The myopic eyes had finally recognized Kearny. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “I didn’t... I thought... Ah... what are the questions?”
“One. What did Griffin look like? Two. Did you give his description to a black investigator named Heslip on Tuesday afternoon?”
And Odum answered them.
Ten minutes later Kearny was in the Thunderbird and picking up an on-ramp for California 4 west. No time now to bury Griffin’s car in Concord while he picked up his station wagon. If someone tried to get him on the radio they couldn’t, of course — but who would be on the air this time of night anyway?
No, he’d just drive the T-Bird into the city, stop somewhere to check a phone book, get the address. If it was an unlisted number, stop at the DKA office to check the city directory. Because Odum’s answers had confirmed it.
The killer hadn’t just been stupid; he just hadn’t realized how complex people’s lives were. Hadn’t known that being docketed for a court appearance, and being out on $600 bail, coupled with the disappearance, would send a lawyer and an insurance agent and finally a firm of private detectives snooping into Griffin’s life. And talk about stupid: why hadn’t Kearny realized long before that Griffin had used the Castro Valley address in good faith on his credit application for the T-Bird, even though he had moved out the month before? It probably still was his legal residence, because he would have owned it once the will cleared probate. He probably still had been registered to vote out of that address. A shame. A damned shame.
At least Bart hadn’t died. Yet. Kearny would call the hospital later, maybe even drop in there after he had wrapped up the case. No need to ask Bart what he had done after leaving Odum on Tuesday afternoon. Kearny already knew. He hoped the body wouldn’t be too hard to find. He had a pretty good idea of where it would be. The simplistic reason for selling the furniture told him that. And, of course, the fact that the killer seemed always to act under the grip of emotion. Strike first, consider the consequences later, as he had done with Bart.
Twenty-two
The fog was in, ponderous and wet, when Ballard parked on Bush, went in the ambulance entrance of Trinity Hospital. Fifty paces through the misty fog had furred his clothes and hair with moisture. He wiped his face with his handkerchief as he pushed the button; the elevator was slow enough so he had gotten two Mr. Goodbars from the candy machine, had bolted one and was crunching on the other before it arrived.
The third-floor hall was warm, quiet, dim except for the hard white light from the duty desk at the far end. A bulky white shape came from behind the desk; he recognized the gimlet-eyed nurse who’d been shocked at Whitaker’s language on Wednesday morning. Wednesday? Seemed weeks rather than days ago. Involuntarily, he gave a huge yawn.
“Mr. Ballard?” she asked in a hushed angry whisper.
“That’s right.”
“Well... Doctor said you could go in,” she said grudgingly. “Visiting time was over hours ago...”
For a moment Ballard thought the radio message had been a cruel hoax. Heslip still lay as silent as before. His eyes were still shut, his head was still swathed in bandages. Then Ballard saw the look on Corinne’s face as she started to her feet, and he knew it was all right.
“He just fell asleep waiting for you to get here,” said Whitaker.
The jaunty little doctor was sitting on the arm of Giselle Marc’s chair, one arm across the back of it and thus draped loosely around her shoulders, the fingers of the other hand resting with artful casualness on one of her bare forearms. The tall blonde looked bemused, like a greyhound under amorous assault by a Pekingese.
“You got my radio message?” She seemed delighted with the diversion Ballard provided.
“From Dunlop Jensen? Yeah. I promised him a bottle of booze.”
She stood up with a lithe, quick movement, smoothed down her short plaid wool skirt. “Want me to go with you when you deliver it?”
“I’ve already volunteered you.”
He turned toward Corinne, almost warily. She reached up to put her fingertips against the side of his neck.
“You know I’m sorry, don’t you, Larry? Giselle told me—”
Ballard put his arms around her. She clung fiercely to him. Whitaker cleared his throat as a somewhat wan voice came from the bed.
“Hands off the woman, honky.”
Without releasing Corinne, Ballard turned to look down at Heslip. He let his eyes move over the still form under the blankets, from bandaged crown to toe and back again. Then he slowly shook his head in disbelief. “It looks like it was strained through a handkerchief.”
“I hear you’ve been working my assignments, screwing them up.”
“Trying to get them unscrewed from the mess you left them in.”
Ballard let go of Corinne and went around the bed to the head of it. He made a fist and touched Heslip’s cheekbone with it, then reached behind him to pull up a spare chair and sit down.
“Dan wanted to bring you a watermelon as soon as you woke up,” he said, “but I took him over to East Bay and lost him. Last I saw he was driving a red and white T-Bird—”
“You mean the Griffin car?” exclaimed Heslip.
“Griffin!” yelped Giselle. “You got Griffin?”
“We got his car,” said Ballard. He turned back to Heslip. “How much do you remember about Tuesday night?” He looked over to Whitaker. “Or aren’t I supposed to ask?”
“Ask,” said Whitaker. He waved the chromed watch. Ballard wondered if the wife had gotten him into the bathtub yet. “There’s mental shock connected with this sort of injury and coma, a disorientation that can be quite devastating to the patient. The more that he can place himself in time and event without becoming agitated, the better for his own peace of mind.”
“Oh no!” wailed Corinne softly. “Not you too, Doctor! Not tonight!”
Whitaker gave an apologetic shrug.
Heslip was frowning. “I’ve been trying to... get it together since they told me what happened. Truth is, I coulda actually been driving that damn Jaguar for all I can remember...”
“Remember talking to me on the radio?”
“I remember the Willets repo, I remember... yeah, I remember telling you about it. I was gonna meet you at the office, right?”
“Right.”
“Giselle, can’t you stop them?” asked Corinne, as if she hated the idea of Heslip even talking about it.
Giselle looked over at Whitaker. He gave no reaction, so she shrugged wryly. “I’m as bad as they are, Corinne. I want to hear.”
“Do you remember working the Griffin case on Tuesday?” asked Ballard.
That Heslip remembered. He had seen Leo at JRS Garage in the morning, had gotten the California Street address in Concord; that had seemed not enough to warrant a run over there. He usually would have just turned it over to the Oakland office, but on a dead skip like Griffin any field agent would love to turn him alone, thus giving a not too subtle finger to the field agents working out of the office of origin.
“Did you talk to a girl named Cheri?” asked Ballard.
He hadn’t. He’d dug out the landlady, found out about the accident to the T-Bird, had gone to the Concord cops and asked them what garage it had been towed to after the Christmas Eve smash. Ballard just shook his head on that one. Jesus! Some investigator he was! Heslip had made all the moves that Ballard should have made.
“Doctor, can’t you stop them?” demanded Corinne.