“I really want him. Besides, the girls at the shop think he’s adorable.”
“He takes after you. Maybe I’ll stop around later, take him off your hands for awhile.”
When they were gone he perused the bible, but no names in Denver leaped out at him. Maria Angelo said Josh Kinkaid was with an auto show in Denver. Auto. Only one person for that. He picked up the phone, then thought better of it.
A few minutes later he turned off the 101 on to Hope Avenue, and one of the neater bits of planning in Santa Barbara. Most of the auto dealers were gathered in the one area, making shopping easier and reducing sprawl. He pulled into the BMW dealership, Cutter Motors. Did the name have anything to do with price?
“When are you getting rid of this junker?” Ed Eastman asked. He was tall, blond, fortyish, not too glib or dishonest. He probably would not sell a used car to his grandmother.
“It’s hardly broken in yet.”
“Sure, sure, how’s DeeDee?”
“She’s fine, the car you sold her, too.” He was tempted to tell him about her hair-raising ride, but Eastman probably drove like that all the time. “What’s an auto show?”
He laughed. “I’ve never known anyone who knew or cared less about cars. An auto show is an exhibit of new and experimental cars, usually held in a civic center or convention hall. Big crowds show up. Not everyone is like you, Walt.”
“Is there one in Denver?”
“Could be, I don’t know. Why?”
“You sound like a certain kid I know. I’m trying to locate someone. He’s supposed to be at auto show in Denver.”
“May I know who?”
“Josh Kinkaid.”
“Oh, I know him, a real car nut, used to hang around here till we asked him to leave. He could easily be associated with a car show, let me check.”
Walter watched him go to work on his phone. “You’re texting?”
“It’s the only way nowadays.”
Byerly nodded. Just have to modernize. But what about the personal touch, something known as the human voice?
”Here we go.” He read a moment. “The auto show is no longer in Denver. It’s gone to Minneapolis. Want me to try there?”
“Sure.” He was a trifle amazed.
“Josh Kinkaid is there. He’s being paged.”
Already! “I’d like to speak to him by phone, if possible.” In a short time he had Josh Kinkaid on his cell phone. “You don’t know me, but I’m a friend of your mother’s.”
”Mums? Is she okay?”
He sounded like Alfie without the British accent. At least he was concerned about her. “Not really.” He told him.
"That’s awful! Why is she doing that?”
“Your father left all his money to you. She hasn’t a penny.”
“God! What can I do?”
The young man was either retarded or terminally naive. Either way a cage was probably wise, for his own protection. “The solution to most of Addie’s problems is known as M-O-N-E-Y. She needs it, at least a credit card, for hotel, food, the rest.”
“Money, sure, I’ll send some. Where?”
“Send it to me. That would be easiest.” He gave the address. “She’d like to see you, Josh, at least know where you are, talk to you.”
“I’d like to talk to Mums, too” He was silent a moment. “Tell you what, Mr. Byerly, this show’s about over. Why don’t I fly out to Santa Barbara, check up on Mums, okay?”
“I think you’ll be glad you did.”
Within the hour Byerly moved Addie Kinkaid from the Salvation Army into a modest motel. After tears and profuse thanks, she said, “I told you he was a good boy.”
With about as much sense as Jamie.
“Have a seat, Detective Hernandez, this phone call will only take a moment.”
Putting a name and address to the number Marco Musante had phoned was easy, but Lupe hadn’t expected to get in to see Victor Dragon for only an expression of interest. Victor Dragon was the closest thing Santa Barbara had to an F. Lee Bailey or Johnny Cochran, a big shot lawyer, a doer and shaker, friend to politicians from De La Guerra Plaza to Capitol Hill and hobnobber with the rich and famous-even the police.
Victor Dragon’s office teemed with mahogany, old leather and gold accessories. Photos, achievement awards and testimonials covered a paneled wall. She felt cowed. Something more. Being here, with this man, frightened her as no street thug, wife batterer or gang-banger ever would. A good address, posh surroundings, expensive clothes and impeccable manners were foreign to her upbringing and made her feel inferior. Her mind knew better, but her psyche did not. Would she be able to hold his manicured feet to the fire as a cop properly should? It scared her that she might not.
She took the designated seat and tried not to be dazzled by Victor Dragon. He should change his name to Victor Rich. He dripped money, from his silver-haired coif to his tasseled loafers. The voice on the phone was deep and mellifluous, one James Earl Jones might envy.
“How do you know you have the right one?” He listened. “It’s a little hard for me to believe it happened that way.”
She heard the voice on the phone, but couldn’t understand it, only the whining tone.
“Very well. If what you say checks out, then of course I’ll take care of you.”
More whining.
“Not to worry, Marco, everything you tell me stays right here. Goodbye, I’ll get back to you ASAP.”
Victor Dragon hung up the phone, came around the desk and took her hand, lavishing his caps on her. His skin was almost as dark as hers, but his was a tan-all the difference in the world.
“Always good to see one of Santa Barbara’s finest. I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you new on the force?”
Lord, he was handsome-and knew it. Why not? If you got it, flaunt it. Then she saw a little nick on his chin. He’d cut himself shaving. A man like other men. That helped her. She was going to be okay with him.
“Only new to street clothes.”
“Congratulations. We need good detectives.” We? Was he the chief? Dripping urbanity, he returned to his desk, sat, poured himself water from a decanter and offered her some. She refused. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
He seemed nervous, not so different from a shoplifter being approached by a store detective. She knew all about shoplifting.
“It seems we’re hunting the same little boy. I thought perhaps we could join forces.”
His wariness was almost imperceptible, but there. “What little boy is that?”
“I believe you know, blond, blue-eyed, about three.” His smile faded. “Word on the street is that you are searching for such a boy, just as I am. The only difference is you’re offering a $25,000 reward.”
He looked down at his desk, then leaned forward in his swivel chair, sipped from the water glass.
“That’s a great deal of money, counselor. Is it your funds?”
“Me? No, no, a client.” His grin returned, along with his aplomb. “You understand, of course, that I can’t identify my client, but he wants his little boy very much. Do you know where the child is?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Then we have an impasse.”
“The street talk is that the boy’s mother is looking for him. If you’ve talked to her, then you must know who the child is and how he happens to be lost.”
“Well-l…” He might have been offered a plate of fried worms.
“Did he wander off? Was he kidnapped?” No answer. “Surely the mother gave you some information.”
“I’m sorry, Detective Hernandez, attorney-client privilege prevents me from discussing-”
“I think not, counselor. A child is lost, the police have been enlisted to help find him. If you-”
“It is not a formal investigation, detective. I simply asked Sergeant…I forget his name…
“Brogan.
“Of course, good man. I simply asked him to see if he could keep an eye out for the child.”
She saw the smile, heard the spin. Go and do likewise. She smiled. “And that’s exactly why I’m here, counselor. If you can provide some additional information, it would make my job easier. Who, for example, is looking for their son?”