“Four names, three towns on the coast — all low-end, short-term rentals. Took the girl until a few minutes ago to narrow it down that far. The original list—”
“Latimer’s description match any of them?”
“No. She talked to three of the agents, they see dozens of people every day, none of ‘em could remember back as far as a month, two months. Except one woman thought her client, the one in Montero Beach, was a fat guy in his sixties, but I know the agent, she drinks like a fish and you can’t—”
“Names and addresses, Cantrell. Slowly.”
Marian was alert beside me, and when she heard me say that she opened her purse, rummaged up a notebook and pencil. By then, Cantrell had run through the list once. I had him do it again, repeating everything aloud so Marian could write it down. Two of the names I asked him to spell so I could be certain we had them right.
Adam Greenspan, 21178 Coast Highway, Montero Beach.
Frank R. Slaydon, 1817 Seal Rock Road, Half Moon Bay.
K. M. Dusay, 850 Bluffside Drive, Half Moon Bay.
Howard Underwood, 1077 Cypress Hill, Pescadero.
“Any of the names mean anything to you?” Cantrell asked.
“No.”
“Slaydon’s a little like Strayhorn, huh?”
“A little. Okay, Cantrell. Thanks — we appreciate all your help.”
“Don’t forget where you got it,” he said, and we both disconnected at the same time. For the last time.
Marian said, “If any of these men is Latimer… which one?”
“No idea yet, but if he was running true to form at the time, maybe we can find out.”
I still had the receiver in my hand; I tapped the memory key for my office number. When Tamara came on, I said, “Now I’ve got something — computer work for you to do. Call up everything you can locate on the Latimer case five years ago, see if any of the four names I’m going to give you is connected in any way. This is urgent, Tamara.”
“Be on it soon as we hang up. Names?” And when she had them, “You must be close to home by now. Where?”
“About fifteen minutes from the Bay Bridge,” I said. “We should be at the Dixon home before six-thirty if the traffic cooperates. If you can’t reach me on the car phone, try the number there.” I asked.
Marian for it, rather than trust my memory, and relayed it to Tamara.
During the evening rush most of the bridge traffic is eastbound, out of the city; since we were westbound we got across without much slowdown. 101 South was congested as usual. I stood it as long as I could, got off and did some maneuvering on side streets that brought us up into Monterey Heights almost as fast as a more direct route would have. It was 6:25 — and Tamara hadn’t called back — when I pulled up in front of the Dixons’ Spanish-style house.
“I don’t see Pat’s car,” Marian said.
“He’d have it in the garage if he’s been holed up all day.”
“Oh God, please let him be here.”
She wasn’t talking to me, so I didn’t answer. She was out of the car before I was; I took her arm to steady her as we climbed the front steps, both of us stiff and sweaty and drawn to the snapping point.
The front door was locked; Marian used her key. And we went in to find out if God was going to answer her prayer, give us at least a partial reprieve.
From the notebooks of Donald Michael Latimer
Tues., July 2–6:30 P.M.
Everything is ready.
All I have to do now is call Dixon. Not just yet, though, let the bastard sweat a while longer. I’m in no hurry, I don’t want to be out of here and on the road to Indiana until after dark. Relax. Finish this entry, have a beer and the last can of chili. No hurry at all.
I just went in to check on the kid. He’s quiet, but what else could he be, gagged and blindfolded and tied so tight to the bed he can’t even move a finger? Pretty good kid, didn’t give me any trouble all day. Too bad about him. But he’s a Dixon, his old man’s blood runs in his veins, so he won’t be any great loss. Besides, there’ll be a second or two when Mr. Prosecutor realizes too late what’s about to happen to both him and his son, and I’d do anything for that second or two. Sweet! Sweeter than the original Plan, even if I don’t get to see the big finish. Almost makes all the crap I had to go through at the lake worthwhile.
The one thing that would make it sweeter still was if fat old Mike Hammer was trussed up in there next to the kid. Bothers me he’s still alive. Shotgun surprise got somebody else instead, that’s what the radio said a few minutes ago, some Plumas County cop. One less cop in the world, that’s fine with me, but it should’ve been fatso. Well, I can fix him when I come back from Indiana.
If I come back from Indiana. If I even make it to Lawler Bluffs.
Every law enforcement agency in the country is looking for me by now and they’ll double their efforts after tonight. Public Enemy No. 1. Hah! I really don’t give a shit if they get me eventually, I’ve pretty much known all along I’m living on borrowed time and I’m resigned to it now. Rip Kathryn apart with marbles and bones before that happens and I’ll die satisfied and happy. But even if I can’t give her what she deserves, I’ll have made sure Cotter and Turnbull and Dixon got theirs. I’ll see the three of them in hell, at least.
I wonder if this is the way Bonnie and Clyde felt on their bank-robbing spree? My old pal, the Unabomber, on his way to the post office with another surprise package? The guy who took out all the lawyers with the assault rifle?
Steady, heady, ready. Happy as a lark.
Man, I feel good!
17
Dixon was there.
He heard us coming into the vestibule; footsteps made sharp clicking sounds on the tile floor, and there he was in the archway to a darkened living room, staring at us out of eyes that even at a distance looked like those of a hunted wolfs. His lean face was haggard, showing beard shadow. The white shirt and slacks he wore were both rumpled, pulled out of shape, as if he’d been sleeping in them.
Marian said “Pat!” in a choked voice and ran to him. He folded her against him, held her, but he was looking at me over her shoulder. An angry, desperate look.
After a few seconds he eased her back and to one side, with his arm still draped around her shoulders, and said to me in a scratchy voice, “What the hell’s the matter with you? I told you to take her to the Doyles’.”
“You told me some other things, too,” I said. “That you were going to notify the state and federal agencies about the kidnapping, for one.”
“Listen…”
“No, you listen. Marian and I have a pretty good idea what’s going on in that head of yours and we’re going to sit down and talk about it, the three of us, while there’s still time.”
“What do you think you know?”
“Pat, for Christ’s sake, sacrificing yourself won’t bring Chuck back. And even if it could, you can’t make that decision alone. You can’t go through with it alone.”
“He’s right, darling,” Marian said. “It’s my choice, too. I won’t let you shut me out.”
He glared at me a little longer, but the glare lacked heat now. He stroked Marian’s hair, then turned away from her and went back into the living room.
She followed him and I followed her. Big, stucco-walled room furnished in a Spanish motif — wall hangings, tiles, pottery jars. Heavy drapes were drawn across the front window. Dixon sank onto a massive leather couch; Marian sat beside him and took his hand. I moved over to stand facing them in front of a tile-trimmed fireplace.
Nobody said anything. Up to me, I thought. Get him to admit it, that’s the first step.
“What time did Latimer call you, Pat?”