"I want you to call him."
Jake felt a little uneasy, an intuition that her voice didn’t sound right. She didn’t sound like a young woman who knew she had gotten in too deep and was ready to turn the whole thing over to the police. Her eyes glittered as though there were something hot behind them. "I think that’s a good idea."
"It is," she said. "Call him at home. Tonight."
Jake smiled. "There are times when you have to step back and turn things over to the people who get paid for doing it." He waited for her to agree.
She didn’t appear to be listening. "Those men said he had been in jail. If he was, there would be a file. I want you to get it."
"A file? What kind of file?"
"Police have a system for sharing information about criminals. The federal government gives them money for a network called the N.C.I.C. Some of it is computerized, but that’s not what I want. I want a copy of his file from the prison at Marion, Illinois." She glanced over at the telephone expectantly.
Jake sat down at the table and studied her. "If Dave Dormont could get something like that, it would be privileged information. Why would he give it to me?"
"Because you pulled him out of Ellicott Creek fifty years ago," said Jane. She wasn’t smiling. "And you’ve spent the next fifty telling everybody in Deganawida what a great guy he is, and paid your tickets instead of asking him to fix them."
"What do you want to do with it?" said Jake.
She looked at him, and her eyes had not changed. They were still sharp and clear and unblinking. "I want to know who he really was—who did this to Harry and to a man you don’t know in Vancouver and to me. I have a right to know."
"I can’t argue with that," said Jake, warily. He looked up at her again. "It just doesn’t feel right." Then he added, "So I can’t ask Dave to do it."
"Okay," she said. She picked up the paper plates and plastic spoons, pushed them back into the bag, and headed for the door.
Jake could see the wall coming down between them. "I managed to get a full refund on those two shotguns," he said, watching her face.
She didn’t flinch. "I should think so," she said. "They’ve never been fired."
"And wait until you see the deal I got on the plane tickets back to Buffalo."
She seemed completely normal now. "How much?"
"Three twenty-two."
"Great," she said. She set down the plates, picked up her purse, sat down and wrote rapidly, then tore the check out of her wallet and handed it to him. "Thanks, Jake. Thanks for everything."
"You didn’t have to pay me back now," he said, staring at the check.
"It’s the best way to do things," she said as she stuffed the wallet back into her purse. "If I forgot, you’d get all uncomfortable about reminding me, wouldn’t you?"
"I don’t know," he admitted.
She walked to the door with the plates and garbage. "And don’t feel bad about the file. I’m not mad about it."
She stepped out the door and closed it behind her. Jake sat at the table and thought about it. He tried to tell himself it was right. Hell, he knew it was right. You didn’t leave a loaded shotgun lying around in the same room with a woman who had just learned that the man she thought she loved was using her so he could kill somebody. The file was the same thing as the shotguns.
Whatever she had planned to do with that fellow’s file, it wasn’t something that was good for her. He was lost in thought for a long time, and then it occurred to him that there was no rational reason for a woman not to have put down her purse before she took the plates out to the trash bin. He stood up and hurried to the door, but before he opened it he knew that she was gone.
Jane walked without hurrying. There were a lot of pedestrians out at this time of night in Santa Barbara, coming and going from the restaurants and movie theaters. She bought a copy of The Santa Barbara News-Press from a vending machine on State Street near the art museum and sat on the steps to read it in the light of the streetlamps. She could see after only a few minutes that there wasn’t much action in a town this size, but there were enough cases on the calendar to work.
She walked along State Street and turned right on Anapamu. The big white building on the right with its gigantic green lawns and patches of brilliant flowers had been a place that she had liked when she was here before, until she had learned that it was a courthouse. She climbed one of the outer staircases that ran along the wall and stepped into the second-floor hallway. The scuffed, uneven Mexican tiles and antique furniture along the walls outside the courtrooms made it all seem benevolent and pretty. She walked along the hall past the closed doors of the courtrooms and turned down the next hall. She read the names on the doors. Judge Joseph Gonzales, Judge David Rittenour, Judge Karen Susskind. She found a pay telephone at the end of the hall near the restrooms and looked up the number in the telephone book beneath it.
"Police department," said a male voice.
"This is Judge Karen Susskind," she said. "I’d like to speak to the watch commander, please."
"Yes, ma’am."
In a moment there was another voice. "Yes, Judge."
"I need some assistance right away."
"What can we do for you?"
She glanced at the newspaper. "I’m supposed to pass sentence on a gentleman named Richard Winton tomorrow morning at nine."
"Yes," he said. "I remember the case."
"Well, I’ve received some information that I need to have checked out as soon as possible. Nothing in this building is open, and I can’t reach the district attorney. All he could do is ask you, so I thought I’d ask you directly."
"You’re still at the courthouse?"
"Yes," she said in mild frustration. "I’m still studying the case."
"What sort of information do you need?"
"I just received an anonymous phone call here in my chambers. The person said that Mr. Winton isn’t who he claims to be. The person said his real name is James Michael Martin, and he’s not a first offender. This James Michael Martin was supposedly just released from the prison in Marion, Illinois, and he has a long record."
"Well, that’s something we can check," said the watch commander. "We can run Winton’s prints through the F.B.I., but it’ll take some time ..."
"I would appreciate it if you would make the request right away. But we can’t wait for the outcome. Find out if there is a file on this James Michael Martin in the prison, and get it faxed to you tonight. If it’s the same man, I’ll know it in a second, and I’ll have the information I need for the sentence."
"I’ll get on it right away," he said. "Do you want it delivered to your home?"
"Home?" she laughed. "I don’t expect to be home for hours. How long will it take?"
"Give us one hour," he said.
"All right. If I’m away from my desk for a minute, my assistant will be there. And if there are any delays, call me. I’ll give you the number of the private line in my chambers." She read him the number off the pay telephone, then hung up.
It took forty-two minutes before she heard the sound of a large man with heavy shoes and a lot of jangling metal on his belt come up the tiled staircase, taking the steps two at a time. She stood with her back to the big wooden door of the judge’s office so that the thick old-fashioned door frame would hide her, until she was sure he would see. She stepped forward into the hallway and saw the policeman coming. He was a motorcycle cop with high boots and a helmet under one arm. In his other hand he carried a thick manila envelope with a string tie to keep it shut.
She stepped back to the door and put her hand on the handle, then leaned forward as though she were opening the door a crack. "It’s here, Judge," she called, then trotted ahead to meet the policeman.