Now, he beamed at me and stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Well now, yes, I heard the sound of the truck arriving and I came out for a little look-see, ‘cos it’s pretty quiet round here. Must have been right around eleven.”
Eleven. Right about when Trey and I were getting off the wooden coaster. Right about when Oakley man had been casually lingering in the gift shop and observed the kid’s temper tantrum. Right about when he’d smiled at me with such apparent sympathy and friendliness.
“Who was with the truck?” I demanded now. “Did you see them?”
Brown frowned, unaccustomed to quick-fire questions. I wondered how he’d managed to accrue the personal fortune through shrewd property dealings that he was rumoured to possess. Maybe he just delegated to smart cookies and let them get on with it.
“Well, just a couple of ordinary-looking guys, I guess,” he said, in the kind of doubtful tone that discredits eyewitnesses the world over. “Like I said, I came out and there was this U-Haul truck backed right on up to the front steps.”
“And you didn’t see any sign of Mr Pelzner?”
“Oh yeah,” he said, surprising me. “Keith came on over to the fence when he saw me out front. Seemed in kind of a hurry – not like him. He’s always been a laid-back guy, y’know? Anyways, he said as how he was having to move out kinda unexpected.”
“Did you see anyone else – Jim Whitmarsh, or Sean?”
Brown rubbed the back of his head, fluffing his hair up from its comb-over style across the top of his scalp. “Sean?” he repeated, puzzled. “Oh, you mean the Brit guy? No, no, I don’t think so. Come to think of it, I didn’t see any of the usual guys either. Just the ones with the truck, I think.”
A nondescript beige Buick saloon turned in to the end of the street then and started to slowly cruise down in our direction. Inside were two suited men wearing sunglasses. Neither had their seatbelt on. They both had big necks and square jaws and could possibly have been double glazing salesmen who liked to work out a lot, but I wouldn’t have bet on it.
“Did Mr Pelzner say where he was going, or give you a forwarding address?” I asked quickly, starting to edge towards the Mercury. If it hadn’t already been telling me it was time to go, my mind was now screaming “leave!” repeatedly in my inner ear.
“No, no he didn’t, which I must admit I thought was kinda strange, but he did ask me if I’d pass on a key to the realtor. He seemed kinda nervous, y’know? On edge. Said they’d be stopping by this afternoon to see about leasing the place out for the summer. I guess they might know. I think I maybe have a card some place in the house if you wanna come in for a mo—”
“No!” I said. The Buick had come to a halt about halfway down the street. It was hard to tell if the two men were watching me, because I couldn’t see their eyes, but they were sitting very, very still.
“No,” I said again, less vehement this time as I took in his offended face. “Look Mr Brown, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I have to go now. I don’t want to keep you standing out here.”
He was around four or five strides away at that point. Too far for me to be sure of getting him into cover if things went bad now. We were both way too exposed.
“Oh, well OK,” he said, still looking a little put out.
Just get back inside, you stupid old git, I wanted to yell at him. Get off the battleground! I breathed in, rolled my shoulders. Under my shirt the SIG had already stuck to my back with sweat that wasn’t entirely brought on by the heat. It wasn’t in a holster and I wondered how long it would take me to bring it out.
Longer, I calculated grimly, than it would take the two men to draw and fire the guns I just knew they were carrying. If you can’t run then take the passenger down first. He’s more likely to get out of the car faster than the driver.
I took another couple of steps towards the Mercury, keys already out in my hand, when Brown called a final question.
“Say, young lady, weren’t you supposed to be looking after Trey today?”
Christ, the old boy had a death wish. “Erm yeah,” I said, glancing back at him as I wrenched the car door open. “I’ve left him with a friend.” I thought of Joyce. At the moment she was the nearest thing I’d got.
“Oh,” Brown said, clearly nonplussed at my cavalier attitude towards proper childcare. “Oh well, that’s OK then I guess. You take care now, Carly.”
I didn’t bother to correct him again, just jumped in and cranked the Mercury into life. In the rear-view mirror I saw Brown shaking his head as he turned back into his own driveway. I waited until he’d got another few steps towards comparative safety and hoped that, if the guys in the Buick were as dodgy as I feared, they wouldn’t mistake the old guy as one of my allies and go after him as well.
I needn’t have worried on Brown’s account. As soon as I put the car into gear I had their full attention. I tried not to make direct eye-contact as I passed within a few feet of the other car but it was impossible not to let my eyes slide sideways, just a little.
The two men were craning to see into the Mercury, lifting up in their seats as they did so, making no bones about it. It was immediately obvious that I wasn’t the one who interested them. They were checking to see the kid wasn’t hiding in the back. When they saw he wasn’t they swung the Buick in a tyre-squealing circle and hooked it onto my tail.
It wasn’t subtle but they knew, just as I did, that I couldn’t leave Trey where he was indefinitely. Sooner or later I was going to have to make a move to collect him.
And when I did, the game was going to be over.
***
It had to go on record as one of the slowest car chases ever. Instinct made me turn left at the top of the street, trying to slow down my pursuers by making them follow me across four lanes of traffic to copy the manoeuvre. Fat chance. They pulled out smoothly with only two cars between us.
Damn, but driving on the right was taking some getting my head round.
I trundled through the next two sets of lights sticking bang on the speed limit. Bearing in mind Oakley man’s profession, I didn’t want to risk getting pulled by the cops.
The only experience I had of American traffic stops came through reality TV shows and the movies. If they were anything to go by, even if the officers involved were on the level I was likely to get hauled out of the car and subjected to a pat-down search. I’d no idea if the gun I was carrying wedged into the small of my back was officially registered, but even if it was, it certainly wasn’t in my name.
Mind you, it always seemed to be the State Troopers of the Highway Patrol who engaged in that kind of gung-ho behaviour, rather than the city police or Sheriff’s department. I vaguely recalled that Oakley man had been with the city police. Just how interconnected were the various departments? Was he working on his own, or was someone else lurking in the shadows pulling his strings? I didn’t have a clue.
I kept driving, the area taking a step down with each passing block. My brain was frantically concocting and dumping solutions to my current situation. The beige Buick had moved up to one car behind me, keeping station. Checking in my mirrors, I could see the guy in the passenger seat talking on a mobile phone. If they were calling in reinforcements I couldn’t afford to delay much longer.
I had to do something, but what?
Then something caught my eye up ahead on my left. Every little roadside shop and store, it seemed, stated their business on a sign about twenty feet up in the air, like all their customers were incredibly tall.