The Crimes of Jordan Wise

'Greenbriar.'

'Phone number?'

She recited it from memory.

'The name I'll be using?'

'Philip Smith.'

'Name and address of the garage?'

'Mainline Parking, 1490 Alvarado.'

'Details of your route?'

'All memorized. I'll take the maps along, but I don't think I'll need to look at them again.'

'Time to call me?'

'Six o'clock Saturday night.'

'Sooner if you're ready early,' I said. 'I'll make sure to be in the room from five o'clock on.'

'God, Richard, it's almost over, isn't it?' She had been calling me Richard for months by then, without a slip; Jordan Wise had already ceased to exist for her. 'Almost over!'

'This phase. There's still one more.'

'I know, but it won't be bad once you're here. I miss you like crazy.'

I said I missed her the same way, and we told each to be careful driving. Just before she hung up she said, 'Richard, I want you to know . . .' and there was a pause, and then for the first time she said, 'I love you.'

I held those three words close the rest of the day, took them to bed with me that night.

Friday, September 30.

Jordan Wise went to Amthor Associates for the last time, sat at his desk in Accounting for the last time, finished preparing for the annual October audit for the last time. He went to lunch with Jim Sanderson, exchanged the usual tired complaints with him and the other drudges. And throughout the long, busy day, he stood apart and looked down at them from his superior height and smiled at their dull normalcy and winked at their foolish weekend plans and gloated at the thought of their reactions when they found out what he had done.

At five o'clock he said good-bye to them for the last time, rode the elevator down to the lobby, walked to the parking garage where he had left his car with his one suitcase and one briefcase already locked in the trunk, drove out into the Friday-evening-commute traffic.

And disappeared.

SAN DIEGO AND CHICAGO

1978

RICHARD LAIDLAW DROVE STRAIGHT through to Santa Barbara, with brief stops for gas and a coffee-shop sandwich. Good-bye, Jordan Wise.

There was no hurry, but no reason to dawdle, either. The Plan called for me to be in and out of San Diego no later than Sunday morning. That would leave me another three days, of what I figured to be a five-day grace period, to put two thousand miles between me and California. My failure to show up or call in would not raise any alarm bells at Amthor on Monday or Tuesday, and the auditors weren't likely to catch on to the fraud, or the company executives to notify the authorities, until sometime Wednesday at the earliest. That meant late Wednesday or Thursday before a fugitive warrant was issued and the story broke in the media.

An exhilarating feeling of freedom rode with me that night. I was completely relaxed; driving seemed effortless, the usual Friday-evening traffic snarls a source of amusement rather than irritation. All my senses were heightened: colors and the light-shot darkness intensely vivid, night smells crisp, the classical music on the radio as tonally clear and stirring as if I were sitting close to the orchestra during a live performance.

It was after ten when I stopped at a motel on the southern edge of Santa Barbara. At eight A.M. Saturday, I was back on the highway. Traffic through the San Fernando Valley and LA was relatively light and I made good time. I stopped only once, for gas in Orange County, and rolled into San Diego shortly past noon. I had lunch in Old Town, drove around for a while to kill time, and checked into the Greenbriar Motel as Philip Smith at three thirty.

Annalise called fifteen minutes early, at a quarter to six. She sounded relieved when I answered promptly. 'Everything went all right, then?'

'Just as I drew it up.'

'I knew it would, but you can't help worrying a little.'

I smiled at that. 'No, you can't.'

'I should've left Phoenix a little earlier than I did,' she said. 'Desert driving really wears you out.'

'What time did you get in?'

'After three.'

'You're at the airport motel now?'

'Straight from the garage.'

'But you're not calling from your room?'

'Come on, Richard, you know I wouldn't make a mistake like that. I'm in a pay phone in the main terminal lounge. I took the motel shuttle over here.'

'What kind of car did you buy?'

'Nineteen seventy-three Mercury Cougar. Blue and white. I had to pay a little more than we planned—almost thirteen hundred dollars. I could've bought something cheaper from one of the smaller lots, but you said there was less risk of getting a lemon from a large dealership.'

'The price doesn't matter,' I said. 'The important thing is that it's reliable.'

'Well, so far. Good gas mileage, too.'

'Parked where in the garage?'

'Second floor, space number two fifty-six. The keys are in a magnetic holder under the right front fender, the registration's locked in the glove compartment, the parking ticket is on the dash. And there's a full tank of gas. I filled up just before I parked.'

'That should do it, then. You're booked on the nine o'clock flight to Chicago?'

'I've already picked up my ticket. Richard?'

'Yes, baby?'

'I hate being this close and not seeing you. I want you so much.'

I wanted her, too. But my hunger was not as great as hers after the long separation, not at this point. It was still a long way to Chicago, and there was plenty to do before I got there. First things first. We'd be together soon enough, and I said as much.

'I know we will,' she said, 'but that doesn't make it any easier now. Get to Chicago as quickly as you can, okay? Take a more direct route.'

I said, 'I will,' but I knew I wouldn't. Every factor to that point had been carried out with perfect precision. There was no compelling reason to change any of the remaining moves. If I did that, I might be inviting bad luck.

Before nine A.M. on Sunday I packed my suitcase, leaving out the theatrical mustache and spirit gum and the bottle of dark-brown hair dye I'd bought in San Francisco. The suitcase went onto the backseat of my car. I put out the 'Do Not Disturb' sign and locked the door to Philip Smith's room, keeping the key. Then I drove the short five blocks to the Mainline Parking Garage.

This early, the second floor had no sign of life and was mostly empty of parked cars. I pulled into the space next to the one marked 256. The Mercury Cougar had a coating of dust, but was otherwise nondescript and in good condition for its age. The tires had plenty of tread, I noticed as I went around to the front and collected the keys. I opened the trunk, transferred my suitcase inside, locked it again, and then drove my car down to the first-floor exit. The sleepy attendant took my money without even glancing at me.

From the garage I headed to the airport, which in San Diego fronts on the bay and is virtually downtown;