The restaurant had the haunting and somehow reassuring familiarity of that every Denny’s possessed. Overhead, sputnik-like lamps that dated from the seventies hung suspended from a ceiling that was plated with beige acoustic tiles. Booths lined the windows and the counter was manned by an army of truckers and cops. On every table the napkin-dispenser huddled-up with its team of condiments.
“I received some interesting e-mail this morning,” she began. She quickly told him about the message from Vance. She was gratified that he didn’t laugh at her for getting caught by her own game.
“Hmph,” he said, munching on one of her pieces of diagonally-cut white toast. “Sounds like he spotted us first.”
“Exactly.”
“So what’s our next move?”
“I think we should press the wife for her help. Maybe she can talk him into giving himself up before he sinks himself more deeply into this. After all, if he’s innocent, he should give himself up.”
“It’ll only work if she thinks that we’re doing a good job of finding her kid,” said Johansen, “I get the impression that neither of them care about anything else right now.”
“Naturally enough,” she said, “but I think I can convince her.”
“Right. In any case, it’s better than just waiting around for one of the uniforms to pick him up by chance.”
She glanced at him again. He didn’t sound overly confident in her persuasiveness. “We’ll get her to come around, it might just take a few days.”
“Right,” he repeated. “In the meantime, what about this Nogatakei guy?”
“I suppose we’ll have to check it out.”
“Huh,” he said, “so our fugitive suspect is now feeding us leads. He’s typing them, no less.”
“The irony isn’t lost on me.”
“But is this tip just a red herring? Something to keep us busy while he works his own plans?”
“That’s what we’re paid to find out,” she said, sliding out of the booth.
Johansen stood up with her and picked up the check. On the way out the waitress, a gum-snapper in her twenties, gave them an up-down glance. Vasquez grimaced, having seen it before. Everyone automatically assumed they were a couple, and invariably people thought it odd to see that one of them was a good fourteen inches taller than the other. Not to mention a good deal more pale in complexion. At least the waitress had the good grace not to smile in amusement at them.
By a long-standing agreement between the two of them, Johansen always picked up the tab when they ate together. He said it was to keep a low profile as a couple, but she always suspected that he wanted to play the male role. Recently, she had begun to suspect he wanted more of that role than she had realized.
Following his towering form through the glass doors, she recalled his light touch. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant memory.
… 59 Hours and Counting…
Sarah hardly knew she was dropping tears into her breakfast until the doorbell rang. She blinked awake and dabbed her eyes. She glanced down at her cereal. The milk had sat too long in the bowl and turned rice squares to swollen mush. Then the doorbell rang again, and she got up to answer it. Her newly installed peephole revealed Mrs. Trumble’s permanently worried face. She opened the door.
“Mrs. Trumble?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, dear,” said the old woman. She wore slippers and a quilted housecoat.
“What is it?”
“I have a message for you, I got a call from Ray quite early this morning.”
Sarah’s mouth sagged open, then shut again. “When?”
“Oh, about six. Abner answered the phone, you see, and he’s so hard of hearing now that it took a few minutes before he knew who it was. Then he handed it to me.”
“Six?” snapped Sarah, “Why did you wait so long to tell me? It’s after eight.”
“Oh, my stars, I’m sorry! I thought that I shouldn’t wake you. What with Justin gone missing and all… I thought you could use your sleep. I’m sorry if it’s important. Abner said that I should come over right away, but I didn’t — ”
Sarah fluttered her hands in exasperation. Normally, she could put up with hours of Mrs. Trumble’s ramblings before she got to the point, but today wasn’t like any other day. “Please. What’s the message?”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Trumble, seeming put out, “he just asked that you get hold of a person called: ‘Magic Avila’ and ask them to meet Ray for lunch at, um, dot-com somewhere.”
Sarah closed her eyes and restrained herself from grabbing the woman’s sleeve. “Do you know the exact address?”
“Address?” asked Mrs. Trumble in bewilderment. “You mean the address of the restaurant?”
“The restaurant?”
“Well, I assume that’s where they’d be meeting,” she said.
“No, no,” said Sarah, “dot-com is part of an internet address. He wants this person, Magic, to meet him on the net, not in person.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Trumble blankly.
“Dot-com is only part of the address, and a very common part indeed. Do you have the rest?”
“Well, I don’t see how you can meet for lunch and not be in the same room, but I suppose I’ve heard everything else. Now, let’s see…” said Mrs. Trumble, digging in her purse. “Abner told me I should write it down, so I think I did. Yes.”
She produced a scrap of paper. On it was scrawled the internet address: NO CARRIER DOT-COM. Sarah automatically translated it in her mind to the internet form: nocarrier. com.
Now all she had to do was figure out who and where Magic Avila was.
Nogatakei’s apartment was horrific. Vasquez, who loved nothing more than a clean house, was speechless. Stuff was everywhere, disks, magazines, unwashed clothing, half-eaten food in various states of decay and just plain dirt. It was impossible to walk two feet without stepping on something disgusting. Bizarre toys of rubber and springs squeaked and hopped by themselves when they were nudged. A cobweb caught her full in the face as she tried to make it to the kitchen.
“Yaah!” she cried out in annoyance.
“You said it,” said Johansen, “I’ve seen nicer looking murder scenes.”
From the door way the landlady called in, “I told you. I always knew the boy was wrecking the place, but when I complained he just doubled the deposit. Paid me cash, too. After he doubled it twice, I stopped bothering him. And if he’s skipped out or headed for jail, I’m gonna keep it all, let me tell you.”She rattled a thick ring of keys, and haunted the hallway, but was reluctant to enter. Vasquez didn’t blame her.
“If this is his place, I’m going to love meeting the man himself,” she said. The fridge was zoological exhibit of microbial flora and fauna.
“Ah, here’s evidence of Vance, I’ll bet,” said Johansen. He pointed to a tire iron that had skewered a keyboard neatly. Vasquez made her way back to the living room and had to stand on her tiptoes to see past a bank of dusty computer monitors.
“Take a few shots of it,” she suggested. “Are there any other signs of a struggle?”
“Who can tell in this place? If they had a fight in here, I’m not sure I could tell the difference. At least I don’t see any bloodstains,” said Johansen. He pulled out a digital camera and went to work. “I’ll bet you this tool came from the trunk of a Honda Civic.”
“I’ll bet you’re right, and I’m almost sorry we found it. Now we’ll have to get a warrant to really search the place.”
“No warrant?” squawked the landlady. Evidently, she had been quietly listening out on the doorstep. “You people are crazy.”
“We just asked you to let us in for a look around, ma’am,” called Johansen, “just following up a lead.”
“You think you’re on TV?” laughed the landlady. Vasquez was reminded ever more distinctly of an unpleasant, squawking bird. “When the cops get here, they’re going to be pissed.”