Shackles

“Forty-seven nineteen K Street, Sacramento.”

I repeated it and then asked, “Would you know if that’s a private home, an apartment building, a hotel?”

“It’s an apartment building.”

“So you did call to verify that Lawrence Jacobs lived there?”

“Of course. We… it’s standard procedure in all our transactions…”

“Do you remember who you talked to?”

“The building manager.”

“I mean the person’s name.”

“No, I don’t… I didn’t write it down.”

“Man or woman?”

“Man? Yes, a man.”

“And he confirmed Jacobs’s tenancy?”

“Well, certainly.”

“Did you also call Jacobs’s employer?”

“No. He said he was self-employed.”

“Doing what?”

“Consultancy work.”

Yeah, I thought. “Can you describe him for me?”

“Describe him? Well, really, I meet so many people…”

“Please try, Ms. Belford.”

“Oh, all right. He… well, he just wasn’t very memorable. Average. Not tall, not short, not fat or thin… average.”

“Slender build, would you say?”

“… I suppose so, yes.”

“How old?”

“Mid-thirties? Yes, about that.”

“What color hair?”

“Brown.”

“Dark brown, light brown, reddish highlights?”

“Just… brown.”

“Curly or straight?”

“Straight.”

“Worn long or short?”

“Short.”

“What color were his eyes?”

“Blue? Gray? I’m not sure.”

“Was there anything distinctive about his voice?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Did he have any moles, scars, tattoos?”

“No.”

“How was he dressed?”

“In a suit and tie.”

“Expensive suit?”

“No. An inexpensive one.”

“What kind of car did he drive?”

“I have no idea,” she said.

“You never saw it?”

“Yes. I mean no… no, I didn’t see it.”

Based on her answers, the picture of Lawrence Jacobs that had formed in my mind was just as unfamiliar as the name. But he sounded like my man; the age and build were right. I said, “How did he happen to come to you about Mr. Lanier’s cabin? Did he just walk in off the street? Was he recommended by someone?”

“He saw our ad in the Bee.”

“A specific ad for Mr. Lanier’s cabin?”

“No, it… there were other rental properties…”

“What did he say when he came in?”

She made a breathy sound; she was becoming annoyed by my persistence. “He said he’d noticed the ad. I just told you that.”

“What else did he say? Please, Ms. Belford, try to remember.”

Another sigh. “He… let me think a moment…” She took ten moments. Then, “He said he was looking for a quiet, isolated mountain cabin because he… some sort of project he was working on and he didn’t want to be disturbed by anyone. He said he wanted to hole up for the winter… those were his exact words.”

“Did he want to see the cabin before renting it?”

“No. He asked me several questions… I showed him photographs, we always prepare multiple photos of our listings. When I told him the price he said it would do just fine.”

“How did he pay?”

“With a cashier’s check.”

“Went away and got it and came back?”

“Yes.”

“Which bank?”

Still another breathy sound. “The Bank of Alex Brown, a branch in downtown Sacramento. Now really, I… we’re closing on a property later this morning and I have to… I can’t take any more time to answer questions…”

“Just one more. What was the date?”

“Date?”

“That he came in. That he signed the rental agreement.”

“November second, last year. Now is that all?”

“Yes, ma’am. I appreciate your time-”

“Thank Mr. Lanier,” she said, and hung up on me.

I put the receiver down. November second. Almost five weeks before he’d abducted me-plenty of time to buy all the things he would need, make two or three or four trips to the cabin, install the ringbolt and the chain, complete the rest of his preparations. But how long before November second had he got his idea? How long had it been in the planning stages? Not sixteen years, not anywhere near that long, or he’d have acted on it years ago… unless he couldn’t act on it. Suppose he’d been in prison, or some sort of mental facility? That could be it. But then where had he gotten the money for the cabin rental, for all the provisions and the rest of the stuff he’d needed? Had it before he was put away? Borrowed it from friends or relatives? Stole it? Probably didn’t matter-but then again, could be it did.

One thing I knew for sure: Lawrence Jacobs wasn’t his name. He would not have wanted his real name on the rental agreement in case anything went haywire with his plan. That was one of the reasons he’d paid with a cashier’s check. The other was that handing over a large amount of cash might have made Susan Belford curious, if not actively suspicious.

James Lanier and I had little to say to each other. He showed me to the door, and we spent a few seconds wishing each other well before I went across to the car. When I drove away he was walking back to his garden, a slow-moving, solitary figure marking time, trying to find ways to fill up the rest of his days until-faith and hope being what they are-he could be with his Clara again.

LATE MORNING

K Street was one of Sacramento’s central thoroughfares, and 4719 was no more than a couple of miles from