Finally Delgado found himself back in the living room with Gardner and Wildman.
“What have we learned?” he asked.
“That he’s got another place,” Wildman said immediately.
Gardner was skeptical. “How do we know that?”
“For one thing, the carpet doesn’t match the fibers found at the crime scenes. Rood must have picked up those fibers someplace else. Someplace where he spends a lot of time.”
“At work,” Gardner said with a shrug.
Wildman shook her head. “No way. An upscale department store like Crane’s wouldn’t use cheap short-nap carpeting. It’s more like something you’d find in a low-rent office-maybe someplace he’s renting.”
“And there’s another thing,” Delgado added before Gardner could reply. “Rood doesn’t keep his trophies here. Since he’s unlikely to throw them away, he must hide them at another location. A location that offers privacy- isolation or concealment.”
“That could be anywhere,” Gardner said.
Delgado sighed. “I’m afraid so.”
A rap on the open door. Robertson was back. “No luck, Seb. Car’s nowhere in sight.”
That was no surprise. Delgado hadn’t expected the Ford to be around. Presumably Rood had stored it in the alley near Sepulveda while using the stolen Dodge. Then he’d switched to the Falcon and driven Wendy to his hiding place.
He took a moment to gather his thoughts, then clapped his hands.
“All right, listen up. Donna, you’re going to Crane’s right now. Interview Mr. Khouri and all the employees who knew or worked with Franklin Rood. See if any of them ever heard Rood talk about a weekend getaway spot or a second home-anything that might give us some clue to where he’s gone.”
“I got you, Seb.”
“Tom, go to that alley where the Dodge was found. Take two officers with you. Canvass the neighborhood, find out if anyone remembers seeing the Ford Falcon leave the area sometime after nine a.m. If we know what direction he was headed in, we may be able to narrow down the search.”
Gardner nodded. “I’ll check the locations near the freeway on-ramps too. Maybe somebody saw him get on.”
“Do that. Lionel, it looks like you’re off art-store duty for good. Now you’re doing service-station duty. Make the rounds of the neighborhood gas stations and auto-repair shops. Ask the attendants and mechanics if they remember ever seeing the Ford. If any of them do, find out if the car has any identifiable features not found in the standard model-customized chrome or grillwork, dents, rust spots, special tires.”
“Maybe the sucker’s got steer horns on the hood and Old Glory flapping from the radio antenna,” Robertson said. “I sure hope so.”
“So do I.”
Delgado left two uniforms to watch the apartment in case Rood returned, then walked back to his car, rubbing his head. Tired. He was so tired.
He tried to be an optimist. The ‘63 Falcon was a distinctive automobile, far easier to spot than one of the lookalike models produced by contemporary car manufacturers. The APB could yield results. Sure it could.
But he knew there was no substance to his hopes. L.A. was a city of cars, millions of them, crowding every street and freeway. The chances of finding any one vehicle, no matter how unusual, were remote.
In his fourteen years on the force, he had faced frustration many times; it went with the job. But he could not recall ever feeling this abjectly helpless.
Despite his best efforts, the Gryphon continued to elude him; and if Wendy was still alive, whatever time she might have left was rapidly slipping away.
30
In a corner of the trailer, the Gryphon was pouring Pepsi-Cola into two Styrofoam cups. He was still whistling cheerily. Wendy recognized the tune. It was that old Eagles song, the one that had been such a big hit for Linda Ronstadt. “Desperado.”
Abruptly the whistling stopped. A moment later the Styrofoam cups were set down on the checkered tablecloth, followed by a handful of paper napkins and two picnic plates with sandwiches on them. Wendy tried not to look past the plates at the two jars, their contents lit by the candles’ flickering glow.
The Gryphon settled into one of the folding chairs, facing her from across the table. Candlelight shimmered on his glasses. His eyes behind the lenses, flat and dead, reminded her oddly of the eyes of the two women in the jars.
“Lunch is served,” he announced with a melodramatic flourish.
She gazed down at her sandwich. Two slices of white bread with some kind of brown goop overspilling the edges. Peanut butter, she realized. No jelly. Her eyes flicked to the cup of Pepsi. It had gone flat.
“Gee, this looks good,” she said with whatever conviction she could muster. Then she had an idea. Casually she added, “But, you know, I need my hands free in order to eat.”
He merely smiled indulgently, the smile of a sage parent who has seen through a small child’s pitifully obvious ploy.
“No, you don’t, Wendy. I’ll feed you myself.” He picked up her sandwich and raised it to her mouth. “Open wide.”
“Really, I don’t think I-”
He wedged the sandwich between her jaws, silencing her. Reluctantly she took a bite. The peanut butter tasted like glue; the untoasted bread, slightly stale, had the texture and consistency of a sheaf of newsprint. The gluey, flavorless mixture turned to papier-mache as she chewed.
“How about something to wash it down with?” he asked.
Without waiting for a reply, he lifted a cup and pressed it to her lips. Warm Pepsi flowed into her mouth. She tried to swallow, but the wet pulp of bread and peanut butter got in the way. She coughed, spitting soda on the floor.
“Can’t,” she gasped. “Can’t do it.”
He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to. That’s what you get for being such a naughtykins. Now, come on, eat some more of your sandwich.”
She looked at the jars again. The pale dead faces. The bloodless flesh.
“I guess I don’t have much of an appetite right now,” she said softly.
The Gryphon brushed aside the comment with an irritated wave of his hand. “Not long ago you told me you were starved. Anyway, I went to all the trouble of fixing you a nice lunch, and you wouldn’t want me to think of you as ungrateful. Would you?”
“No.” She sighed. “No, of course not.”
“All right, then. So let’s stop being stubborn and eat our nice lunch. Here, I’ll show you the way.” He lifted her sandwich. “This is the train.” With his other hand he gently pried her lips apart. “And this is the tunnel.” Slowly he guided the sandwich toward her mouth. “Choo-choo. Choo-choo.”
Somehow she managed to consume the rest of the sandwich. When she was done, the Gryphon set to work on his own lunch. He ate quickly and sloppily, smacking his lips, gulping when he swallowed, draining his cup of Pepsi in a series of slurps and gasps. Bread crumbs and droplets of soda spotted the blue uniform. He didn’t notice.
“You know,” he said suddenly, speaking through a last mouthful of Wonder Bread, “this is nice, Wendy. It’s a genuine pleasure sharing a meal with a beautiful woman. I could get used to it.”
I couldn’t, she thought. She said nothing.
“You’ve still got a little soda left. Want it?”
She didn’t dare refuse. “Sure.”
Again he tipped the cup to her mouth, but he was clumsy this time; Pepsi spilled down her chin, splashing the front of her blouse.
