“Not yet,” said the older one. “Do you have any pictures of her we might be able to use?”
Hall thought for a moment. “Yeah. I got one somebody took about two years ago, but she hasn’t changed.” He hurried inside, went to the big sideboard, and pulled open a drawer. He was a bit surprised to see it lying on top of the keys and coins and pens that he kept there. Sometimes things migrated to the surface, but more often they seemed to sink in the general disorder.
The picture was a shot that Billy Przwalski’s girlfriend had taken at the party when Sam had retired. Emily was wearing the red dress, and looking at Ray Hall. She had halfturned when she had sensed the girl nearby, seen the camera, and almost smiled. He handed it to the police officer. “I’d like-” he stopped himself. He didn’t need to have the picture back. “It’s exactly the way she looks now. There may be other pictures, but they won’t be any better.”
The cop looked, and Hall could see he was thinking about how pretty Emily was. He said, “Is it possible this is an admirer or somebody she knows?”
“It can only be the guy who broke into her house before, the one who shot at a couple of men from our agency. She doesn’t know him.”
“Right. I’ll try to get this back to you when they’ve copied it and got it into the system.”
“Okay,” said Hall. Before the two were out of his house he was dialing the first of the car-rental agencies. “Hello,” he said. “I’m calling because I’d like to know which make and model SUVs you offer for rent.”
He went down the page, writing the models on a list. Whenever there was a delay while a clerk went to his computer to see the selection of cars or had to handle a customer, Ray thought about Emily. She must be wondering right now whether anyone even knew she was missing, or if anyone had turned up a lead to follow. She would be afraid. Maybe she was in pain. Maybe she was already dead.
Hall kept talking and dialing, moving down the column in the telephone book. He kept the desperation out of his voice because he knew it had a bad effect on the person at the other end of a telephone call. Most of the time a desperate person was crazy or in some position of neediness. People felt uncomfortable and wanted to cut off contact as quickly as possible. He needed to have them spend extra time getting him the information he needed, so he was affable, friendly, calm. He made them like him. Behind the untroubled manner, his mind was in turmoil, trying to think of another path to Emily.
And then he dialed the right number. The voice on the other end was a young woman. “Everyday Car Rentals.”
Hall asked her if Everyday rented any Lexus GX 470 SUVs.
“Yes,” she said. “We have some Lexus SUVs. They’re only about twelve dollars a day over the price of a full-size sedan.”
“Can you tell me the colors available, please?”
“Colors?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind.”
“Well, okay. They come in black, brown, green, white. Another white. And beige.”
“You have beige. Is it that kind of silvery-beige color? I think they call it `silver sand’?”
“Well, yes. That’s the color. I don’t say it because nobody knows what I mean.”
“But you have one?”
“Yes. We have one on the lot, but it’s taken at the moment. I can’t be sure when it will be back in, but if you wanted to rent another car, I could call you when it comes in, and you could trade.”
“Could you tell me who rented that one?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t give out information on customers. But would you like one of the other colors?” Her voice was cooler: He had gone too far.
“You know, I’m only interested in that color. Are there any other agencies that have the same model and color?”
“I can’t be positive about the color. I did hear that Everyday is the only company that rents the same model. I would guess that Everyday probably got a deal by buying a fleet of them. Sometimes what happens is some company makes a special order and then cancels it, or the model doesn’t sell, or something. These cars are perfectly good, though. I’ve driven one. There’s another Everyday agency near the Marina, and one in Fountain Valley. You could ask them if they have the right color.”
“If that one comes in, can you call me right away and hold it for me?”
“Sure. Let me have your name and number.”
“I promise there will be a huge tip in it for you.” He gave her the information, and then asked for her name.
“Carrie.” The tone of her voice reminded him of a person who had taken a bet that she didn’t expect to win.
Ray Hall dialed the cell-phone number on Detective Gruenthal’s card. He said, “I think I’ve found where this guy rented his car. It’s the Everyday Car Rental on Hollywood Way in Burbank. They claim they’re the only company that has a Lexus GX 470 for rent, and their other shops are in Fountain Valley and Marina del Rey.”
“Great, Ray!” Gruenthal said. “That’s great news.”
“They have only one that’s silver-sand color, and it’s rented out right now.”
“Even better. I’ll need a warrant to find out who the renter is, but I’ll get it as fast as I can. Sit tight, and I’ll call you as soon as I have it.”
“It will be a stolen credit card or a fake name. Concentrate on getting permission to have the auto-theft guys trip the Lojack to find where the car is now. Please, this guy could be killing her.”
33
Hobart had finished digging the grave. It was well over six feet deep, so the barrow of dirt on each side above his head was at least a yard high when he had hit rock. He liked working in the dark. He liked the feel of the night outside the city, the sounds and the smells. Hobart had done this kind of digging a few times before, and he had strong opinions about it. A deep grave was still the best way to hide a body because the police were never so overfunded or underworked that they could afford to dig to bedrock over a large area.
He would normally have used the shovel to dig a narrow incline to walk his way up out of the grave, but this time he didn’t want to do that. It would ruin the squared-off, gravelike appearance. He stuck the shovel in the mound to his left, then placed both hands on the flat ground just beyond the edge, jumped, and pulled himself up at the head of the grave.
Hobart had spent a lot of time on Emily Kramer. He had stalked her, considered her in moments of absolute terror that would have reduced some women to hysteria or unconsciousness, but she seemed to maintain a shaky alertness. He respected people who clung to life that way, but he needed to finish this whole Emily Kramer business tonight. He was probably going to have to kill her and drive up to meet Theodore Forrest and collect his two hundred thousand.
Hobart left the shovel and walked through the field toward the house, feeling a kind of pride in his own workmanship. There was not a sliver of light coming from any window, although he had left the bathroom light on. There was a skill to being an outlaw. The only people who knew and respected it were the people who had it and the people who made a living chasing them down, but a man who did things right lasted a little longer.
He walked along, and suddenly felt the vibration of his cell phone against his thigh. He reached into his pocket, pulled it out and opened it. “Yes?”
The voice he heard was one he had not expected exactly, but dreaded. “Hi. Can you talk for a second?” Theodore Forrest.
Hobart said quietly, “I can, but I’d rather not.”
“I mean are you alone?”
“For now.”
“I’ve been afraid you had gotten into a mess of some kind. I had expected to hear from you.”