"Nice woman, actually."
"No phone for her boss? No address, nothing?"
"Vorapin just comes and goes. You weigh three-fifty you get good at hiding."
"Paul, Vorapin's a pro. Selatsin probably tipped him. Elbe definitely did. Reno might have. That girl will. We're not going to surprise these guys. We're getting farther away, not closer."
"We need to light their cuffs on fire."
"You present it to Abelera. I'm not high on his list right now."
As soon as they stepped outside the hotel and Merci turned he phone back on, Ike Sumich called. He'd found a Russian-language catalogue, published in New York and nationally distributed, that featured a big-and-tall section and offered Foot Rite products for sale He'd found two big-and-tall catalogues that specialized in upper-end business attire, also distributed in California, also selling Foot Rite. He'd found a military surplus catalogue specializing in Soviet products and memorabilia that occasionally offered discontinued or closed-out goods from mainstream manufacturers. This catalogue-Dinky Dur-kee's Surplus-had offered the Foot Rite Comfort Strider in "extra, extra-extra and extra-extra-extra large sizes" in their January, February and March issues of this year.
Rayborn knew she couldn't subpoena the catalogue retailers without a search warrant on Vorapin. She knew the catalogue retailers would be extremely reluctant to part with any subscriber or sales information. Occasionally, they would confirm a name. Very occasionally, a shipping address.
"Call them all back," she said. "Ask them for a customer list for Orange County if they have it. For the whole state of California, if they don't have it broken down to county."
"They'll say no."
"I know. You're just softening them up for me."
"Ike, the picador."
"Right. Then I sweep down upon them with my incredible charm and they cave."
"Hmm."
She thanked Sumich and punched off.
An hour later they were making their case to Abelera and Brenkus. It was five o'clock and the shifts were changing downstairs. Merci looked down from the sheriff's fourth-floor office at the county streets, thick with traffic. There were so many people in the county now it could take you hours to commute from one end of it to the other. She remembered Clark telling her that in the early part of his career he made the drive from south Orange County to Los Angeles in forty-five minutes.
Zamorra outlined the evidence for suspicion and Merci could see Abelera nudge the bait, but not take it. Brenkus was a tougher read.
"Bring them in here and talk to them," said Abelera. "That can't hurt."
"We'd like to," said Zamorra. "But it might take weeks to find them. They're way underground. That's where they live. By now they know we're asking questions. What we need to do is splash their fact everywhere, get the public helping. Smoke them out."
The sheriff stared at Zamorra, still uncertain.
"The timing is good," said Zamorra. "The public cares about Gwen Wildcraft. People are talking about Archie after the shotgun thing and the press conference yesterday. Tonight's news is going to have the funeral stunt with the flowers. What people are going to be thinking is, this crazy deputy couldn't have shot his own wife. He loves her too much. So now's the time, drop the bomb that we need to question two possible witnesses to the Gwen Wildcraft murder. Use the FBI file photos. Go big with it. Conduct the press conference yourself, sir. Really let people know we need the Russians. The citizens out there will help us. They're worked up about this. That, or we stake out the Bar Czar for the next month and wait. Maybe longer."
Merci said nothing, but she watched Abelera consider. She could see relief stirring behind his face, as the idea of an innocent deputy sank in.
"And there may be another benefit," said Zamorra. "If Archie thinks the temperature's down, maybe he'll come to us. We can get him to the hospital, we can question him again about that night. If he' strong enough, and willing, we can hypnotize him and find out everything he saw and heard. To hear Stebbins tell it, it's that easy to unlock his traumatic amnesia. It's done all the time."
Brenkus sat back, laced his fingers over his neat gut. "Paul, Merci do you honestly think these guys framed Archie?"
"I do," said Merci.
"I think there's a damned good chance they did," said Zamorra.
"Why frame a guy and then kill him, or try to kill him?"
"To cover their own butts," said Rayborn. "But I don't think they planned it. The opportunity just presented itself and they took it. When Archie went down, Vorapin saw the chance to make the thing look like a murder-suicide. He grabbed Archie's gun and went to work. When they were done with Gwen they wiped their damned glove off on Archie's robe, put his hand on the gun while he bled on the walkway, pulled the trigger using his finger. Messy, but simple."
Brenkus raised his eyebrows, a man skeptical but optimistic. "I'd love prosecuting two Russian gangsters rather than one Orange County deputy. Talk to the Russians. I don't have a problem with that, especially if it gets Wildcraft back to us." Brenkus looked over at Abelera. "And I'll make a cameo at your press conference if you want, Vince."
"Maybe Ryan would like to do it," said Merci.
She sat at her desk and looked through Ike Sumich's handwritten notes on the catalogue companies. All had refused his request for Orange County addresses of their subscribers. Two had asked to speak to his superior, indicating they might cooperate with someone more important than CSI Ike Sumich.
She called them back and made her case-not for an entire county's worth of subscribers, but for the confirmation of just one name: Al Apin.
One of the executive big-and-tall catalogues refused again, referring Merci to a lawyer.
The other agreed to look up this one name, but no Al Apin appeared on their customer lists for the last two years.
The offices for the Russian-language catalogue out of New York were closed.
Gail Durkee, the sales manager for Dinky Durkee's Surplus out of Portland, Oregon, pleasantly refused to search her database for the name.
"It would be a huge help to me if you would, Ms. Durkee."
"I'm so sorry, Detective. But I can't do it. It's against our policy. Dinky-I mean Ernie-would kill me."
"I understand, Ms. Durkee, but, please, let me tell you just a little something about this case."
Rayborn hated to play the gender card, but she played it anyway. She explained that a young wife had been murdered in very cold blood, a girl who'd married her high school sweetheart-a law enforcement officer in good standing with her department-and together they'd struggled to make a good life. Merci even explained that it looked like this young woman had gotten involved with organized gangsters who took over a company she was working for. When this woman resisted their corruption, she was murdered in her own home, and her loving husband was shot and left for dead.
Zamorra offered Merci a small smile.
"Oh, the lady with the funny last name?" Durkee asked. "Wildman or Wildflower or something like that?"
"In strictest confidence, Gail-yes. Gwen Wildcraft."
"We've had the story up here. I thought the husband was the suspect."
"Not anymore. The name we need is Apin. Al Apin."
She spelled it. A silence then, and Merci heard the tapping of a keyboard.
"Sergeant, can I call you back in exactly five minutes?"
"Please don't disappoint me, Ms. Durkee. I need your help."
"Five minutes."
Rayborn hung up, predisappointed because she knew Gail Durkee was not going to call. She sat back and thought about Archie Wildcraft dumping pounds of flowers over his wife's grave site while friends scattered and flummoxed deputies drew their weapons on him. She wondered what it would look like on CNB.
Pounds of flowers.