“PSA. She said she was catching a flight to Vegas.”
Moyers didn’t thank him; cops didn’t. He got back in his car and followed the arrows for a return to short-term parking. He couldn’t risk leaving his car in front of the terminal — they were very quick to ticket and tow violators here, and he had to get back to the hotel as soon as he knew for sure where she was going. Her catching a plane just didn’t fit into any scenario he could devise, and her getting this far away from Runyan just couldn’t be made to make sense. Unless...
Unless she was just a goddam writer after all. She gets her interview, gets a good fuck from the ex-con — something to tell the monthly writing club about over drinks — and off she goes. But then why leave her car behind?
Easy. She has her Runyan interview on tape, he casually offers to turn her car in for her...
But Moyers couldn’t be sure. And if they had run a game on him, and he was out of touch with Runyan, then he damn sure better not get out of touch with the woman.
Toeing her bags forward in the PSA line, Louise kept a wary eye out for Moyers — if he got here too quick she’d have to think of something else. But her luck held. She collected the ticket she had ordered from the hotel, and checked her bags.
“I also need a ticket to Las Vegas on your flight through Burbank,” she said to the clerk. “For a Louise Graham. She doesn’t have any luggage.”
“That flight leaves in eleven minutes,” said the mustachioed, uniformed agent as he made out the one-way ticket.
Moyers trotted along the moving beltway, up the two flights of escalators to the main terminal lobby, and shoved his way through the throngs to the PSA flight board behind the ticket counters. The Las Vegas flight was marked DEPARTED. He got the PSA reservations number from a pay phone.
“PSA, Ms. Laurence, may I help you?”
“Yes, my wife is taking your ten a.m. flight to Las Vegas from S.F. International, it just left and I wanted to make sure she caught it. She was cutting it awfully fine. Graham, first initial L.”
“Thank you, sir.” There was a pause as she tapped into the computer. She came back on. “She was ticketed and had a reservation made just before departure time, Mr. Graham. There hasn’t been time for the passenger manifest to be turned in by the personnel on the check-in gate, but the records we do have would indicate she made the flight.”
He thanked her and hung up, then used his phone calling card to contact a Las Vegas detective he had used in the past.
“Louise Graham, twenty-nine, blue-green on brown, five-eight in heels, hundred-and-fifteen pounds, wearing a Burberry and a light blue tam. She’s arriving on the next flight from SFO through Burbank. Everything you can get on her in a hurry.”
“She expecting us?”
Moyers thought for a second. “No. But I’d rather you got made than lose her. I’ll call for a preliminary report in...” he checked his watch. “Three hours.”
“You got it.”
Moyers personalized his tone. “Wife and kids?”
“Fat and sassy — in that order.”
“They usually are,” said Moyers.
As soon as he left the terminal, Louise emerged from the labyrinth of book shelves in the lobby tobacco shop from which she had been watching him. With a touch of irony, she bought Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying to read during the 45-minute wait for the plane’s scheduled departure.
Chapter 10
While the soft drink driver was filling the coin machines outside the conference rooms, Runyan stole his uniform cap. He went into the men’s room and used his pocket knife to cut off the cloth COCA-COLA badge, then wrote “LOUISE GRAHAM, Wharfside Hotel, Rm 243” on the manila envelope holding the two folders he had taken from her room. Down in the left-hand corner, underlined twice, he added “URGENT.”
Carrying the folder and wearing the cap, he shoved his way through the conventioneers and vacationers to the reception desk. He slapped the envelope down in front of the clerk.
“American Messengers. I get no answer from Louise Graham in Room Two-Four-Three. They said to get her forwarding if she had checked out. They’ll have to fly this to her right away.”
Without a second glance, the clerk went to confer with the cashier, returned with a slip of paper and the address.
“One-Seven-Oh-Two Mojave Road South, Las Vegas. No zip.”
Runyan folded the slip and stuck it in his windbreaker pocket. “It’ll be hand-delivered anyway. Thanks, pal.”
He strolled out of the hotel. The big man known as Cronin came down the stairs from his vantage point above The Lubbers Bar and followed him out. Cronin was well over six feet tall; besides his mackinaw he wore a battered yachting cap, sunglasses, a grey-shot beard, and scuffed thick-soled boots that had gotten a lot of wear but which made him walk as if they hurt his feet a little.
Forty minutes after Runyan had gone, Moyers went past the striped barrier arm and cruised the underground parking garage looking for Louise’s car. First alarm and then anger bubbled up as he realized it was no longer there.
Louise, on a plane to Vegas.
Runyan, gone with her car.
Report the car stolen? Wrong play. He didn’t want Runyan back inside, he wanted him out here where eventually he would make his run for those diamonds.
Unless he was getting them right now.
No. That didn’t make sense. He’d had to hide them at night, in desperation. At night would be the logical time to recover them. And so far, he hadn’t had a night out from under Moyer’s surveillance.
He showed his I.D. to the same desk clerk on whom Runyan had worked his messenger scam.
“Homelife General Insurance, we carry the personal liability for the hotel.” He had no idea if they did or not, but he could be sure the clerk knew even less. “We need the forwarding of a Louise Graham, checked out this morning...”
“Sure,” said the clerk. “Room Two-Four-Three. OneSeven-Oh-Two Mojave Road South, Las Vegas. A messenger was here half an hour ago with a package for her, I had to—”
“What kind of package?”
“Manila envelope.”
“Manuscript size?”
“That would be about right, yes sir.”
Could be. A manuscript, galley proofs, research material — the possibilities were endless. He got the address from the clerk, started to turn away, then turned back again.
“Which messenger service, do you remember?”
“Uh... American? I think that’s what he said.”
“What did he look like?”
“You know. Cap. Jacket. Medium height, medium build...” He brightened. “Like a messenger.”
Moyers headed for the pay phones. Runyan? Could have been, if she’s skipped out on him while he was sleeping. But why? Called off? By whom? Someone in Vegas?
He used his credit card to get the Las Vegas number he had called earlier from the airport.
“Stark Investigations.”
“Rich-Dave Moyers again, I—”
“I was hoping you’d call, Dave. My man at the airport reported in five minutes ago. Our lady was a no-show. Ticketed and reserved, but not on the plane.”
“Goddammit!” exclaimed Moyers. “It stopped in Burbank, could she have—”
“Negative,” said Stark crisply. “We’ve got good contacts at the airport, my man got a look at the passenger manifest.”
She’d been standing somewhere in the airport terminal, watching him take the bait. Well, that answered the writer bit. No way.
“I have an address on her,” he said. “Seventeen-Oh-Two Mojave Road South.”