony dark.

The phone shrilled again, causing me to jump. I crossed to the bed table and lifted the receiver cautiously, placing it against my ear. Again, I heard the muffled, dragging speech. It had to be the same voice Daisy had heard at Pearl's when someone called to ask for Tap. I pressed a hand to my free ear, trying to pick up any background sounds from the caller's end of the line. The threat was standard fare, real ho-hum stuff. I kept my mouth shut and let the voice ramble on. What kind of person made crank calls like this? The real hostility lay in the disruption of sleep, a diabolical form of harassment.

The repeat call was a tactical error. The first time, I'd been too groggy to make sense of it, but I was wide
awake now. I squinted in the dark, blanking out the message so I could concentrate on the mode. Lots of white noise. I heard a click, but the line was still alive. I said, “Listen, asshole. I know what you're up to. I'll figure out who you are and it won't take me long, so enjoy.” The phone went dead. I left mine off the hook.

I kept the lights off while I pulled my clothes on in haste and gave my teeth a quick brushing. I knew the trick. In my handbag I carry a little voice-activated tape recorder with a variable speed. If you record at 2.4 centimeters per second and play back at 1.2, you can produce the same effect: that sullen, distorted, growling tone that seems to come from a talking gorilla with a speech impediment. There was no way to guess, of course, how the voice would sound if it were played back at the proper speed. It could be male or female, young or old, but it almost had to be a voice I would recognize. Else, why the disguise?

I unlocked my briefcase and took out my little .32, loving the smooth, cold weight of it against my palm. I'd only fired the Davis at the practice range, but I could hit damn near anything. I tucked my room key in my jeans pocket and eased the door open a crack. The corridor was dark, but it had an empty feel to it. I didn't really believe anyone would be there. People who intend to kill you don't usually give fair warning first. Murderers are notoriously poor sports, refusing to play by the rules that govern the rest of us. These were scare tactics, meant to generate paranoia. I didn't take the death-and-dismemberment talk very seriously.
Where could you rent a chain saw at this time of night? I pulled the door shut behind me and slipped down the stairs.

The light was on in the office, but the door leading into the Fowlers' living quarters was closed. Bert was asleep. He sat behind the counter in a wooden chair, his head angled to one side. The snores flapping through his lips sounded like a whoopee cushion, flat and wet. His suitcoat was neatly arranged on a wire hanger on the wall. He'd pulled on a cardigan, with cuffs of paper toweling secured by rubber bands to protect his sleeves. From what, I wasn't sure. He didn't seem to have any work to do aside from manning the desk for late-night arrivals.

“Bert,” I said. No response. “Bert?”

He roused himself, giving his face a dry scrub with one hand. He looked at me blearily and then blinked himself awake.

“I take it the calls I just got didn't come through the switchboard,” I said. I watched while the electrical circuits in his brain reconnected.

“Excuse me?”

“I just received two calls. I need to know where they came from.”

“Switchboard's closed,” he said. “We don't put calls through after ten o'clock.” His voice was hoarse from sleep and he had to cough to clear his throat.

“News to me,” I said. “Bailey called me the other night at two
A.M.
How'd he manage that?”

“I connected him. He insisted on that or I wouldn't
have done. I hope you understand about my contacting the sheriff. He's a fugitive from—”

“I know what he is, Bert. Could we talk about the calls that just came in?”

“Can't help you there. I don't know anything about that.”

“Could someone ring my room without coming through the switchboard?”

He scratched at his chin. “Isn't any way I know of. You can phone out, but you can't phone in. Ask me, the whole business is a pain in the neck. Over at the Tides, they don't even have phones in the rooms. System costs more than it's worth anyhow. We had this one installed a few years back, and then half the time it's down. What's the point?”

“Can I see the board?”

“You're welcome to take a look, but I can tell you right now no calls came through. I been on duty since nine o'clock and there hasn't been a one. I've been doing accounts payable. Phone hasn't made a peep.”

I could see a pile of envelopes tucked in the box for outgoing mail. I ducked under the counter. The telephone console was on one end, eighteen inches wide, with a numbered button for every room. The only light showing was my room, 24, because I'd left my phone off the hook. “You can tell when a phone's in use by the light?”

“By the light,” he said, “that's correct.”

“What about room-to-room? Couldn't a motel guest bypass the switchboard and dial direct?”

“Only if they knew your room number.”

I thought back to all the times I'd given out my business card in the last couple of days, the telephone number at the Ocean Street neatly jotted on the back—my room number too, in some cases . . . but which? “If a phone's in use, you can't tell from the light whether a call is to the outside, room-to-room, or off the hook, right?”

“That's right. I could flip that switch and listen in, but of course that'd be against the rules.”

I studied the console. “How many rooms are occupied?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“What, we have national security at stake here?”

He stared at me for a moment and then indicated with a put-upon air that I could check the registration cards in the upright file. While I flipped through, he hovered, wanting to be certain I didn't pocket anything. Fifteen rooms out of forty were occupied, but the names meant nothing. I don't know what I'd expected.

“I hope you're not fixing to change rooms again,” he said. “We'd have to charge extra.”

“Oh, really. Why is that?”

“Motel policy,” he said, giving his pants a hitch.

Why was I egging him on? He looked as if he was about to launch into a discourse on management strategies over at the Tides. I said good night and went back upstairs.

There was no possibility of sleep. The phone began to make plaintive little sounds as though it were sick,
so I replaced the receiver and disconnected the instrument at the jack. I left my clothes on as I had the night before, pulling the spread over me for warmth. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling while I listened to muffled noises through the wall: a cough, a toilet flushing. The pipes clanked and groaned like a clan of ghosts. Gradually, sunlight replaced the streetlights and I became aware that I was drifting in and out of consciousness. At seven I gave it up, dragged myself into the shower, and used up my allotment of hot water.

I tried the Ocean Street Café for breakfast, downing cups of black coffee with the local paper propped up in front of me so I could eavesdrop on the regulars. Faces were beginning to look familiar. The woman who ran the Laundromat was sitting at the counter, next to Ace, who was getting ragged again about his ex-wife, Betty, seated on his other side. There were two other men I recognized from Pearl's.

I was in a booth near the front, facing the plate-glass windows, with a view of the beach. Joggers were trotting along the wet-packed sand. I was too tired to do a run myself, though it might have perked me up. Behind me, the customers were chatting together as they probably had every day for years.

“Where you think he's at?”

“Lord only knows. I hope he's left the state. He's dangerous.”

“They better catch him quick is all I can say. I'll shoot his ass if I see him anywheres around here.”