“Where should I say we’re going?”
“Burbank airport. We’ll rent a car there.” He paused. “Maybe you could buy a plane ticket.”
Walker made the call, then sat down at a tiny table across from Stillman. There were three doughnuts sitting on a napkin in front of him. “Go ahead,” said Stillman. “They’re very soothing, which is why the Red Cross is always forcing them on people. Nothing burns energy faster than disaster . . . except sex, of course. And whatever deity was in charge of printing up our agenda tonight seems to have slipped up and left that one out.”
Walker took a bite of the big cream-filled doughnut with gooey chocolate on top. It was strange, but he reluctantly and silently acknowledged that it tasted better than anything he had ever eaten. He was overcome with the need to eat all of it. Then he picked up the next one.
Stillman said, “We’ll have to get another half dozen to take with us before the cab gets here. I don’t want to have to go out in the middle of the night for more. The streets around here don’t seem to be safe.”
11
Stillman drove the new rental car past the hotel, then around the block, looking intently at the windows, the parking lot, the doors of the lobby. Then he drove into the parking lot and up a couple of rows before he parked.
Walker asked, “Is there something else I should be expecting?”
“Not at all,” Stillman assured him. “But it’s always important to have good health habits when you travel.” He got out of the car, ceremoniously locked it, and walked into the lobby. He stopped at the little shop and began to scrutinize the shelves. “You don’t have to wait for me.”
Walker held up the bag. “I’ve got your doughnuts.”
“I’ll catch up with you.”
Walker went upstairs to his room. He unlocked the door with vague trepidation, then stepped away from it and listened, prepared to sprint back down the hall if he heard a noise. There was silence. He pushed open the door, leaned in to fumble with the light switch, then stepped back again. The door swung shut, but before it did, he had a glimpse of the room that included no intruders. He unlocked the door again, slipped inside, and let it close behind him.
Everything was in its place, the bed was made, and he was alone in the quiet and order. He walked to the folding stand and opened the lid of the suitcase Stillman had bought him. The new clothes were undisturbed, the coats folded, the shirts in their packages, the creases in the pants still in straight lines. He took off the coat and tie he had been wearing and examined them. The coat needed dry-cleaning, but he detected no tears. He looked down. His pants had dirt on the right knee, but nothing that appeared fatal. He was tired of having nothing but clothes he couldn’t afford. They had been bought as a disguise, but they had settled into his mind as a fiduciary responsibility.
He moved to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. His face was smudged and sweaty, and there were a couple of angry red scrapes—one above the right eye and another on the left cheek. He touched the side of his head and involuntarily sucked in a breath: the pain was insistent now. There was a hard lump, and the hair was stiff from blood that had dried there. He touched two other places above the hairline, and the nerves there sent dispatches of alarm.
There was a knock on the door. He stepped close to it and said, “Who is it?” then slipped to the side, not knowing whether he was getting out of the way in case the door flew off its hinges or because he feared bullet holes would appear simultaneously in the door and his chest.
“It’s me,” said Stillman’s voice.
Walker opened the door and let Stillman push inside and close it. Stillman fixed the chain and turned the deadbolt, then noticed Walker’s expression. “Always lock everything that locks,” he said. “It doesn’t cost a cent.”
“The doughnuts are on the bed,” said Walker.
Stillman said, “I just called the airport for you. There was some fog earlier, so the flights were delayed and they’re still catching up. I got you on the United shuttle for tomorrow at eight.”
It took an effort for Walker to force out the words. “Thanks, but I told you I’d like to keep at this until we find Ellen.” He was tired and dirty, and he didn’t want to argue. He didn’t want to be here, and fighting for the privilege was more than he was willing to do.
Stillman was putting things in Walker’s bathroom. “Well, sleep on it. Here’s some antiseptic and stuff,” he said. “Don’t let any scrapes get infected, especially the ones you got on somebody’s teeth. I know a guy who did that one time, and his finger swelled until it was as big as his dick—or at least that’s what he said. I didn’t compare.” He picked up the bag of doughnuts and placed two of them on a napkin atop the little refrigerator beside the television set. “Here’s your share of the doughnuts. You want something to drink with that?” He opened the refrigerator. “There are lots of little liquor bottles left by the pygmies.”
Stillman poured a tiny bottle of scotch into a glass and took a sip, then winced. “We made some progress in a day and a half.”
“We got beat up twice.”
“Beat up? Hell, this isn’t beat up. There hasn’t been a winner of a title fight that looked better than us since the young Muhammad Ali—and he looked better to start with. I’m talking winners now. The losers, they looked— well, like losers.”
Walker nodded. “Good thing for us the Japanese assassins didn’t show up.”
“Probably couldn’t get a flight into L.A., what with the fog and all,” said Stillman, staring interestedly at his drink. He brought it to his lips, took a big gulp, and squinted. “Have you noticed we’re getting contradictory signals?”
“I’m not getting any signals.”
“Tonight was the second time we had guys trying to get whatever pieces of paper we had. I guess they want to know what we know. But tonight they seemed to think the second choice was to kill us.”
“If that’s a signal, I got that.”
“Well, it doesn’t go with this.” He pulled some folded pieces of paper out of his coat pocket. As he unfolded them Walker recognized them as the ones Constantine Gochay had given him. “See, Constantine traced Ellen Snyder for us. She made five blips on his screen since she disappeared. She was here in Los Angeles for a night or two, at the Holiday Inn near the airport. That was two weeks ago. She used the name Jo Anne Steele.”
Walker’s brows knitted. “How does Gochay know she was Ellen Snyder?”
“It’s the name of a woman who’s a customer of the Pasadena office of McClaren Life and Casualty. All of Jo Anne Steele’s personal information was in the office files. Somebody used it to apply for credit cards and licenses. They’re great for ID, and if you don’t actually use them to pay, you’re in the clear. She—somebody—used them to register, then paid in cash so there would be no credit card record. Very sensible.”
“How did Gochay know that?” Walker persisted. “Any of it? If she didn’t pay with the card to avoid a record, why is there a record?”
Stillman took another sip of his drink. “He didn’t pick up anything interesting by checking credit reports, so he broke into some hotel reservation systems and started to pick things up.”
“But how did he know enough to look for the names of women customers from McClaren’s files?”
“I told him.”
Walker’s irritation was beginning to come into his voice. “But how did you know?”
“It was the way she opened bank accounts and bought stuff when the million two disappeared. I had him run the twenty-five or so in the files who were the best matches: about the right age and sex.” He paused. “You know, if you carry life insurance, auto, and home owner’s with one company, you get a big break on the rates, so—”
“I know that,” Walker interrupted. “The company knows everything about you—birthday, family, jobs, social security number, credit records, physical exams, driving records. That’s what I do for a living, remember? I use that information.”
Stillman shrugged. “So did she.”
“And so did Gochay?”
Stillman smiled. “Now you’re catching up.”
