Someone had left in a hurry.
Savitch strolled through the rooms of the photo studio, which had been left unlocked. He noted the scraps of a meal on the four-poster bed: crumbs of sourdough bread, part of a salami, an empty pickle jar. He also took note of the coffee cups: there were two of them. Interesting, since Savitch had spotted only one person leaving the studio, a squat little man in a polyester suit. The man hadn't been there long. Savitch had observed him climb into a dark green Ford parked at a fifteen-minute meter. The meter still had three minutes remaining.
Savitch continued his tour of the studio, eyeing the tawdry photos, wondering if this wasn't another waste of his time. After all, every other address he'd pulled from the woman's black book had turned up no sign of her. Why should Hickman Von Trapp's address be any different?
Still, he couldn't shake the instinct that he was getting close. Clues were everywhere. He read them, put them together. Today, this studio had been visited by two hungry people. They'd entered through a broken window in the dressing room. They'd eaten scraps taken from the refrigerator. They (or the man in the polyester suit) had emptied the petty cash box.
Savitch completed his tour and returned to the front room. That's when he noticed the telephone message machine blinking on and off.
He pressed the play button. The string of messages seemed endless. The calls were for someone named Hickey—no doubt the Hickman Von Trapp of the address book. Savitch lazily circled the room, half listening to the succession of voices. Business calls for the most part, inquiring about appointments, asking when proofs would be ready and would he like to do the shoot for Snoop magazine? Near the door, Savitch halted and stooped down to sift through the pile of mail. It was boring stuff, all addressed to Von Trapp. Then he noticed, off to the side, a loose slip of paper. It was a note, addressed to Hickey.
'Feel awful about this, but someone stole all those rolls of film from my car. This was the only one left. Thought I'd get it to you before it's lost, as well. Hope it's enough to save your shoot from being a complete waste—'
It was signed 'Cathy.'
He stood up straight. Catherine Weaver? It had to be! The roll of film—where the hell was the roll of film?
He rifled through the mail, searching, searching. He turned up only a torn envelope with Cathy Weaver's return address. The film was gone. In frustration, he began to fling magazines across the room. Then, in mid-toss, he froze.
A new message was playing on the recorder.
'Hello? Hello, Catby? If you're there, answer me, will you? There's an FBI agent looking for you—some guy named Polowski. I couldn't help it—he made me tell him about Hickey. Get out of there now!'
Savitch stalked over to the answering machine and stared down as the mechanism automatically whirred back to the beginning. He replayed it.
There was now no doubt. Catherine Weaver had been here, and Victor Holland was with her. But who was this agent Polowski and why was he searching for Holland? Savitch had been assured that the Bureau was off the case. He would have to check into the matter.
He crossed over to the window and stared out at the bright sunshine, the crowded sidewalks. So many faces, so many strangers. Where, in this city, would two terrified fugitives hide? Finding them would be difficult, but not impossible.
He left the suite and went outside to a pay phone. There he dialed a Washington, D.C., number. He wasn't fond of asking the Cowboy for help, but now he had no choice. Victor Holland had his hands on the evidence, and the stakes had shot sky-high.
It was time to step up the pursuit.
The clerk yelled, 'Next window, please!' and closed the grate.
'Wait!' cried Cathy, tapping at the pane. 'My bus is leaving right now!'
'Which one?'
'Number 23 to Palo Alto—'
'There's another at seven o'clock.'
'But—'
'I'm on my dinner break.'
Cathy stared helplessly as the clerk walked away. Over the PA system came the last call for the Palo Alto express. Cathy glanced around just in time to see the Number 23 roar away from the curb.
'Service just ain't what it used to be,' an old man muttered behind her. 'Get there faster usin' yer damn thumb.'
Sighing, Cathy shifted to the next line, which was eight-deep and slow as molasses. The woman at the front was trying to convince the clerk that her social security card was an acceptable ID for a check.
She glanced around and spotted his broad back hunched inside one of the phone booths. Whom could he possibly be calling? She saw him hang up and run his hand wearily through his hair. Then he picked up the receiver and dialed another number.
'Next!' Someone tapped Cathy on the shoulder. 'Go ahead, Miss.'
Cathy turned and saw that the ticket clerk was waiting. She stepped to the window.
'Where to?' asked the clerk.
'I need two tickets to...' Cathy's voice suddenly faded.
'Where?'
Cathy didn't speak. Her gaze had frozen on a poster tacked right beside the ticket window. The words Have You seen This Man? appeared above an unsmiling photo of Victor Holland. And at the bottom were listed the charges: Industrial espionage and murder. If you have any information about this man, please contact your local police or the FBI.
'Lady, you wanna go somewhere or not?'
'What?' Cathy's gaze jerked back to the clerk, who was watching her with obvious annoyance. 'Oh. Yes, I'm—I'd like two tickets. To Palo Alto.' Numbly she handed over a fistful of cash. 'One way.'
'Two to Palo Alto. That bus will depart at 7:00, Gate 11.'
'Yes. Thank you...' Cathy took the tickets and turned to leave the line. That's when she spotted the two policemen, standing just inside the front entrance. They seemed to be scanning the terminal, searching—for what?
In a panic, her gaze shot to the phone booth. It was empty. She stared at it with a sense of abandonment.
She couldn't stand here like an idiot. She had to do something, had to move. She pulled the raincoat tightly around her shoulders and forced herself to stroll across the terminal.
She reeled back against the trash cans and almost sobbed with relief. 'Victor!'
