When the set was over, I looked around the room. I didn’t get far. There she was at the end of the bar holding the telephone. She punched out the numbers with the back of a pencil. She wore her hair up, away from her face. No jewelry, a simple black blouse, dark gray pin-striped pants that stopped at her calves, black stockings, and black heels. My heart skipped a beat. She hung up the phone and looked pensively at some spot on the bar. I rose and almost lost my balance.
Steadying myself, I walked over to her.
“Lauren,” I said with a smile. She looked up quizzically. “Lauren,” I continued, “your sister is very concerned about you. Could you please call her?”
“I don’t have a sister. Who are you anyway?” There was a note of rising anger in her voice. “How...” she stopped abruptly and stared over my shoulder. I glanced into the mirror. The man at the table peered at her and then rose. He walked toward her but didn’t stop. He seemed to be going to the men’s room.
Lauren looked as if she was about to say something but turned instead and walked out the door.
Great, I thought. Way to go, Wilcox. You find her and then spook her. And you know how great you’d be on a chase.
I gave the bartender a ten and told her to keep the change and was out on the street in time to see Lauren get into a small, dark sports car. I ran to my car. That would be my exercise for the month. I hoped that I would spot her at a nearby intersection.
Three times around the block and no sight of the car. I lost her that fast. Without much hope, I decided to cruise to Sara’s house. Maybe the wayward sister had a change of heart and went home.
There was a light on in the living room but no dark sports car in the driveway or on the street. I parked across the street, slouched in my seat, and waited. Maybe she would show up.
After about a half hour, I’d given up hope. Besides, I was sleepy. Just as I was about to start the ignition, a car pulled behind me. It stopped abruptly and then the red lights flashed.
“OK, buddy. Let’s see your license. Real easy now.” He was nervous. I gave him my license slowly.
“Any problem, officer?” It seemed that the neighborhood watch watched this block.
“Stay right where you are.” He took my license back to his car. A few minutes later he returned, considerably less nervous but not at ease.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Well, you see, officer, I used to live in that house,” I pointed to Sara’s. “Me and my family. My wife divorced me fifteen years ago and left the state. I hardly ever see my daughter anymore, and I guess I had a few drinks tonight and was feeling lonely. Well, you know how it is. I just stopped here to look at the house and remember.” I practically believed it myself. “I’ll be moving on.”
He studied me for a moment, decided that I wasn’t worth the bother, and gave me back my license. I started my car and drove off. He followed me for five blocks before turning off. It was past time to call it a night.
I had no trouble falling asleep, but when I woke, I was still tired. I couldn’t remember my dreams. It was cloudy outside and felt like it might rain for days. My head throbbed, and I called in sick again. Three cups of coffee didn’t help matters any. What I discovered next made my head feel a lot worse.
“WOMAN FOUND DEAD” read the headline on page twenty. “Lauren Wright, 24, was found dead in her car at the 1700 block of Seddon Rd. in the city’s northside section by Officer G. Kugler at 12:22 A.M. Suicide is suspected. Police are investigating.”
I reread the article. It must have just made the press deadline. My first real case, and she’s dead. My daughter’s dead, I thought. “You’re crazy,” I said aloud, got up, and took a long, hot shower. My head felt only slightly better. As I dressed, I knew that Lauren was murdered and that I had to find the killer. Nothing could be more important.
Two cars were parked in Sara Wright’s driveway when I arrived. Neither looked like an unmarked police car, so I parked and went to the door.
I rang the bell three times before the door opened. Sara looked as if she had been up all night.
“I read this morning’s paper, I’m sorry.”
She stared at me.
“If there’s anything I can do...” I waited for a response.
“Just leave me alone,” she finally said. “You can keep the advance.” And she closed the door. Dumbfounded, I looked at the brass knocker.
I felt like I needed more consoling than she did. Something was definitely wrong. I circled the block and parked on the street six houses up from hers. There was at least one other person in there. It may have been only a relative. I asked myself what Lew Archer would do in a situation like this. Wait. So I waited.
Twenty minutes later, a man came out of the house. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. It was the college professor.
He pulled out of the driveway. I waited until he turned the corner before I followed. He then turned on Brook Road, headed for the city. And I was three cars behind him. When he took the college exit, I relaxed. If only Lauren had been as easy to follow, she wouldn’t be dead now. If only I had been quicker... I slowed down. No need to risk him seeing me.
I parked in a pay lot three blocks from his college building and waited until ten o’clock before going in. I remembered that there was a directory on his floor that listed the names and offices of the faculty. I didn’t know his name but I remembered his office number. There it was, big as life, Room 322, Dr. J. Stone. I then took the stairwell down to the first floor where the admissions office was. He was listed in the college catalog as having been at the school since 1974, the same year he got a Ph.D. from the State University of New York at Binghamton.
The city phone directory listed a Dr. J. Stone at 3106A Hanover Avenue. In spite of being hungry enough to eat New York, I decided not to eat in the snack bar. It was just too risky.
A Waffle House was only two blocks away, and by the time I finished a steak-and-eggs special, my headache was completely gone. I always could think better on a full stomach, but I questioned the wisdom of breaking into Stone’s apartment.
As I walked to his front door, credit card in hand, I was glad that the street was empty of people. After fidgeting with the lock for a minute, I started to sweat. How did they do it so easily on TV? Finally, my credit card snapped. Great. I wiped my brow and turned around to see if anyone was watching. The street was deserted as before. I looked into his mailbox, checked under the welcome mat, and then ran my hand over the doorsill. No luck. I knew that there had to be a spare key. I was really sweating now. My shirt stuck to my back. Someone was bound to see me. Then I remembered seeing a display of fake rocks at the drugstore — the kind you put a key under. At the time I couldn’t understand why anyone would buy such an obviously phony and useless product. I walked down the front steps and looked in the shrubbery. No plastic rocks. I began turning over stones with my foot. And, sure enough, there it was, the key. I picked it up.
Stone’s apartment was the second floor of a two-story house — two bedrooms, a living room, and an eat-in kitchen. It was undistinguished except that it looked like it had never seen a broom. Dust was pretty thick everywhere. I wondered if he actually lived there. One bedroom was used as an office, with a large black table as its desk; it was littered with papers and books. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Most of the papers were either memos or student work, an occasional letter. Nothing very promising. I then went through the wastebasket. The third paper I uncrumpled was it: “Jerry, I need to talk to you. Come to Berrini’s tonight at eleven. VERY IMPORTANT! Lauren.” It was undated. I put it into my pocket and walked into the kitchen. Suddenly, a big black dog barked and bounded against the outside door. I almost lost my breakfast. He kept barking and pawing at the glass. Apparently, he was asleep on the back porch when I was fiddling around out front. Thank God the kitchen door was locked. I left fast.