She nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I guess that’s right.”
“Sure. And utterly pointless, so far. After they’d done all that, there was no way in Christ’s world they could get the money. Except that they did.”
“Well, what are you going to do now?”
He considered. At the moment he could see two possible leads, both very tenuous and both calling for a hell of a lot of legwork. One was Jeri Bonner, and the other the Mercedes. He couldn’t explore both avenues at once, so the best thing would be to get some help doing the bloodhounding and backtracking here while he went back to Nevada. He had an idea about the car, something Brubaker had overlooked or dismissed as unimportant, and he had a hunch he could find the place. It would just take a lot of driving. He’d had enough of that highway up through Sacramento and across the Sierra, so he’d fly up and rent a car in Reno. He told her.
“When will you be back?” she asked.
“Tomorrow night, probably.”
“Can I go too?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“That desert’s hotter than the floor plates of hell. And you’d just be bored, and choked with dust—”
“Spare me the bullshit, Romstead. I can’t go because it might be dangerous, right?”
“Dangerous? Of course not.”
“You’re looking for a place, but you don’t have the faintest idea what the place consists of or who’s going to be there. If it’s the people who killed your father, they’ll invite you in for a drink—”
“I don’t intend to carry a sign.”
“So of course they’ll think you’re the Avon lady. Or you could disguise yourself as a jockey. You and your goddamned CIA ... I might as well get dressed and go home.” She got up and flounced out of the room but reappeared in the doorway a moment later, looking contrite and worried. “You will be careful, won’t you?”
“Sure,” Romstead said. He brought out his address book and looked up Jeff Loring’s number. Loring was a college classmate who’d been with the FBI for a while and now was practicing law in San Francisco. They’d had lunch together a couple of times in the months Romstead had been in town. Loring was in, and if the question surprised him, he concealed it.
“Private investigator? Sure, I know several, personally or by reputation, but they specialize a lot: divorce, skip tracing, background investigation, security—”
“Skip tracing, in that area. General police experience.”
“Murdock sounds like your man. Larry Murdock. He runs a small agency on Post Street. I haven’t got his number handy, but you can get it from the book.”
“Thanks a lot, Jeff. I’ll tell you about it later.”
“No sweat. Give me a call, and we’ll have lunch.”
He looked up the number and dialed. He introduced himself and said he was calling on Loring’s recommendation. “I’d come there, but I’ve got some more phone calls to make.” He gave the address. “Could you send one of your men over?”
“I’ll come myself,” Murdock replied. “Half hour be all right?”
“That’ll be fine.”
Mayo came out dressed for the street while he was looking up the Nevada area code. “You want me to call about flight times?” she asked.
“Yeah, if you would, honey. I’ll be tied up here for the next couple of hours.”
She leaned down to kiss him and went out. Her apartment was in another building of the same complex.
He called directory assistance in area code 702 for Mrs. Carmody’s number and dialed, praying she’d be in. The information he could give Murdock would be sketchy until he could get hold of her. Carmelita answered. Mrs. Carmody was out by the pool. One moment, please.
“Eric? Where in the world are you? I thought you went back to San Francisco.”
“That’s where I’m calling from. How are you?”
“Fine. But still a little shook about Jeri.”
“I know. But she’s why I called. Do you by any chance know what her address was here? Or where she worked?”
“No-o. I don’t think I ever did. The only person who would know would be Lew, but for God’s sake, don’t tackle him. I know what you’re trying to do—”
“Right. It’s almost a cinch there was something between her and the old man. And Bonner suspected it. Remember, he was bitter as hell even before he knew she was dead, there in the house.”
“Well,” she said hesitantly, “that’s right. But it wasn’t entirely over Jeri.”
“I understand.” He’d suspected that already; Bonner had a thing for Paulette Carmody himself and was jealous. Sister and girlfriend both, he thought; it was no wonder he hated the name Romstead. “It seems to me he’d have been one of Brubaker’s prime suspects.”
“Oh, he might have been except he was in his store until two o’clock that morning and then in a poker game with five or six other men until after daylight. No, it wasn’t Lew. He’s violent and pugnacious as hell, but straightforward about it. If he’d done it, it would have been on the steps of city hall in front of two hundred witnesses. Which is why I said don’t even think of calling him about Jeri. He’s out on bail now for beating a man almost to death in a bar last night. Some ranch hand he overheard say something about Jeri and Captain Romstead.”
“Don’t worry,” Romstead said. “I intend to give him all the room he needs ... Well, could you give me a description of her?”
“She was about five feet five, around a hundred and ten pounds. Blue eyes, dark-red hair, nose just a little on the baby side, but cute. Leggy for a girl who wasn’t very tall.”
“Good. You don’t know what type of work she did?”
“Clerical. She’d had some business courses—typing and so on—at San Diego State. Wait—I just remembered something. Last winter she bought Lew a tape deck at employee discount; she was working for some electronics supply outfit.”
“You can’t recall the name?”
“No, I’m sorry. But it seems to me he said it was on Mission Street.”
“Fine. That’s enough for a start. Thanks a million.”
After he’d hung up, he remembered something else he’d intended to ask her. It was about the crewman the old man had turned over to the narcs for having heroin aboard his ship. Until you had a solid lead to follow, you had to consider everything a possibility. Well, he’d call her tomorrow from up there.
He brought out a bag and began to pack. The phone rang. It was Mayo. There was a flight at three o’clock, with space available. He asked her to make the reservation for him.
“Okay. I’ll drive you to the airport.”
“You’re an angel.”
“With an angel’s sex life. I might as well be having an affair with a whaler.”
Just as he hung up, the doorbell chimed.
Larry Murdock was a lean-faced man in his middle forties with coolly watchful gray eyes and an air of quietness about him. He introduced himself and produced a wallet-sized photostat of his license. Romstead closed the door and they sat down.
“You’ve had police experience, no doubt?” he asked.
“Yes. Fifteen years, here in San Francisco. What is it you want done, Mr. Romstead?”
“Just more of the same. Ringing doorbells and asking questions. I’m trying to backtrack two people to see if they knew each other, and how well, and what other people they knew. It’ll probably go faster with two men on it, if you’ve got somebody available. Okay?”
“Yes. I think we can handle it.” Murdock took a notebook from a pocket of his jacket and undipped a pen.