“I’ve been in and out and I didn’t expect you to get back to me tonight. Something already?”
“Yep. Fast worker you got here. Fast and underpaid, you know what I’m saying?”
I ignored that. “Talk to me. What’ve you got?”
“Nothing on Fred Dyce or Hal Cantrell. Mr. John Strayhorn, now, he’s something else. Gotta be your man.”
“Strayhorn? Why?”
“Looking for a man’s not who he says he is, right?”
“And Strayhorn’s not?”
“Well, he doesn’t live in Stockton or anywhere else down that way. And there isn’t any company that manufactures sewer pipe in the Valley, either. No Jacob Strayhorn anywhere in Norcal, only three J. Strayhorns and none of ‘em owns a Chrysler LeBaron. Two of the three were home, not off on a fishing trip in the mountains. I couldn’t get hold of the third, but since her first name’s Jolene I don’t think she’s your man.”
“Criminal record on anyone named Strayhorn?”
“Nope. Not in California and not with the feds, either. Phony name, probably.”
“Why pick a name like Jacob Strayhorn for an alias?”
“Hey, you can answer that better’n me.”
“I don’t have any answers right now,” I said. “Were you able to trace the license plate number I gave you?”
“Yup. Belongs to a ten-year-old Chrysler LeBaron, all right, but the registered owner’s name is Ed Farlow.”
“Located where?”
“South San Francisco. But he’s not Strayhorn.”
“You talked to him?”
“Yup. He sold the car about six weeks ago, through an ad in the Chronicle. Guess the name of the dude that bought it.”
“Jacob Strayhorn.”
“You got it. Paid eight hundred cash.”
“And never bothered to reregister. Did you ask Farlow to describe the buyer?”
“Said he couldn’t remember much about the man. Said he was white, middle-aged, average — ”
“—and had pale eyes.”
“Right. Fits your man, huh?”
“To a T. I don’t supposed he volunteered any information to Farlow?”
“Nope, and Mr. F. didn’t ask.”
“How’d he get to Farlow’s home? Somebody drive him?”
“Mr. F. doesn’t know. Had a call asking if the car was still for sale, couple of hours later Strayhorn showed up on his doorstep. That’s all he remembers.”
I sat down and muttered, “What the hell.”
“Say what?”
“Talking to myself.”
“So what’s this dude up to? What’s happening up there?”
“Tamara, I don’t have any damn idea.”
“But you’re gonna find out, am I right?”
“If I can.”
“Anything more you want me to do?”
“Not tonight. I’ll let you know.”
“Well, stay cool. Hang loose.”
“Hang and rattle, more likely.”
“Huh?”
“Old expression. Don’t worry about me.”
“Who says I’m worried?”
“I can hear it in your voice.”
“Maybe I am,” she said. “You still owe me ten days’ pay,” and there was a gentle click as she broke the connection.
I opened a bottle of Bud, then decided I didn’t want it after all and forced the cap back on and put the bottle away in the fridge. I wandered into the front room, then out onto the deck. Dark now. Running clouds obscured some of the stars, giving the lake a black, oily sheen. I stared down at the water, trying to make at least some of what I knew add up.
Fat chance. I was more confused now than before Tamara’s call.
Strayhorn wasn’t Strayhorn, evidently, but I still had no clue as to who or what he really was. Maybe he’d murdered Nils Ostergaard and maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he was the one who’d trespassed here twice today and maybe he wasn’t. Maybe there was a link between him and Half Moon Bay that explained why Ostergaard had kept the Safeway receipt — and maybe there wasn’t. The whole business was a maze of half-formed possibilities and deadends. And I was like the laboratory rat running around banging into walls and corners, looking for a way through to the cheese.
From the notebooks of Donald Michael Latimer
Mon., July 1 — 11:00 P.M.
Bomb signature. Bomb signature!
What’s the matter with me? I know how advanced forensics have become, I should’ve foreseen the danger, yet it never even occurred to me until the kid bragged about it this afternoon. Careless. Stupid. Each of the devices for Cotter and the judge was different, I made sure of that, but I used pretty much the same types of materials for both — same types I used five years ago for Kathryn and Lover Boy. Cops haven’t got a computer match yet, nothing on the radio and there would be if they had an end, but they could come up with one any time and if they do they’ll know right away that Dixon’s my next target, and that I’ll be going after Kathryn, too.
I shouldn’t have been so wedded to the Plan. That’s where I made my mistake, and damn lucky it wasn’t a fatal one. Have to change it now, no choice. Can’t wait any longer, it’s past time for the mountain to go to Mohammed. Do Dixon, then get to Kathryn before she’s warned and goes into hiding somewhere.
Wish I could take Dixon’s Subdivision (c) boobytrap along with me, it really is perfect, but I’d be a fool to transport it armed the way it is and I don’t have time to disassemble and rewire it. I wouldn’t even risk bringing it over here now that it’s been moved. Too much chance of it blowing up in my face. Have to whip up a new bomb, destructive device, boobytrap for Mr. Prosecutor and I know just what kind, just how to fix him. New plan, and it’s a good one. Not quite as fitting but the end result is what matters. And this way the son of a bitch hurts before he dies, too, hurts bad. Might turn out to be even better this way, even sweeter. Fix him good and proper.
Fix that bastard private cop, too. He’s sniffing close, but I’ll be long gone before he gets close enough to do anything except die. Surprise package for him, surprise package for Dixon, then a fast trip to Indiana to give Kathryn her big send-off.
Boom!
BOOM!
B
O
O
M
!
12
Long, restless night. I woke up half a dozen times, the last one at six-twenty. Tuesday A.M. was cloudy, windy, the lake choppy and the color of slate; it matched my mood.
As I stood under the shower I tried again to figure a reasonable plan of action. None of my options looked any better in the daylight than they had during the night. I did not have enough facts to sic the local law on Jacob Strayhorn, whoever the hell he really was; if I even hinted that he might be guilty of a homicide, and it turned out he was an innocent party and had more or less legitimate reasons for using an alias, I was wide open for all sorts of legal ramifications. So the thing to do was to gather more information. Which meant another talk with him, and if I could work it, a look around his rented cottage when he wasn’t there. I didn’t much care for that last, but if it became necessary I’d have to risk it. Quid pro quo.
I toweled off, put on a clean shirt, decided a clean pair of trousers was in order as well, and opened the closet door — something I had stupidly neglected to do last night. And then stood flat-footed with my chest going tight.
The Mossberg .410 shotgun was missing.
The gun cabinet’s lock had been forced; the glass door wobbled open when I tugged on it. A box of Magnum shells lay on a shelf at the bottom. Just one box — and I was pretty sure there’d been two.