“That’s right.”
“You were on that turnaround?”
“Yes. The whole time.”
“And you didn’t see anything unusual.”
“Nothing at all.”
“Could you see inside the car?”
“No-too many shadows.”
“But you could see most of the area around it.”
“Yes.”
“You take your eyes off it for any length of time?”
“A few seconds now and then, no more.”
“Were all four doors visible?”
“Three of the four. Not the driver’s door.”
“That’s how he disappeared, then.”
I nodded. “But what about the dome light? Why didn’t I see it go on?”
“It’s not working,” Klein said. “Bulb’s defective. That was one of the first things I checked after we wired up the door lock.”
“I also didn’t see the door open,” I said. “I might have missed that, I’ll admit-but it’s the kind of movement that should have attracted my atten tion.” I paused, working my memory. “Hornback couldn’t have gone away toward the road or down the embankment to the east or back into those trees over there; I would have seen him if he had The only other direction is down this slope, right in front of his car. But if that’s it, why didn’t i notice movement when he climbed over the guardrail?”
“Maybe he didn’t climb over it.”
“Crawled under it?”
“Maybe.”
“Why would he have done that?”
“You tell me.”
“Well, I can think of one possibility.”
“Which is?”
“The suicide angle,” I said. “I told you I was worried about that. What if Hornback decided to do the Dutch, and while he was sitting in the car he used a pocketknife or something else sharp to slash his wrists? That would explain the blood on the front seat. Only he lost his nerve at the last second, panicked, opened the door and fell out of the car and crawled under the guardrail-”
I stopped. The idea was no good; I had realized that even as I laid it out.
Klein knew it, too. He was shaking his head. “No blood outside the driver’s door or along the side of the car or anywhere under the guardrail; a man with slashed wrists bleeds pretty heavily. Besides, if he’d cut his wrists and had second thoughts, why leave the car at all? Why not just start it up and drive to the nearest hospital?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“There’s another funny angle-the locked doors. Who locked them? Hornback? His attacker, if there was an attacker? Why lock them at all?”
I had no answers for him. I stood brooding out at the city lights.
“Assume he was attacked,” Klein said. “By a mugger, say, who’s decided to work up here because of the isolation. The attacker would have had to get to the car with you watching, which means coming up this slope, along the side of the car, and in through the driver’s door.”
“And the door would have had to be unlocked when he did it,” I said.
“Yeah. Do you buy any of that?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. It’s TV commando stuff-too farfetched.”
“There’s another explanation,” I said musingly.
“What’s that?”
“The attacker was in the car all along.”
“Not a mugger, you mean?”
“Right. Somebody who had it in for Hornback.”
Klein scowled; he had heavy jowls, and the scowl made him look like a bulldog. “I thought you said Hornback was alone the whole night. Didn’t meet anybody.”
“He didn’t. But suppose he was in the habit of frequenting Dewey’s Place, and this somebody knew it. Suppose he-or she-was waiting in the parking lot, slipped inside the Dodge while Hornback and I we’re in the tavern, hid on the floor in back, and stayed hidden until Hornback came up here and parked. Then maybe stuck a knife in him.”
“Also melodramatic, seems to me.”
“Me too. But it is possible.”
“What kind of motive fits that explanation?”
“How about the money Hornback’s wife claims he stole from their firm?”
“You’re not thinking the wife attacked him?”
“No. If she was going to do him in, it doesn’t make sense she’d hire me to tail him around.”
“The alleged girl friend?”
“Could be.”
“You said yourself the girl friend might be a figment of the wife’s imagination.”
I nodded. “But assume she does exist. She could have had a falling-out with Hornback and decided to keep all the money for herself. That kind of thing happens all the time.”
“Sure, it does,” Klein said, but he sounded dubious. “The main trouble with that idea is, what happened to Hornback’s body? The attacker, male or female, would’ve had to get both himself and Hornback out of the car, then drag the body down the slope. Now, why in hell would somebody kill a man way up here, with nobody around as far as he knew, and take the corpse away with him instead of just leaving it in the car?”
I spread my hands, palms up. “I just can’t figure it any other way,” I said.
“Neither can I-for now. Let’s see what the search teams and the forensic boys turn up.”
What the searchers and the lab crew turned up, however, was nothing: no sign of Hornback dead or alive, no sign of anybody else in the area, no bloodstains except for those inside the car, no other evidence of any kind. Hornback-or his body, and maybe an attacker as well-had not only vanished from the Dodge while I was watching it; he had vanished completely and without a trace. As if into thin air.
It was close to 2:00 A.M. before Klein let me go home. He asked me to stop in later at the Hall of Justice to sign a statement, but aside from that he seemed satisfied that I had given him all the facts as I knew them. But I was not quite off the hook yet, nor would I be until Hornback turned up. If he turned up. My word was all the police had for what had happened on the lookout, and I was the first to admit that it was a pretty bizarre story.
When I came into my flat I thought about calling Mrs. Hornback. But on consideration, I saw no point or advantage in phoning a report at this time of night; the police would already have told her about her husband’s disappearance. Besides which, I just did not want to talk to the woman or listen to her read me the riot act.
It was too late to call Kerry, too. And even if it wasn’t, I was not up to relating the night’s events another time to anybody, not without some sleep first.
I drank a glass of milk and crawled into bed and tried to sort things into some kind of order. How had Hornback vanished? Why? Was he dead or alive? An innocent man or as guilty as his wife claimed? The victim of suicidal depression, or of circumstance, or of premeditated violence …?
No good. I was too tired to come up with fresh speculations on any of those questions.
After a while I slept and dreamed a lot of crap about people dematerializing inside locked cars, vanishing in little puffs of smoke. A long time later the telephone woke me up. I keep the thing in the bedroom, and it went off six inches from my ear and sat me up in bed, grumbling. Outside the window, the sky was beginning to lighten, as if blue dye were slowly being added to gray cloth; the nightstand clock said that the time was 6:55. Four hours’ sleep and a new day dawning.
The caller, not surprisingly, was Mrs. Hornback. She launched into an immediate harangue, berating me for not getting in touch with her last night; then she demanded my version of what had happened in Twin Peaks Park. I gave it to her.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” she said.
“That’s your privilege, ma’am,” I said. “But it happens to be the truth.”
“We’ll see about that.” She sounded even more angry and vituperative than she had in my office yesterday; her voice dripped venom. There was no compassion in the woman, not a whisper of it. “How could you let something like that happen? What kind of detective are you?”