Curt hung up gently. Anderson. That was it, all right. It seems a Mrs. Anderson called about her kid. He could remember Worden saying it. Then his elation began draining away. The boy already was a dead lead as far as Worden and Matthews — the professionals — were concerned. And besides that, how did one go about finding a boy named Anderson?
Curt got out the telephone directory. A whole page, four columns, of ANDERSON listings for the county. So now what? Rehire Archie Matthews? Hell, if there was a handle in that file, Worden would have used it. All right, then, contact that hundred Andersons himself?
There had to be a way to narrow it down. State the problem.
Fine. Sears Lake was five miles away. The boy was late. He spotted the predators on Longacres Avenue Extension; at the Linda Vista T-junction, he would have had to turn either north or south.
South, he would have passed Curt’s house, and south the university lay as a large block before the subdivisions beyond it. Unless the boy was a son of some member of the university faculty who lived on the campus itself or, like Curt, on its fringes. Curt could check that himself that afternoon at the Personnel Office.
North, he would be going toward the maze of small residential streets twined around Entrada Way. North seemed more logical. More houses closer to Curt’s house. The boy had passed the predators at 8:00 P.M., the time he was supposed to be home. So, unless he had been very late, his home could not lie too far from that T-junction.
As Curt pulled on his shoes to head toward the university, he had to fight a sort of exhilaration. He had to keep telling himself that he had little hope either of finding the boy or of learning anything of value even if by some fluke he did find him.
But Curt also knew this was better than an endless, sterile, frustrating count of days marked only by inactivity.
The next day in training, Curt was successful for the first time in putting Preston on the mat with an over-the-shoulder throw. In the locker room, he found his weight was under 190 for the first time.
Preston, as they walked together down to the creamery for lunch, shook his head in mock wonderment. “You’re getting too tough for an old man like me, tiger. You been into the wheat-germ oil again?”
“I’m back on the hunt.” Curt was not aware of the strangeness in his image. “I have the name of the boy on the bicycle — tricked it out of Worden — and now...” Over sandwiches and milk, he outlined what he had done, finishing, “...and I think he went north, because the university lies between my place and any significant residential areas to the south.”
“I disagree. Remember, Curt, she called the sheriff’s office, not the city cops; but there’s no built-up county land north of you.”
“Maybe she called them because Sears Lake is on county land.”
“Would you? If you were worried about your kid, you wouldn’t sit down and figure out who has jurisdiction; you’d just call the law enforcement agency that serviced your home.” Preston thought of something else. “Unless the kid’s old man is on the university staff—”
“I spent yesterday checking that out. He isn’t.”
Preston nodded, and stood up. “That figures; on the campus she would have called the campus cops anyway. C’mon, I’ve got a big-scale county map up at the gym.”
Two hours later Curt had his initial list of most likely Andersons. They had estimated the maximum distance that the boy should logically be living from Curt’s house as five miles — unless he had been very late. So the list contained those Andersons in the phone book who lived south of Curt’s home on comity land.
There were four names.
Chapter 17
It was Friday, July 18th. Curt stopped in front of 5202 Seville Drive in Los Feliz county. It was the usual California ranch-style subdivision house: a curving drive flanked by shrubbery not watered enough, the surge, swish, and gurgle of a washing machine from the garage. A tricycle missing a wheel leaned in grumpy abandonment against the front of the house. Curt rang the bell.
After nearly a minute a very black woman who was a good two inches taller than Curt appeared. She wore bedroom slippers and a print dress stretched tight across her yard-wide hips.
“Woody ain’t home,” she said emphatically, in a true Dixie accent. She leaned forward to peer sharply at Curt. “This yere ’bout de car note?”
“Why...” Curt realized that ringing strange doorbells and talking to strangers was going to be like learning a new language. “Why, no. Are you Mrs. Anderson?”
She leaned against the door frame. Her laughter was rich. “I sho’ ain’t Mia Farrow, honey.”
Curt could not help laughing with her. “The Mrs. Anderson I want has a son about ten years old, who—”
“Not me, honey.” Then she roared with body-shaking laughter again. “Less’n dat Woody, he been messin’ ’round ’thout tellin’ me!”
Curt drove the VW into Josina Avenue before stopping to draw a line through Anderson, Woody, 5202 Seville Drive. He felt slightly guilty, because this was supposed to be a serious business and he had been vastly entertained by the ebullient Mrs. Anderson.
Anderson, Stanley, 2983 Montecito Court.
Montecito Court, despite the high house numbers, was a one-block street off Charleston Road. Curt could find no 2983. He finally settled for 2985, ringing the bell and then cupping his eyes to peer into the dim interior through a window. He was sweating from the bright sun.
A woman in her mid-fifties appeared, walking very carefully between the rather expensive pieces of living-room furniture.
“What can I do for you?” She spoke with care but clarity; her voice was golden with a very mellow Scotch.
“I’m looking for Stanley Anderson. He’s supposed to live at 2983 Montecito Court, but I can’t find that number. I wondered—”
“This’s...” She stopped, frowning intently at Curt. She had the heavy drinker’s blurred features. “This house b’longs to my daughter ’n’ her husban’, Frankie...” She belched, very delicately, said, “Shrimp cocktail,” then added obscurely, “I’m from Seattle.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Curt.
“Just visiting.” She made a sweeping gesture which nearly carried her down the steps. “Try Mish... Mrs. Pershin’ next door — 2979. Neighborhood gossip, tell you anything you wanna know. M’daughter Maggie says she can tell you how many pimples on th’ postman’s fanny.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Curt was backing off, nodding and smiling like one of those little dogs with delicately balanced heads which nod in amiable idiocy from the rear windows of many automobiles. “Thank you, ma’am.”
He paused to wipe his face before trying 2979, then realized that Mrs. Pershing already was on her front stoop, arms folded, head cocked toward 2985, her eyes glaring at the Seattle mother-in-law. She was in her sixties, with daintily coiffed bluish hair, a remarkably smooth complexion, and behind glasses her eyes were as bright and inquisitive as a mynah bird’s.
Catching Curt’s eye, she laughed. “Now that you’ve gotten the neighborhood bottleaxe report, come on up. Three weeks that woman’s been visiting Frank and Margaret, and I’ve yet to see her sober, Mr.—”
“Halstead. Curt Halstead. I’m trying to find 2983, and...”
“That’s Stanley. Actually, it’s a cottage right behind us here. I’m his landlady; I hope Stan isn’t in any trouble.”
“Nothing like that.” Curt remembered Worden’s tactics. “Just routine, Mrs. Pershing.”