"Around one."
Cavanaugh glanced at his watch. Checking so many health clubs had consumed the morning. The time was now 12:35. Time. He didn't have much time. "Joshua must have a night job or something if he's got so many free afternoons."
"Night job? I don't think he's got any job," the instructor said.
"I don't understand."
"He dresses real well. Has a gold watch. A Piaget or something like that. I know it's expensive because when he joined the club, he made a big deal about whether the lockers were secure. Drives a brand-new Porsche. Not a Boxter. A Carrera. Lives on a fancy street. I get the feeling he's got so much money, he doesn't need to work."
A gold watch? Cavanaugh thought. A Porsche? Didn't Prescott remember what 1 told him about keeping a low profile?
"Money? I'm sorry to hear that," Cavanaugh said.
"What do you mean?"
"Rich people are usually concerned about their privacy and don't like to have articles written about them. They're afraid it sets them up to be robbed or something. Do me a favor. When Joshua comes in, don't tell him about this conversation. Let me approach him in my own way. Otherwise, I might not be able to persuade him, especially if he thinks you've been talking about him. For that matter, if he suspects you told me he might be using steroids, he could get upset enough to sue you for slander."
"Jesus Christ, sue me?"
"Maybe even sue the club. Rich people are like that. Don't worry. I'll leave you out of it. Just don't talk to him before I do."
"Man, I'm out of this, believe me."
"A Porsche, huh?"
"Yeah."
"If I ever won the lottery, I'd buy one. Red. That's my favorite color."
"Joshua's is white."
15
At 12:55, a white Porsche drove into the parking lot to the right of the redwood and glass exercise club. Breathing faster, Cavanaugh watched from a Starbucks across the street and scribbled the Porsche's license number on his stenographer's pad. Pretending to enjoy a latte, he sat a careful distance from the coffee shop's windows. He watched the Porsche stop in a parking space near the club. A tall, only somewhat overweight man got out. Even from a distance, it was obvious that the man's black loafers, gray slacks, and blue pullover were designer-expensive. The man's scalp was shaved. He had a goatee. Tan, he wore sunglasses.
Cavanaugh managed to seem calm as he set down his coffee, concentrating fiercely on the man who called himself Joshua Carter. If this was Prescott, the change was startling. A puffy, awkward, pasty-faced man was becoming something else, reshaping his body. Although he still had more volume to lose, what he had already lost had modified the contour of his cheeks and jawline. His goatee and shaved head altered his profile also, giving him a burly, masculine appearance. In an odd way, he was almost handsome. Beneath his comfortably loose clothing, Cavanaugh sensed, the man was developing strength and power.
Given the time frame, that doesn't seem possible, Cavanaugh thought. Something like steroids had to be part of the self-improvement mix, or else… An idea struck him: Had Prescott developed some kind of hormone stimulant?
The man paused a moment, scanning the parking lot and the area around him, before he pulled a dark gym bag from behind the front seat. Was he checking for trouble or simply enjoying his surroundings? His sunglasses prevented Cavanaugh from seeing if Carter glanced warily from side to side as he walked toward the front of the exercise club. But before he opened the door, there was no question that he looked behind him along the street.
16
Fifty. Fifty-two. Fifty-four. Hands tight on the steering wheel, Cavanaugh drove along Vista Linda, noting the house numbers. The street consisted of elaborately landscaped million-dollar homes with magnificent views of what was called the Bayonet/ Blackhorse Golf Course, a name left over from when Fort Ord had been active.
Sixty. Sixty-two. Sixty-four. Even with the street's proximity to the golf course, Cavanaugh didn't understand why Prescott had chosen to live somewhere in the Monterey peninsula area other than Carmel. Perhaps Prescott was staying away from a spot that he feared might be associated with him. But if he was being extra cautious, why the hell was he wearing a gold watch and driving around in a Porsche?
Seventy. Seventy-two. Cavanaugh planned to learn what he could about the layout of Prescott's house, find a way in, and use the knockout spray Grace had given him to subdue Prescott and arrange to trade him for Jamie. He would no doubt have to bypass a burglar alarm, and it wouldn't be easy getting in without neighbors seeing him, but he didn't have a choice.
Seventy-four. Seventy-eight was just ahead, an imposing, impressive two-story pseudo-Hispanic structure with a tile roof and…
Cavanaugh slowed, staring at the for sale sign on the front lawn.
17
"Sorry to bother you," Cavanaugh said to the elderly wispy-haired man who answered the door, "but I couldn't help noticing the sign across the street."
From too much sun, the man's leathery brown face had numerous creases. His stern gaze deepened them.
"My dad's a surgeon in Chicago, wants to retire out here," Cavanaugh said. "He's crazy about golf, so I've been driving around, seeing what places are for sale. The house across the street looks perfect, but this is a newly built area, and I'm wondering if there's something wrong with the place that it's being sold so soon."
"That god-awful sign," the man said.
"Excuse me?"
"I told her to put the house on the market privately. What do we want with a sign like that making the neighborhood look junky and Realtors and people who can't afford to live here coming around, gawking, cluttering up the street? No respect. The minute Sam died, his wife couldn't wait to sell the place."
"Sam?"
"Jamison. He and I moved here the same week two years ago. He dropped dead on the golf course yesterday morning, and that damned sign was sticking up in the yard by afternoon."
18
At the nearest gas station, Cavanaugh rushed to a pay phone. He shoved a phone card into a slot and pressed numbers.
"Rutherford," the deep voice said.
"How are you coming with those lists?" Speaking quickly, Cavanaugh was surprised by how breathless he felt.
"We've got a dozen agents working the phones from Washington. We sent agents from San Francisco and San Jose down to liaise with the agent we've got in the Carmel/Monterey area. But we still haven't been able to contact a lot of the Realtors, and as for the golf courses, I wish I had a dollar for everybody who wants to play there."
"You've got to hurry. Check this license number. It's a California plate and goes with a new Porsche Carrera. White." Cavanaugh dictated the number. "Who owns the car?"
"Are you at…" John recited the location and number of the pay phone Cavanaugh was using.
"Your caller ID system's damned good."
"Damned and good don't go together," the Southern Baptist said. "Stay where you are. I'll contact the California DMV and call you back in ten minutes."
"Make it as quick as you can. I'll be waiting."
The instant Cavanaugh hung up, he hurried to the Taurus and drove away, certain that in a very short while, a police car sent by Rutherford would arrive, looking for him. He went ten blocks and stopped at another gas station with an outside pay phone. Time, having sped by, now dragged agonizingly. Exactly when he was supposed to, he shoved his phone card into a slot and pressed numbers. His hand sweated on the phone's receiver. "What did you find?"