A solid lead, unless the Stork had planted the slip of paper there for Tim to find. Purposeful misdirection seemed unlikely, as Tim had found the receipt just prior to the Debuffier hit, when the Commission was less openly contentious.
He’d get on it first thing in the morning.
Exhaustion hit him all at once, as if it had been saving itself for an ambush. He hadn’t slept in nearly forty-five hours, and the brief alcohol-clouded slumber he’d gotten then, curled on Ginny’s bed, had been less than refreshing.
He lay on his mattress, examining the cottage-cheese ceiling. It reminded him of fresh-burned flesh. His thoughts pulled him back to Ginny on the coroner’s table, to the sight he’d beheld when he’d drawn back the hospital-blue sheet, to the sound the sheet had made being peeled.
There were more pleasant images he could have fallen asleep to, but then, he didn’t have a choice.
37
HE WAS UP at first light, an old Rangers habit that reemerged in high-stress times. On the KCOM morning news, a less attractive and less ethnic reporter than Yueh carried the story of a double homicide in Hancock Park. William Rayner, of course, was mentioned by name, Ananberg described as a “young female teaching assistant.” Authorities were, predictably, “baffled”-Tanninospeak for get-your-cameras-out-of-my-boys’-faces-and-let-them-do-their-jobs.
After showering, Tim flipped through the phone book and found the sole listing for VanMan Rental Agency. It was over in El Segundo, a few miles from the airport.
He located it in an industrial stretch, held tight in the corner of a moderately busy intersection. The parking lot extended over a half acre, the office itself standing at the front near the sidewalk, small and functional, like a bait shack. Through the high chain-link fence, Tim saw row after row of vans of all types.
Sitting in the car, he lost the hip holster, double-wrapping rubber bands around the grip of his. 357 and slipping it in his waistband. Then he retrieved a jacket from the backseat. He pulled a few flex-cuffs from his war bag and coiled them in his pocket.
When he slid open the glass door and stepped up into the office, he felt the floorboards give slightly under his weight. A portly man in a yellow oxford shirt sat examining his schedule, one chubby finger tracing over the free Bank of America calendar pinned up on the cheap paneling behind the high front counter. He turned at the sound of the sliding door, his cheeks rosy, his bare scalp thinly veiled by a comb-over that had probably lost its conviction about the same time as the Carter administration.
“Stan the Van Man at your service.” He rose and offered Tim a soft and slightly sweaty hand.
“Big shop you have here,” Tim said. “You’ve got, what, fifty vans?”
“Sixty-three up and running, four in the shop.” He beamed with pride.
Probably the owner, probably not the full-time front counterman. Good.
Tim searched the small office interior. A sun-faded Disney tourist poster curling out from its tacks on the wall showed a small girl astride Mickey’s shoulders in front of Sleeping Beauty’s castle, just as Bear had carried Ginny last July through the very same stretch of park. Several wood-framed photos on the rear desk showed off a cheerful, pudgy family; even the dachshund could have stood to pay Jenny Craig a visit. One shot showed the Van Man family gathered before a decorated Christmas tree wearing green-and-red sweaters. Everyone looked excessively pleasant.
A bribe would probably not go over well.
A messy Rolodex sat at the counter’s edge, the category cards sticking up in white plastic. AIRPORT. BUSINESS-TO-BUSINESS.
INDUSTRIAL. TOUR GROUPS. TRAVEL AGENTS.
“I’m a travel agent-Tom Altman,” Tim said. “We’ve spoken a few times…?”
“Oh, you probably spoke to my guy, Angelo. I’m only here Saturdays, holding down the fort.”
“That’s right, Angelo rings a bell. Well, listen, I booked a van for a family to head down to Disneyland-”
“Disneyland. Our most common destination. Nothing like seeing a family get off the plane from North Dakota or Ohio, load up in one of my babies, and head on down to Mousetown.” His grin, genuine and untroubled, made Tim envious.
“Must be gratifying.”
“Mine drag me down there at least twice a year. You have kids yourself?” His smile lost a few watts at Tim’s expression.
Tim’s throat clicked on a dry swallow. “No.” He forced a grin. “The old lady’s been pushing lately, if you know what I mean.”
“Believe me, friend, I know that tune.” He winked and elbow-pointed at the framed pictures behind him. “I know it five times over.”
Tim joined Stan’s hearty laugh as best he could.
“So, Tom Altman, what can I help you with?”
“Well, I was driving by, saw your sign, and remembered I had a client I hooked up with your racket here who never ended up paying me my booking fee. It’s not a huge amount of money, but it’s been happening to me more and more lately. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind telling me the total amount of the rental so I could send him a bill?”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Stan slid an immense book that looked like a jail ledger over in front of him. “Name and date?”
Tim couldn’t remember if the Stork had also driven the van to the Commission meeting the night before the Debuffier execution. “Daniel Dunn. February 21.”
“Let’s see…” Stan’s tongue poked out of his mouth slightly as hescanned down the enormous page. “Don’t see it.”
“Try the twenty-second.”
“Here we are. He rented out one of my Econoline E-350s. He had it back before eight. That’s $62.41 for the day.” He smiled, again with pride. “Here at VanMan, we log every cent, every inch.”
“You charge mileage? We take a slightly higher booking fee for charges over a hundred bucks.”
“No mileage charge unless they exceed seventy miles a day. And let’s see. Odometer was at 45,213 when Dunn picked it up…” Histongue emerged again, along with a calculator he pulled from an over-stuffed breast pocket. He poked at the keys with the end of a well-chewed pencil. “Fifty-seven miles. Sorry, friend.”
“I remember he rented another van first, but he brought it back because it gave off a rattle.”
“It sometimes happens,” Stan said, a bit defensively. “Rattles are tough.”
“Well, maybe he put on more mileage with that van, pushed the total over a hundred.”
“I doubt it if he traded it in.”
“Would you mind checking for me?”
Stan’s stare took on a bit of suspicion.
“I’m sorry, things are just kind of tough right now in the travel-agency business, what with the Internet and everything. I can use every cent I can pick up right now.” Tim figured a guy who kept his records in a jail ledger probably hated computers.
Stan gave a little nod. His puffy finger scanned down the page, then back up. “Here it is. Six miles.” He gave an exaggerated frown. “Sorry.”
“That’s all right. You helped me clear up some paperwork anyway.”
They shook hands again. “Thanks for the business,” Stan said.
“Sure thing.”
Tim sat in his car for a moment, figuring. The Stork had arrived with the van at Debuffier’s the morning of the hit. The Stork had probably picked up the van, then returned home to load up his black bag of tech gear. He probably hadn’t taken the bag with him to pick up the van; it was conspicuous as hell, particularly since the Stork could barely lift it himself. He would have parked his own car far away from the rental office so no one could ID it later, and Tim couldn’t imagine him leaving his beloved and priceless trinkets unattended in his trunk in this part of town while filling out bullshit paperwork.