After a day of massive effort with very little to show for it, having Pamela Kinder show up at the last minute with that kind of information was absolutely mind-boggling, a cosmic joke. "Are you sure it was him? I asked. "Do you know the man personally?
"Not personally, but I remember the name. Believe me, I checked his ID very carefully, Pamela Kinder said. The certainty in her voice was more than a mere statement. Something about David Lions had bothered her, triggered her curiosity.
"Why? I asked.
"Why did I check so carefully? Because he looked like a bum, like he didn't have two nickels left to rub together. I wanted to be sure I wasn't renting our vehicle to someone using fake or stolen ID. I made sure the picture on his driver's license matched his face, and I double-checked the signatures as well.
"What do you mean, he looked like a bum?
"He acted sort of spacey, although I couldn't smell anything on him. And he looked like he had spent the night in a field somewhere. He still had straw sticking to his clothes, but his Visa card worked when I called to verify his credit.
"What did he say?
"Hardly anything. The guy who was with him, though, was a real conversationalist.
"You mean he wasn't alone?
"No. He had some jerk with him. Tall, dark, and handsome. Obviously considers himself God's gift to women. He tried to hit oh me. At six o'clock in the morning, mind you. Asked if he came back later, could he take me out to breakfast.
"What did you tell him?
"What I always tell creeps like that-that my husband was on his way to pick me up.
"Was he?
"My husband? Pamela Kinder laughed, a hearty, throaty laugh. "Hardly. Ralph's been dead for almost six years.
Halvorsen was too impatient to enjoy Pamela Kinder's sense of humor. "Did you notice anything unusual about either one of them, anything that would help us identify them?
"The straw. I already told you about that. And the other guy, the creep, was wearing gloves. Leather gloves, inside the terminal. Remembering Machiko's story, Halvorsen and I exchanged glances, but we said nothing, allowing Pamela to continue. "People sometimes do that, but usually not until after the weather gets cold. It's still way too early. I wondered if maybe his hands were disfigured-burned maybe, or deformed. He mostly kept his hands in his pockets like he was self-conscious about them.
She paused. "And he's from Chicago, she added.
"Chicago? How do you know that? Halvorsen demanded.
"I heard him talk. Believe me, I can tell a Chicago accent when I hear one. I grew up in Downer's Grove just outside of Chicago. He sounded like my Uncle Bill.
"Did they give you any idea where they were taking the car? I asked.
"No. I offered them maps. Lions said they didn't need any.
"Do you have any idea where they were going?
Pamela shook her head. "The car is due back in on Saturday afternoon. Of course, for an extra charge, they don't have to return it here.
"Can you give us a description of the vehicle?
She handed over a piece of paper. "I can do better than that. When Kyle told me what was going on, I stopped by the counter and made a copy of the rental agreement. It has a complete description of the car, including license numbers and all that.
Andy took the paper out of my hand. "What say I put out an APB on this, he said.
"Put a hold on that Visa number as well, I told him. Halvorsen nodded and hurried away. I started after him, but Pamela Kinder stopped me.
"So this was important, then?
To outsiders, homicide cops must appear rude at times. When we finally manage to glean some vital tidbit of information, our first instinct is to grab it and run without so much as a by-your-leave or a thank-you. A detective's total focus on finding a killer seldom allows time for social amenities. Pamela Kinder was a nice lady, one who had made a special trip to the airport in the middle of the night in order to help us. Now she seemed disappointed that we weren't acting more grateful.
I was instantly contrite and abjectly apologetic. "It's very important, Mrs. Kinder, I mumbled. "Thank you for taking the time to come down and give it to us.
And so, exercising astonishing self-control, I sat back down, focused my complete attention on Pamela Kinder's once more smiling face, and proceeded to pick her brain. By the time Halvorsen returned from sending out the APB, I had ascertained that Pamela Kinder had little else she could tell us. She had also made it clear that, this morning's encounter with the creep notwithstanding, she wouldn't have minded taking me home with her to continue the discussion.
Unfortunately, Halvorsen was still driving.
Once Pamela left, Detective Halvorsen hustled us out of the terminal as though it was on fire. To say he was anxious to get on the road would be drastically understating the case.
"How does it look? I asked.
He shrugged. "The APB? It's being broadcast right now, but nobody's very hopeful. Everybody thinks they're long gone, and as for the credit-card thing, Lions won't be dumb enough to try using it again.
"Let's get a room somewhere here in Spokane. In the morning we can stop by the hospital and-
"I already said, we're going back to Pullman.
"That was before we picked up a major lead. What the hell are you thinking?
"I'm going home.
"But what about Kimi? We still haven't talked to her.
"You know as well as I do that even if she's out of Intensive Care, they're not going to let us talk to her in the middle of the night, and probably not tomorrow morning either. We've already got a guard posted outside her door. Hanging around here in Spokane isn't going to do us a damn bit of good.
By then Halvorsen had driven us out of the airport complex and onto the freeway. When he started signaling for a right-hand turn at the Pullman exit, I made one more futile attempt at dissuading him.
"Look, turkey, I'm dead tired. What's the problem with spending the night here?
"I don't want to, Halvorsen replied tersely. Saying that, he lit up a new cigar and turned on the flashing lights. End of discussion.
If it weren't for the badge in his pocket, Andrew Halvorsen would probably have lost his driver's license years ago. He was a maniac behind the wheel. It was a long, wild ride through the moonlit Palouse that night, with him speeding down the straightaways and braking on the curves. Somewhere along the way, a deer leaped across the road in front of us, missing the front fender by inches.
"Jesus Christ, Halvorsen! Slow this mother down before you kill us both. What the hell's the hurry?
"Monica gets off at one, he said. "I told her I'd be there to pick her up.
"Monica? I asked. The afternoon phone call in his office was so long ago that I had almost completely forgotten about it. "Who the hell's Monica?
"My wife, he answered. "Our car's in the shop and she gets off work at one. I told her I'd be there to pick her up.
"But where?
"At the University Inn in Moscow. That's where she works.
Most of the time I pride myself on being a patient man. Patient and reasonably even-tempered. But that just about corked it. Here we were, driving hell-bent-for-leather through the middle of the night and almost getting killed besides and all because Andrew Halvorsen had agreed to pick up his dingbat wife after work.
"You mean to tell me she couldn't get a ride home with somebody else?
The tip of Halvorsen's cigar glowed dull red in the instrument lit darkness. "She probably could, he said. "That's why I'm going to pick her up.
We lapsed into silence. I was too ripped to talk and too busy hanging on. It was 12:45 when we pulled into the parking lot at the University Inn in Moscow, Idaho. It doesn't take a mathematical genius to know that seventy-five miles in sixty minutes is too damn fast!