“… Did she tell you she found it at Whitney?”
“Didn’t I just say she hasn’t told me anything? She honors her promises, particularly those she makes to adults.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
I could feel my blood pressure rising. “Deny and stonewall, right, Ullman? If Emily does admit what she knows and what you made her promise, it’s her word against yours-a kid’s word against an adult’s.”
“… What do you intend to do?”
“What would you do if you were me?”
“I’d be very careful of my facts before I accused someone of using illegal drugs. Very, very careful. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise what?”
“I’m not a litigious man,” he said, “but if you try to sully my name and my reputation with the school board, I’ll sue for slander and defamation. I mean that; I-”
Another car appeared on the street, this one going faster than the last one. Ullman’s gaze went to it, magnetically. Stayed fixed on it until it passed on by and out of sight.
He was really vibrating now. The brown hound’s eyes showed an odd mix of emotions-melancholy, anger, fear. Hunted eyes, I thought, haunted eyes.
“What’s got you so upset, Ullman?”
“What do you think? You coming here, making accusations…”
“Is that all?”
“Isn’t it enough? You have no right-”
I said, “I wonder if there are fingerprints.”
“… What?”
“On the box. Or on the tube.” There wouldn’t be-the surfaces were too rough on one, too smooth on the other, and they’d both been handled too much anyway for clear latents-but I wanted to see what he’d say.
“That’s… ridiculous,” he said. “What do you know about fingerprints?”
“Quite a bit. It’s my business to know about things like that.”
“Your business? I don’t… Who are you?” The obvious answer smacked him and made him jerk, turned him a little white around the gills. “You… you’re not a policeman?”
“I was once. Now I’m a private investigator. And I still have contacts in law enforcement.”
“A private-” He shook his head a couple of times, hard, the way you do after you’ve just come up out of a particularly frightening nightmare and you’re not quite sure yet it wasn’t real. “I have nothing more to say to you. Just… leave me alone. You understand? Leave me alone!”
This time he went ahead and slammed the door in my face.
I moved down to the sidewalk and on to my car, taking my time in spite of the night’s chill. The one time I glanced up, I spotted a gap at one corner of the curtained front window, Ullman’s face framed there: watching to make sure I left or looking for whoever he was expecting, or maybe both.
My car was parked some distance upstreet and he couldn’t have had a clear look at it through the churning mist. My advantage. I didn’t waste any time getting in and driving away, but I only went a couple of blocks, around a long curve to where I couldn’t be seen from Ullman’s place. Then I made a U-turn and parked and sat in the darkened car with the engine running. After three minutes by the dashboard clock, I rolled back around the curve, slow, with the driver’s window down and my lights off-not too smart on a foggy night, but the street remained deserted. Fifty yards or so from Ullman’s house, I had a misty view of the front entrance and the lighted front window. He wasn’t looking out now; the curtain was drawn tight at both corners.
There was room to park at the curb on my side. I drifted over, killed the engine. And sat there waiting.
Trust your hunches. The one I had about Zachary Ullman was strong enough to warrant some more of my time. His edginess was only partly due to my unexpected arrival and the conversation we’d had. He hadn’t wanted me inside the house, for one thing. And he hadn’t wanted me there when his visitor or visitors showed up. Why? The only reason I could think of was that he had something to hide, something he didn’t want a stranger and especially a detective to know about.
Time passed. Crept, rather, the way it always does on any kind of stakeout. Passive waiting has never been my long suit. As far as I’m concerned, Ambrose Bierce had it right in his Devil’s Dictionary definition of patience: a minor form of despair disguised as a virtue.
I kept shifting around on the seat, huddled inside my coat, because of incipient leg cramps and because my lower back was giving me trouble again. Getting too old for this kind of thing, sitting alone in cars on cold nights. I was supposed to be semiretired, wasn’t I? At home in the evenings, in the warm condo with my family?
Sure, but this was something that threatened a family member and by extension threatened me. And made me suspicious as well as angry. I didn’t like that son of a bitch in the house across the street; at the very least he was a liar and a cokehead. I’d sit here, never mind the cramps and lower back pain, for as long as it took to see if my hunch panned out.
Not long, fortunately. Not much more than fifteen minutes.
Headights appeared around the curve behind me, the fourth set I’d seen since I’d been here, but this vehicle was going more slowly than the others; and as soon as it passed me, it coasted over to the curb just up ahead. Old, beat-up van, light and dark two-tone in color.
The lights flicked off, and a stick of a man wearing a sleeveless down jacket got out and came around to open one of the rear doors, take something out. Two somethings-a two-foot-long cardboard mailing tube, looked like, and a package about the size of a shoe box. I’d been thinking Ullman was waiting for the Man, but cocaine doesn’t get transported in mailing tubes, or in shoe boxes unless the buyer is stocking up by the kilo.
I watched the stick figure cross the street with his two parcels. In the foggy darkness I couldn’t tell much about him except that he seemed middle-aged and had stringy shoulder-length hair that the wind whipped around his head. Nothing furtive about him-just a guy on his way to somebody’s house, invited guest or deliveryman.
Ullman opened up right away, as he had with me. Let the long-haired man inside, poked his head back out to look up and down the street-if he noticed my car, it didn’t hold his attention-and then quickly shut the door.
For a minute or so I kept my eyes on the window curtain. Neither corner moved. I reached up and unscrewed the dome light, waited another minute, and when Ullman’s door stayed shut I got out and walked up close enough to the van to read the license plate. Personalized: DDTDAWG. Easy to remember, even with a porous memory like mine.
Back in the car, I rolled the window all the way up; I’d done enough freezing for tonight. I thought about following DDTDAWG when he left, but why bother? The license number was enough for me to find out who he was. But I waited anyway, out of curiosity as to how long he’d stay with Ullman.
Too long to be an average deliveryman, not long enough to be an invited guest. A little less than ten minutes. The door opened, out DDTDAWG came, the door closed. He climbed into his van without a glance in my direction, drove away into the fog.
Two minutes later, when the light in Ullman’s front window went out, I took myself out of there, too, with the heater going full blast. I was almost warm by the time I got home.
19
JAKE RUNYON
It was only four thirty when Runyon left Bud Linkhauser and walked out of the trucking company warehouse, but when he called the agency he got the answering machine. Either Tamara was with a client or she’d closed up early for some reason. He put on the Bluetooth device he’d bought when the no-hands cell phone law went into effect, tried again as he was dead-stopped in commute traffic on the San Mateo Bridge approach. Machine again. She must have gone for the day.
He called her cell number. Voice mail. Then he tried her home number. Answering machine.
So he’d have to run a property search himself when he got back to the city. He’d done it before. Easy work if you knew which city and county the property was in, harder when you didn’t, but if Coy and Arletta still owned the
