Chapter
34
T
hree men were sitting at the bar nursing their drinks when I walked into Pete's. I could feel their eyes on me as I sat down.
Connie nodded and came over. She lowered her voice and put her mouth next to my ear. “Did you ever see such losers?” she whispered, indicating the men with a roll of her eyes. She straightened up without waiting for my answer. “George ever get in touch with you?”
“No. We've been busy playing telephone tag. Did he say what he wanted?”
“Let me think.” Connie clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth while she tried to remember. “It was something about you being interested in what this girl had to say.”
I lit a cigarette. “What girl? Does she have a name?”
“It was ...” She put out her hand. “Hold it. It's coming. It was Pam. Pam something.” She poured me a shot of Black Label.
“Pam Tower?”
She snapped her fingers. “That's it. Who is she?”
“A friend of Estrella Torres.”
“The one that got killed?” Connie asked.
“That's right.”
“I'm glad I'm not growing up now,” Connie observed as she put my drink down in front of me.
“Me, too,” I agreed. “Things were simpler then, well maybe not simpler, but they were safer.”
“That's for sure.” Connie paused to light a thin black cigar. It was her latest affectation. “I wouldn't want to be a cop these days.”
“Me either.” I took the conversation back to George. “When was he in here?”
“A couple of days ago. Why?”
“I can't get hold of him.”
“So?”
“It's starting to make me nervous.”
“Maybe he's busy.”
“No. This thing with Pam is important. He would have called me back by now.”
Connie leered. “Maybe he found something even more important.”
“Jesus. Can't you think of anything else but sex?”
Connie batted her eyelashes. “You mean
there
is something else?”
“Gimme a break.” I took a sip of Scotch.
“No. Think about it. There's sex and death.”
“How about art, music, and literature?”
“Sublimated sex.” Connie warmed to her topic.
I listened to her with half an ear. I was too busy thinking about George and wondering if something was wrong. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that something was. When Connie paused for a breath I asked her for the phone.
“I take it you're calling George,” she said as she handed it to me.
“You take it correctly.” I dialed his number. He didn't answer. As his answering machine clicked in, the sense of unease I'd been experiencing grew. I handed the phone back to Connie. “I think I'm going to go drive by his house and see what's up.”
“Go ahead if that will make you happy, but if you're asking me, I think he just got tired of the school thing and is shacked up somewhere with one of his bimbos.”
“In this case I hope you're right.”
She sniggered. “Sure you do.”
But I wasn't lying. Connie's scenario was preferable to some of the others I was conjuring up. I paid for the Scotch and left.
I could feel the wind gusting when I stepped outside. It had set the canvas awnings dancing and the trash can covers rolling. I could feel the temperature falling. Another storm was sweeping in. As I got in the cab I thought about what Connie had said back in the bar. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was making a big deal out of nothing. What if I got to his house and he opened the door? I'd feel like a total jerk. But then I decided, so be it, at least I'd stop worrying.
On the drive over I tried to think about where George could possibly be, but I didn't have much success. The truth was, even though I considered George my friend, when I thought about it I realized I didn't really know that much about him. I didn't know who his other friends were or how he spent his time. It was a sobering thought, one I didn't very much like, and I was still contemplating what that meant when I pulled up in front of his house.
I'd been hoping against hope that by some miracle George's car would be sitting in the driveway, but God must have been busy elsewhere because the Taurus wasn't there. As I walked from the curb to the house I noted that the lights in the living room were on, not that that meant much. I always left a light on when I wasn't home. As I went through the motions of ringing the bell I noticed the mail box was stuffed with letters and magazines. My sense of disquiet grew.
I lit a cigarette and thought about my options. I could go home and wait for a couple more days and see if George showed up, or I could go downtown and file a missing person's report. But I didn't see much point in that. Since there was no evidence of foul play the police wouldn't do muchâat least not for a while. And I didn't want to wait. Which brought me to option number three. I took a look at the door and tried to remember whether George had ever said anything about his house having an alarm system. I didn't think he had. Usually there was a decal warning that the house was protected. I didn't see one here, but then it would be just like George not to put it on. I sighed. Oh, well. I'd find out soon enough. The worst that could happen was that I'd spend a night in the PSB before my lawyer bailed me out.
George's house proved to be easier to break into than I anticipated. For someone who was always after me to be more careful, he was amazingly lax about security when it came to himself. Keeping to the shadows thrown by the arborvitae, I walked around to the rear. First I tried the back door, which was locked; then I tried the kitchen window, which wasn't. It took a little effort, I had to slam the sash with the palm of my hand a couple of times to get it moving, but I managed to open it up. I held my breath waiting to see if an alarm went off. Nothing happened. I glanced around. No one seemed to be up. The houses on both sides of me were dark. Everyone was asleep for the night.
I said a silent prayer, raised the window, and pulled myself in. When my heartbeat slowed to normal I glanced around. Everything looked the way it should. The kitchen was neat. Nothing was spilled or broken. I went over and listened to the messages on the answering machine. Most of them were from me. It was odd listening to my voice rolling out into the silence. I glanced at the message pad next to the phone. “Call Robin” was underlined. I thumbed through the rest of the pages, but there was nothing else written on them. I picked up his engagement calendar. It was an expensive one. The leather was a dark, rich brown, the pages edged with gold. I usually use the giveaways you get in the gas station myself.
I sat down and went through the book. According to what George had written he should have met with his adviser yesterday afternoon and gone out with a guy named Ron last night. I looked up their numbers in George's phone book and called. George hadn't made either appointment and he hadn't called to cancel. The knot that had taken root in my stomach grew. I got up and went into the living room.
It was tastefully furnished in Mission Oak. The only jarring notes were the treadmill, the stationary bike, and the free weights sitting in front of the large screen television. I went over and glanced at the videos on the shelves that branched off from the fireplace. There must have been at least three hundred, maybe more, all carefully alphabetized and arranged by category. The titles ranged from science fiction to the old classics. I took out the
Caine Mutiny
and stared at the box. I hadn't even known George liked movies all that much. The thought depressed me and I reshelved the film and turned to the desk.
It was an old rolltop. The top was littered with note cards and textbooks and papers filled with George's neat writing. I sat down and went through them. If there was anything here that would shed light on George's disappearance, I couldn't see it. I checked the cubbyholes next, but all I found were stamps and rubber bands and paper clips and White-out. Fighting a growing sense of disappointment I opened the top drawer. Two black pen cases lay nestled next to a bottle of black ink and a blotter. I took the cases out and opened them up. Both of the pens were black. Both of them had gold tips. I stared at them for a minute, not daring to believe what I was seeing.
I got up, retrieved my backpack from the kitchen and pulled out the pen I'd found in the barn. It could have been the brother of the two I'd found in the desk. I twisted a lock of hair around my finger. Of course, the pen could have been somebody else's. It could have been, but it probably wasn't. What the hell had George been doing in the barn? What had he been looking for?
I'd bet anything it had something to do with Estrella.
But what?
I leaned back in George's chair and stared at a blank spot on the wall. Somehow it reminded me of my mind at the present moment I shook my head to clear it.
Maybe Pam Tower would know.
She'd been the last person George had spoken to, at least the last person I knew of.
It was time she and I had a little chat.
There was only one problem.
I had to find her.
I stood up and took one last look around George's house. Then I opened the front door and left. It was easier and a good deal less conspicuous than climbing back out through the window. It had started to drizzle. I turned on the wipers and headed over to the house on Deal. When I got there I rang the bell and waited. I heard footsteps. A moment later the door opened. A girl I hadn't seen before was standing there stifling a yawn. I must have woken her up.
“I'm looking for Pam Tower.”
“Sorry. You're too late. She's gone.”
“Can you tell me where?”
The girl shrugged. “She didn't say.”
“When did she leave?”
The girl scratched her neck while she thought. “A couple of days ago. Right after this big black guy talked to her.”
“What did he look like?” I asked, wondering if she was describing George.
“He was wearing a pink button-down shirt. Actually he was kind of scary-looking.”
It was George all right. “Did Pam say anything at all before she left?”
The girl rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “Just that she was going to say goodbye to her parents, and then she was catching a bus out of town.”
“I don't suppose you have their number?”
“Her parents?”
I nodded.
“Maybe.” The girl turned and I followed her into the kitchen. She rifled through an old stack of newspapers sitting on the kitchen table while I watched impatiently. Finally she tore off an edge from the sports section. “I knew it was here somewhere,” she said as she handed it to me.
I could barely read the scrawled numbers. As it turned out, I could have saved myself the trouble of deciphering them because Pam's mother didn't know anything either. When I got her on the phone she told me her daughter hadn't told her where she was going or when she'd be back. As I listened to the pain in her voice I began to think that maybe I was lucky not to have children after all.
I let myself out. Two men looked up at me as I stepped out the door and onto the street. They were standing huddled together a little ways away from the cab. I skirted them and kept my gaze averted so they'd know I had no interest in the business they were in the middle of transacting.
“Want something?” one of them asked as I passed by.
Nothing you can help me with, I thought as I shook my head and got in the cab. As I drove away I decided I had two choices: I could either go home and do nothing or I could go back to the farm and take another look around. There was no contest. I opted for the farm. Before I left, though, I swung by the store and picked up Marsha's twenty-two. I didn't know what I was going to find, and I didn't want to take any chances.
As I looked at its ridiculous pink mother-of-pearl handle, I decided that Tim was right. It wasn't much of a gun. On the other hand it was better than nothing at all. I said goodbye to Pickles, told the cat to wish me luck, then got back in the cab and took off.
The road out to the farm was almost empty and I drove it fast. My heartbeat seemed to be keeping pace with the swish swish of the windshield wipers. I tried to use the time to think. Something was at the farm. Something important. Something relating to Estrella. Otherwise George wouldn't have gone out there. But what? I had a feeling I already knew. All the pieces of the puzzle were spread out on the table. All I had to do was put them together.
I lit a cigarette and reviewed my conversations with Brandon Funk, Merlin, and Shirley. I thought about what Eddison and Ray had said. By the time I got to the farm I almost had the answer, but it kept slipping away, dissolving back into the recesses of my mind whenever I tried to put it in words. I was so frustrated I wanted to spit. Instead I put out my cigarette and made myself think of other things. The answer I was looking for would come once I stopped searching for it. At least that's what I told myself.
By the time I reached the turnoff the drizzle had changed into a downpour and I had to slow down because of poor visibility. As I drew closer I began to make out the farmhouse. It was dark. No lights were on. No cars were parked in the farmhouse's driveway. I didn't know if that was good or bad.
I slowed down as I passed, but then I changed my mind and sped back up. I'd start my search in the barn. After all, that's where I'd found George's pen. Then after I was done I'd go through the house.
I parked close by the barn, turned off the engine, smoked a cigarette and watched the rain streaking down the windshield. When it was done I stubbed it out and took Marsha's gun out of my backpack. As I studied it Ray's comment about the place being haunted popped into my mind. I shook my head to clear it and told myself that whatever had happened here hadn't been caused by ghosts. I slipped the twenty-two into the band of my jeans, grabbed a flashlight from under the front seat, got out, and ran to the barn.