She thought of something then, and went over to Teague's desk to use his phone. From her blue notebook she got the number of Archie's gardener, Jesus, who had looked at her so forlornly when she asked him to go with God.
When he answered she identified herself, then told Jesus that it was his duty to tell her what number Archie had given him to call regarding the flowers.
"Flowers?"
"The flowers he wanted you to collect. You know the ones I mean, Jesus-he asked you to get a whole bunch of flowers. Just the blossoms and blooms, not the whole stem."
"He no want me to say nothing."
"You can say something to me, Jesus. It's important. Where was he? How were you supposed to contact him when you had the flowers?"
The phone on Rayborn's desk started ringing. Zamorra moved to answer it but she waved him off. "Jesus? I'm going to tell you what you're going to do. You're going to go get that address and phone number, and you're going to hold that telephone to your ear until I come back. Is this clear?"
"Yes, is clear."
"Can you do it?"
"Yes, okay."
She punched the hold button and got to her own desk on the fourth ring.
"Sergeant, this is Gail at Dinky's? We sold a pair of Foot Rite Comfort Striders to an Al Apin of Fullerton last March. I've got the shipping address and a phone."
"Shoot."
She was half astonished to find Jesus still waiting. Jesus gave her an address in Irvine and a phone number.
"He is in a room two… seventeen."
"Thank you, Jesus, vaya con Dios."
"Vaya con Dios, police woman."
She pulled her blazer off the back of her chair and slung it over her shoulder. "I just got addresses for Archie and Vorapin."
Archie's address was for La Quinta Inn, right off the interstate. It looked to Merci like an old agricultural or industrial building of some kind, or maybe just made up to look like one. She drove around and tried to spot room 217 from the parking lot but the doors were all inside. No Durango.
She parked in a corner of the lot and followed Zamorra inside. She glanced at the display of some old piece of canning or packing machinery, scanned the sign that told about it, watched the family that burst suddenly from the elevator. There was a bawling boy with tears jetting from his eyes, a woman loaded with baggage scolding a man loaded with luggage, who also pushed a stroller containing a shrieking baby. Zamorra leaned in, holding open the door for them.
When the elevator was finally empty he picked something off the floor and gave it to Merci: a small white flower with a yellow center. She looked at him and said nothing.
The maid's cart was parked outside the open front door. A short stocky woman ran a loud vacuum cleaner and Merci looked in at the made bed, the paper-wrapped water glasses on the counter, the drawn drapes. She opened the trash can on the cart and saw the most recent load: wads of tissues, some faintly pinked by blood, and a collection of now-wilting flowers. No stems or stalks, just flowers and loose petals. She reached in and pulled out a long scrap of blue tarp. It was almost a yard long and roughly a foot wide. One side was cut straight, the other curved. One end was squared, the other rounded graceful like the tip of a sword. She had no idea what it was for so she dropped it back in the trash can, then unhinged the liner bag, knotted it and slung it over her shoulder.
She nodded at the maid as if she was obeying orders from the woman. She cursed Jesus for tipping off his boss that she had called. On her way to the lobby her temper ebbed as she realized that Jesus might just be innocent and that Archie might just be luckier-or more clever-than she had thought.
At the desk Zamorra badged the manager and found out that Jim Green had paid cash for room 217 for three nights, but only stayed two. He had checked out at four, just a few hours ago. The manager said that Mr. Green wore a baseball cap and sunglasses and did not make conversation. Mr. Green loaded several large framed pictures of a beautiful women into his Durango. Not provocative pictures, nothing obscene, more like portraits. They may even have been of the same woman. He had also loaded some fairly long, flat objects that were covered with what looked like old bed sheets. Roughly, he said, the objects were the shape and size of surfboards, but appeared to be very lightweight. He had loaded several rocks that sat on stands. Earlier today-in the morning, around ten-Mr. Green had talked with a Mexican-looking man who drove a small pickup truck with gunnysack full of something in the back. It was a gardener's truck, with rakes and hoes upright in holders on the side of the bed. They had loaded the gunnysacks into Mr. Green's Durango and he had driven off, wearing his baseball cap and sunglasses.
Merci read the registration card. Wildcraft had used his real address and phone number, changing only his name. She pocketed the card then grabbed the knotted trash bag and headed for her Impala, leaving her partner to thank the manager.
They called for backup on Vorapin. The four uniforms met them on Imperial Highway behind a convenience store, where Zamorra briefed them. One of the deputies would carry the twelve-gauge riot gun from his cruiser, one other a Taser, and the remaining two were instructed to have their pepper spray in hand and ready. The youngest deputy told Sergeant Rayborn that the newly issued spray was "incredibly effective."
On the drive through the Fullerton hills Merci unsnapped the thumb brake on her Bianchi. She thought of a man she'd killed and the bullet hole he'd put in her. She felt the taut pull of the scar on her side as she leaned forward to make sure her little, 40-caliber ankle cannon was snug against her left leg. She sat back and banished these memories. She refused to be haunted by what she had done. Killing another human alters the soul, though, and Rayborn knew this.
It was a little after seven. She looked out at the big houses, the circular driveways filled with shiny new cars, the old palms that towered and drooped like they'd seen it all before. They passed a Florentine palazzo, a small Norman castle and a Greek temple.
"Left side," said Zamorra. "The ranch house under the big pine."
They passed it. It was large and rambling, with dark windows recessed under the deep overhang of roof. The shingles were warped and lifting. In front was an enormous Norfolk Island pine going dry in the August heat. The driveway was cracked and littered with browned needles and led to a garage almost invisible from the road. The place had an air of neglected nobility that made Rayborn uneasy. The bullet scar on her side was still tight and throbbing, like a patch put on tight. Why now?
Zamorra made a left on the next side street, then a U-turn, then right, heading back the way they'd come. He parked along the two doors short of Vorapin's address. As arranged, the two patrol cars came by a few minutes later and took their time ambling into position, one unit in front of the unmarked, and one across the street facing other direction.
Rayborn sent one deputy around the left side of the house, and around the right. Then she walked up the drive, with Zamorra two steps behind and to her left, and Taser and Twelve Gauge behind him. She stepped up to the porch, and as her hand went to the grip nine she registered: cobwebs in the eaves and dust on the side windows and cracks in the plaster and most of the shrubs dying.
She rang the doorbell, heard the muted chime from inside, wait, then she rang again. And again.
Merci was about to turn away when the door opened and a woman in a tight green dress looked at her. Thirty-something, auburn hair pinned up, eyes the shineless green of cash.
"No," the woman said.
"No what?" asked Merci.
"To whatever you want."
The woman moved to close the door and Merci straight-armed the wood. "I'm Sergeant Rayborn, County Sheriff's. We're looking for Zlatan Vorapin, also known as Al Apin."
Rayborn got her duty boot between the door and the floorboard, swung back her coat to show the badge and the nine. Money-eyes looked impressed. There was a hallway behind her.