engine and transmission that were not to be trusted.
Emily drove the car anyway, in spite of the feeling she had that at every mile it was being used up like a pencil or a candle. She found her way on the 101 freeway to the Golden State Freeway, then down Route 152 to Route 33, which headed south and east into the Central Valley. Once she was on the right road, she tossed the map onto the seat beside her.
She sped across the open country, looking at the broad fields. They were lined with long, straight rows of low, leafy unidentifiable vegetable plants stretching to a vanishing point that seemed to move with her.
She drove fast, but it wasn’t because she was in a hurry. It was because the roads were made for it. She got used to moving to the right shoulder to let over-height pickup trucks flash past, because it felt to her that it was their road and not hers.
Here and there near the towns-Los Banos, Dos Palos, Firebaugh-there were fruit and vegetable stands to sell produce to people like her driving down the highway between big cities. She had always loved stopping at those places, white-painted wooden-frame structures with homemade signs bigger than they were, where teenagers and grandparents handled the sales because everybody else was busy. Here the stands were tiny outposts at the edge of plots of land so big that from the road Emily couldn’t see any farm buildings.
When she reached Mendota, it took her only a few minutes to find the police station and park. She got out of the car, walked to the trunk, and opened it. She took out her tote bag and walked to the front of the station, up the steps, and into the small lobby.
Behind the counter there were two police officers, one male on the telephone and one female busy at a computer. The woman noticed Emily first. She stood up and walked to the counter, then said, “Hello, ma’am. How can I help you?”
Emily said, “I wonder if you could direct me to the officer who was in charge of a murder case. It occurred here eight years ago.”
The policewoman’s shoulders seemed to hunch slightly. She leaned forward, and Emily could see a flat, guarded look in her eyes. “What murder case might that be?”
“The victim’s name was Allison Straight. She was only sixteen when she was killed.”
The policewoman turned to look behind her at the man who sat at the other desk. Emily could see that the policeman had sergeant’s stripes on his biceps. He stood up and walked toward the open door behind the counter. As he passed the policewoman, he nodded.
The policewoman said, “The detective who handled that case is Lieutenant Zimmer. The sergeant just went to get him.”
Two minutes later, the sergeant returned, accompanied by a tall, thin police officer in a sport coat. He said, “Come in, please,” and lifted a hinged section of the counter so Emily could step inside the enclosure. She followed him into an office, and he pulled a chair to the front of his desk for her, then sat down. “I’m Lieutenant Zimmer. I understand you wanted to see me about the Allison Straight case?”
“Yes,” said Emily. “My name is Emily Kramer. I brought you this.” She reached into her tote bag, pulled out the maroon stationery box and set it on the desk.
“What is it?”
“My husband, Philip Kramer, was the owner of a privatedetective agency in Los Angeles. Two and a half weeks ago, he was murdered-shot down on the street. Since then I discovered that the reason he was killed was that he knew what happened to Allison Straight. What’s in that box is the evidence he collected to prove it.”
She sat patiently while Detective Zimmer opened the box and examined the photographs, the written statements, glanced at the maps and charts and the autopsy report.
After a time, he looked up into her eyes, and she saw the sadness that had somehow been hidden in his face and brought back. He said, “Do you know that Theodore Forrest was shot to death two days ago while he was trying to kill his wife?”
“Yes. It’s been in the papers, even in other cities. I read it in Seattle this morning.”
“There’s nothing anybody can do to him now. Why did you bring me this?”
“Because you-the police-have to know. Because trying to get more evidence for you was the last thing my husband ever did. This was the last thing I could do for him.” She paused. “I’m afraid I have a long drive ahead of me and a plane to catch. I’d like to go now.”
Lieutenant Zimmer said, almost apologetically, “I’ll need to see your driver’s license first. You understand.”
She pulled her wallet out of her purse and handed the license to him. He examined it for a moment, then stood and set it on the copier a few feet away and made a copy of it. As he handed it back to her, he said, “When I’ve finished reading everything and cross-checking the facts, can I reach you at this phone number?”
“My phone isn’t working,” she said. “For the moment, the easiest way to reach me is to call Kramer Investigations at the number in the file.”
“All right. Thank you for bringing this to me.”
“I had to.” Emily rose, walked out of the office, lifted the hinged section of the counter, and went through the lobby and out to her rental car. In a few minutes, she was driving fast across the green valley toward San Jose.
COMING JANUARY 2009
Runner
AFTER A NINE-YEAR ABSENCE, JANE WHITEFIELD IS BACK!
Praise for the Jane Whitefield Books
BLOOD MONEY
“Brilliant … Buy it: I guarantee you’ll be up all night.”
-Los Angeles Times
“Downright dazzling … The little voice that promises adventure and danger in Thomas Perry’s hide-and-seek thrillers sends out another irresistible summons in Blood Money.”
-The New York Times Book Review
SHADOW WOMAN
“A fascinating tale written by one of America’s finest storytellers.”
-San Francisco Chronicle
