“Guess it?”
“The password,” he says. “Nine out of ten people – almost everyone – uses the same passwords.”
“Like what?” I ask him.
“Password. That’s the most common. And changeme – that’s big, too. So is changethis. And the names of pets. Does he have a dog?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “He might.”
“Try Brownie and Blackie. Jack.”
“Get outta here. I’m not gonna try Brownie.”
“Then don’t. So what’s he do for a living? I’m telling you – guessing passwords is not rocket science.”
“He’s a bookseller. Mostly books about magic.”
“Try Houdini. Like that.”
And so I do. I try them all, including Brownie. When none of them works, I try the names of magicians mentioned in the books I’ve read about magic.
blackstone
kalang
thurston
kellar
copperfield
siegfriedandroy
siegfried &roy
siegfriedundroy
blaine
maskelyne
sorcar
lanceburton
penn &teller
pennandteller
johndeland
karlkavanaugh
Zilch. I try a different tack:
abracadabra
opensesame
sesame
hocuspocus
pocushocus
Immediately, the page opens.
Going to the dealer’s inbox, I see a dozen e-mails from the day before. Among them is one from lxmertz@sequoia.net.
I’m interested, of course, but I’ll have to see the book first. Are you sure the offer is genuine?
I read it, and I read it again. But that’s it. There’s nothing more to be gotten from it. Switching from the bookdealer’s account to sequoia.net, I work for an hour, trying to crack Mertz’s password – but it’s no use. The Belgian is too clever to use anything someone could guess.
Then it occurs to me: sequoia.net is a business address of some kind. Using the Anywho search engine, I take a look, first for Sequoia Net and then for Sequoia Networks, and then for Sequoia Enterprises and so on, down the list of generic corporate names. I’m guessing the company is somewhere in California. (Otherwise, the dealer would probably not have promised to show the book to his client the next afternoon.)
And there it is:
Sequoia Solutions, Ltd.
11224 Fish Rock Rd.
Suite 210
Anchor Bay, CA
I pop over to MapQuest and ask for driving directions and a map. I copy the directions on the hotel’s pad, and take note from the map that Anchor Bay looks to be only a few miles from Point Arena – where Byron’s postcard to Diment was mailed. Eureka – where the Sandling boys escaped at the shopping mall – isn’t that far, either. I think it’s possible that Byron and the Sandling boys were headed for Mertz’s at the time.
It’s possible the connections I’m making are hopeful and tenuous. Maybe Mertz simply has business concerns in northern California and doesn’t live here at all. Maybe Mertz and Boudreaux parted ways long ago. Maybe Boudreaux is still here in L.A. Maybe it’s all smoke, as Shoffler would say.
But I don’t think so.
It’s five hundred forty-five miles from L.A to Anchor Bay. A very long drive. If I can get a flight anytime in the next couple of hours, I should fly to San Francisco and drive from there.
I’m on the computer for twenty minutes, and ready to book a seat before I remember – the gun.
I consider driving, but it would cost me eight hours, at least. I think about tossing the gun, but now that I have it, I want to keep it.
I book the flight, then head out to Vons. I buy a box of Wheat Thins, two corkscrews, a pair of scissors, a kitchen drain stopper, stainless steel scouring pads, and a roll of aluminum foil. Cargo luggage is scanned, true, but mostly to detect explosive devices. I knew from a piece Fox ran not long ago that lots of criminals transport guns in checked luggage. It’s easy to disguise a gun by putting it in a box along with other metal items and jamming the open spaces with wadded-up foil, then wrapping the entire box in several layers of foil. The scanner sees it as a metal shape with various densities.
I dump the crackers out and in five minutes, I’m packed and ready to go. An hour and a half later, I’m in seat 23A on United 1421, heading north.
CHAPTER 45
By the time I cross the Golden Gate Bridge, after a slow crawl from the airport, it’s almost five. The address I found online, with its suite number, is certainly an office and not where Mertz lives. I might have to make a trip to the Mendocino County courthouse in Ukiah, to look for properties belonging to Luc Mertz or Sequoia Solutions, but for now I head straight for Anchor Bay. It’s not a metropolis. If Mertz lives nearby, maybe somebody will know it.
I’m getting close to Cloverdale when I put in a call to Shoffler. I’m thinking maybe he knows someone in the local constabulary, someone who can help me.
“So how was France?” I say when he answers.
“Great food. Unbelievable.” A pause. “Who is this? Is that you, Alex? Where the hell are you? You sound like you’re on the moon.”
“I’m in California. I thought maybe you could help me with something.”
“You know I will if I can.”
“Know anybody in northern California? The coast above San Francisco?”
“Why? What you got?”
“I think my boys are here.”
“Where?”
“Near Anchor Bay.”
“Where’s that?”
“About forty miles south of Mendocino.”
“Hunh.” He heaves a long sigh. “You better tell me about it. What makes you think your boys are there?”
I hesitate. “It’s a long story, and there’s no way I can get through it on this cell phone. Bottom line, I know who grabbed them.”
“You do?!”
“His name is Byron Boudreaux, and if something happens to me, Ray, you’ve got to promise me you’ll go after him. He’s got a rich patron named Mertz. Luc Mertz.” I spell it. “Mertz is a Belgian.”
“Hunh.” He heaves a sigh. “You know, for me to play backup, I really need to know the story, Alex.”
“Look, do you know anybody out here or not?”
A sigh. “Not really. Used to know a guy in Healdsburg, but he got killed busting a ring of abalone poachers.”
The telephone crackles and hums. “If something happens to me,” I tell him, “get in touch with a P.I. named Pinky Streiber in New Orleans. He can tell you all about it.”
“I don’t like the sound of this, Alex. You’re not gonna help your boys if you get whacked. Hold off a day or two. I know a couple of guys in San Francisco. Let me network a little.”
As I make the turn to head for the coast, I realize I’m wasting my time. Law enforcement isn’t going to help me. Everything is circumstantial. Paper rabbits and voodoo burials, postmarks and the rope trick. And the connection to Mertz is even dicier.
No judge is going to authorize a search warrant based on what I’ve got, certainly not for premises belonging to a litigious multimillionaire like Luc Mertz.
“Pinky Streiber,” I tell Shoffler. “Decatur Street, New Orleans. You writing this down?”
“I’m telling you, Alex, hold off on this. I can-”
I press the button to cut him off, and drive on toward the coast.
I find the Sequoia Solutions address with no problem. It’s in a faux-Western wooden structure with dozens of small offices. It’s almost ten, and everyone’s long gone with the exception of the tired-looking man in Coastal Chiropractics.
He opens the door cautiously, lowers his reading glasses, and peers at me.