“I’d like to borrow those tapes. They could provide the information I need to run him down.”
She stared at me; her eyes were cool. “I’m sorry, Mr. Challis, but these sessions are confidential. I never allow subject tapes to leave my possession.”
“I can make it worthwhile,” I said. “My client will pay whatever you ask.”
“It’s not a question of money, it’s the principle. In a way, I am in the position of a priest in the confessional. I do not violate a subject’s confidence.”
“Look,” I said firmly. “This guy is obviously insane. He’s already made one attempt on the life of my client and he’s sure to make another. You let me have those tapes and you’ll be saving a man’s life.”
She thought about that for a long silent moment. Then she walked over to a tall bookcase on the back wall and ran her finger along a line of boxed tapes. Took out three, handed them to me.
“These are reel-to-reel,” she said. “My player is broken at the moment or you could listen to them here. Have you a reel-to-reel machine?”
I nodded. “Got one in my office.”
“Normally, I’d never do this,” she said. “But in a case of potential homicide...” Her voice trailed off.
“Believe me, you’re doing the right thing,” I assured her. “Can you tell me what Carroll looks like? You never said.”
“Medium height and build. Thinning brown hair. Has a scar on his left cheek from a childhood accident.”
“Age?”
“Well, he was born into his present body in 1959 — which puts him in his mid-twenties.”
“Does he have another appointment set with you?”
“No. I haven’t heard from him for quite some time now.”
I stepped to the door, opened it. A drift of cold night air reminded me we were near the ocean. “You may have saved a man’s life. I thank you for all your help.”
“You’re quite welcome, Mr. Challis.” There was a twinkle in her eyes. “But there are two important things you seem to have forgotten.”
“Name them.”
“Your shoes,” she said.
I got back in my Honda and headed along Harbor toward the freeway. It was quiet, with no other cars on this section of the boulevard. A light rain began to patter against the window. I flipped on the wipers and reduced speed. No use taking chances. A thin drizzle like this can make the road damned slick.
Then I saw headlights coming up fast behind me. Really fast. Had to be a road nut, driving at this rate in the rain. But my gut told me who it was.
John D. Carroll.
Maybe he’d spotted me coming out of Spillane’s place in Malibu. At any rate, he’d followed me to Kathleen’s and was closing in fast. To kill me.
Or was I getting paranoid? Could just be a coked-up high school kid out to impress his date with some hot-shot driving. But the blast that took out the Honda’s rear window told me it was Carroll.
Damn! My gun was in the office in Studio City. A million miles away.
Whatever he was driving, I figured I sure couldn’t outrun him in a three-year-old Honda Civic with lousy rear shocks.
So what could I do? It would have to be something he wouldn’t expect. I braked hard, sliding the Honda around into a full U-turn on the slick pavement, and headed right for him.
His lights filled my vision, two flaring circles of white fire, blinding me. I shaded my eyes from the glare with one hand, thinking, boyo, this is one hell of a gamble. I was counting on him to chicken out and swerve, maybe turn over in the wet, giving me the advantage.
But he didn’t chicken out.
I was right on top of him.
We hit.
Not head-on. I wouldn’t be telling about it if we’d hit head-on. We sideswiped each other in a grinding crush of metal, each of us caroming off to opposite sides of the boulevard.
I was okay. Not hurt, just shaken a little. I got the door open, climbed out fast, keeping low. My goal was the dark area between two apartment buildings fronting the boulevard. I had to get some cover and I had to get it quick.
As I ran, in a kind of half-crouch, I felt moisture on my forehead and upper lip. Not rain... sweat. My muscles twitched, anticipating a pumpgun charge between the shoulder blades, blowing my flesh apart. But that was in my mind. The guy didn’t fire at me.
He had more important things to do.
From the darkness between buildings, I turned to see him getting the three tapes from the seat of my Honda... a medium-built guy in a long coat with what looked like a Winchester pump cradled under his left arm. I eased back into the shadows as he looked toward me. I could feel his eyes burning at me.
Then he got back in his car, a light tan Chevy, and motored away into the night.
But not before I was able to read his license number.
An hour later I was unlocking my office door in Studio City. I moved to the empty water cooler next to my desk and lifted the dusty belltop. Reached inside. Took out my Browning .380, checked the clip, then stuffed the automatic into my belt. One of these days I’d buy a holster. Or borrow one from Bart. Maybe he’d leave me his when he retired.
Then I walked back to the Honda, which was like me — battered but still operational — and drove out to the psycho’s pad.
I’d gotten Dear John’s address from a cop I knew. He ran the plate number for me. The Chevy was registered to one Franklin Elster Edwards. And he was clean. No wants, no warrants. Lived on Sunset Crest, up in the twisty hills above Mulholland Drive.
Edwards was obviously John D. Carroll’s real name. Or else he’d stolen the car, which was unlikely since it wasn’t listed on the hot sheet.
Mr. Edwards was not home when I got there. Driveway empty. No lights on inside. Everything churchyard quiet. I popped a rear lock and walked in, the .380 ready in my hand. Just in case.
The house was deserted. Nice little one-story’ joint, with dark Spanish furniture and lots of rugs. I poked around, opening drawers, checking things out. Didn’t know what I was looking for, exactly. Until I found it.
A poem. On top of his desk in the den. And in the same handwriting as the letter he’d sent Spillane.
I phoned Spillane at the number he’d given me. Wasn’t his Malibu place; it was the Marmont Hotel near the airport.
He answered on the first ring: Yeah?
“It’s me. Challis. I’ve got a poem I want you to hear.”
“Poem? You gone nuts?”
“This one is special. The wacko wrote it.”
“Where the hell are you?”
“In a phone booth at a drugstore below Mulholland. I just left the guy’s house. Wasn’t home, so I had some time to look around.”
“You got a name to give me?”
“Franklin Elster Edwards. Ring any bells?”
“Nope. What’s been happening? How did you manage to find—”
I cut in. “Look, Mickey, I’ll fill in all the details when I see you. But right now I think you’d better hear what this poem has to say.”
“Okay, okay, so read the damn thing to me.”
I did that. “What do you make of it?”
“Jeez.” There was relief in his voice. “Takes a helluva load off my mind.”
“How so?”
“Well, the ‘thief’ is me, natch. When he says I’ll die near the woods’ he means at my cabin in Big Sur. I live close to a wooded area. And the part about the ‘Eye is watching’ means you.”
“Why me?”
“He figures I’ll be taking you with me as my bodyguard when I leave L.A. He plans to snuff me at the cabin, with you, the private eye, ‘watching.’ Simple.”