Wes, it said, I had second thoughts during the night and decided it was selfish and thoughtless of me to drag you along on this wild goat chase. So—
“Wild goose,” he corrected.
So I’m sneaking off to do it alone. No use both of us risking our necks. Wish me luck. Love, Casey. XXX
“You nitwit,” he observed, detaching the note from the door.
The phone rang in his den.
Wes spun, note clutched in his left hand, and ran for it. The phone rested on the taboret between his drawing board and his computer.
He grabbed up the receiver. “You can’t go up there alone,” he said.
“Go where, old buddy?” It was Filchock.
“I thought you were Casey.”
“If I had time, I’d be insulted,” said his writer friend. “But I have another news bulletin for you. Just heard it on the radio.”
“What are you doing up this early?”
“I arise every day at this time to practice my yoga.”
“Yoga?”
“Well, actually I touch my toes a few times while murmuring, ‘Om.’ The point is, there’s been another killing.”
“Who?”
“The TV guru who Casey claims was masterminding this caper.”
“Alan Omony?”
“Him, yeah,” answered Filchock. “His body was discovered up near Mulholland Drive in the wee hours. Dead after having been beaten and tortured.”
“Jesus, Casey’s gone off to—”
“Gave you the slip, did she? What did I predict last night when you phoned to announce your plans to go into the freelance exhumation business? I suggested that your Lizzie Borden surrogate would ditch you in favor of the loot and—”
“She says she decided to go it alone to keep me out of danger.”
“Sure, finding several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of gems would put you in danger of leading the life of a playboy,” said his friend. “Darned thoughtful of her to—”
“If those goons killed Omony, it must mean they’re going to go after the jewels on their own.”
“Yep, sounds like the classic situation of thieves falling out.”
“They’re going to try to find Casey — if they haven’t already.”
“You’d have noticed that.”
“Maybe they got a tip that she was staying here,” said Wes, worried. “Maybe they followed her when she left this morning.”
“Well, get yourself up to where this movie siren is buried and—”
“I don’t know where that grave is, Mike.”
“How were you planning to do your bit of grave robbing if—”
“Casey had a map on a computer disk, and she was going to print out a copy before we...”
“I’m losing you.”
Wes was staring at his computer. He’d just noticed that a disk had been left in the slot. “I’ll call you back in a few minutes,” he promised. “I think can get myself a copy of the map.”
A moment after the rain ceased, Filchock turned off the windshield wipers in his Mercedes. Hunching his shoulders and squinting out into the late afternoon, he said, “We ought to be reaching that side road in another few minutes.”
In the passenger seat Wes again fished out the printout of the map that the late actor had drawn.
“Reisberson Road is what we want,” he said after studying the map once more.
“I know that. You’ve mentioned the name of that turnoff full many a time since you lured me along on this lamebrain journey in the early hours of—”
“Sorry, but it’s just that I’m worried about Casey. If those guys are tailing her and she’s got a lead of a couple of hours on us, then—”
“We’ve been making good time. And it’s unlikely that those thugs are driving a state-of-the-art Mercedes that they can barely afford and that their next of kin nags them about each and every day.”
“All right, I won’t mention the name of the road or Casey for a while,” vowed Wes, gazing out at the highway and the small Northern California town they were driving through. “How’s Angel on Horseback coming along?”
“It’s not.”
“I thought NBC okayed a pilot, feeling television was in need of one more show about a heavenly visitor.”
“Angels per se are fine by NBC, but some of their younger execs decided that no one likes cowboys any more.”
“Sounded like a dandy premise to me. An angel in the guise of a gunslinger, traveling through the Old West and—”
“As I recall, you loathed the idea.”
“You’re right, it sounded sort of trite to me.”
“Well, we’ve come up with a brilliant switch, and all and sundry at the National Broadcasting Company are gaga.”
“Which is?”
“Gabriel’s Gig.”
“We’re talking about the Angel Gabriel?”
“The same, yes. He comes back to earth and each week sits in on trumpet with a different band, while at the same time helping some person change his or her life for the better,” explained Filchock. “One week Gabe plays with a rock group, the next it’s polka time, then country & western and—”
“Casey’s car,” cried Wes suddenly. “Back there.”
Filchock slowed the auto. “At that motel we just passed?”
“Yeah, I spotted her red Toyota in the parking lot in front of the Golden Bear Inn & Motor Lodge.”
“You’re certain?” He pulled over to the side of the highway.
“How many red Toyotas have a ‘Bertha the Biker’ decal in the back window?”
“I’d guess the number was limited.” As soon as there was a break in the traffic flow, Filchock executed a U-turn and drove back to the motor lodge.
They parked near Casey’s car and got out.
“We’ll ask the manager if she’s got a room here.”
“I hesitate to mention this, old buddy, but it’s just possible that she’s here for a rendezvous with some old beau. In which case—”
“We’ll ask anyway.” Frowning, Wes moved ahead of his friend and trotted across the white gravel to the rustic motel office.
There didn’t seem to be anyone behind the desk. But when Wes got close to the counter and peered over it, he saw a plump bald man in a Hawaiian shirt sprawled facedown on the floor.
Very slowly, very carefully, Wes stretched up out of his cautious crouch. When his head was a few inches above the sill of the open motel cabin window, he risked a glance inside.
He heard the slap before he spotted Casey.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing her fingertips over the red splotch on her cheek. “This would be a stupid time to lie to you guys, wouldn’t it?” she asked the large, wide, bald man who was leaning angrily over her.
“Just tell us the damned truth,” he told her in his raspy, high-pitched voice.
There was at least one other man in the room with Casey. Wes saw part of him, stained jeans and scuffed cowboy boots. Apparently he was slouched in an armchair, watching his associate threaten the young woman.
“They’ll notice you,” warned Filchock in a whisper as he tugged at Wes’s coatsleeve. They were kneeling amidst the overgrown shrubbery on the muddy ground beside the cabin wall.
Wes hunched down below window level.
“She’s in there,” he mouthed, pointing with his thumb. “At least two men have got her.”
“But that was just, you know, fate,” they heard Casey saying inside.
Turning his back on his friend, Wes raised his head a few more inches and listened.
“After all, that poor film noir actress was buried an awful long time ago,” Casey went on.
“Why’d you turn back?” asked the bald one.
“I didn’t until I realized that—”
“It was because you noticed we were following you,” accused the other goon.