anyplace where men might see her and talk to her, so she stayed away from health clubs, restaurants that had bars, and other spots where she had found men before.
After her first week in Los Angeles, Tanya Starling and Rachel Sturbridge had been erased. Nancy Mills was already nearly invisible. She would wait and watch and see if something troublesome had followed her from San Francisco.
9
Catherine Hobbes and Joe Pitt walked down the hall of the San Francisco police station, watching the numbers over the doors until they came to 219.
The door was open, so Catherine stepped inside. There were several desks in the room, where plainclothes officers gazed at computer screens or talked on telephones. She approached a group of three who were leaning over to look at a file opened on a desk, and said to them, “I’m looking for Detective Crowley.”
“I’m Crowley. Welcome to San Francisco,” said a tall, thin cop with a bald head. He straightened and held out his hand. “Are you Sergeant Hobbes?”
She flashed a smile and shook his hand. Crowley looked over her shoulder expectantly, and she remembered Joe Pitt. “This is Mr. Pitt, who is conducting an investigation for the victim’s family. Do you mind talking to both of us?”
Detective Crowley shook his head, then reached past her, his arm almost touching her shoulder, and shook Pitt’s hand enthusiastically. “Not at all. I’ve known Mr. Pitt for about a hundred years. How you been, Joe?”
Pitt said, “Can’t complain, Doug. I hear you’ve got Tanya Starling’s car.”
“Well, we’ve found out where it is. We haven’t impounded it. She sold it here about four days after you lost track of her in Portland. There was an ad in the
Pitt asked, “Was that a good deal?”
“It was close to the high blue book price, so it wasn’t a steal or anything. She wasn’t just unloading it fast.”
“And did Harold Willis recognize the photographs of Tanya Starling I sent to you?” asked Catherine Hobbes.
“Yes. He said it was definitely her. She went on a test drive with him, took his check, made out a bill of sale, signed over the registration, and wished him luck. That took maybe two hours, so he had plenty of time to look.”
“Where did the sale take place?” asked Hobbes. “Her place?”
“No. Her ad just had a phone number. She called Willis and brought the car to his house.” He anticipated the next question. “She was alone with him all that time. She wasn’t kidnapped or under duress. If she had been in trouble, she could have told him about it, or driven to any police station.”
Pitt said, “How about the bank account where she deposited his check? Do you have anything on that yet?”
“It was a business account at Regal Bank.” Crowley handed Pitt a piece of paper. “Here’s the address of the branch where she deposited it, the account number, and her home address.”
“Great,” said Pitt. “Thanks.”
Hobbes calmly reached over and took the piece of paper from Joe Pitt.
“Could be better,” Crowley said. “We called on her and found that she’s moved on again. She had signed a lease for a house with a roommate named Rachel Sturbridge. They paid three months’ rent in advance, according to the owner, a Mrs. Eve Halloran. She says they moved out about a week ago. The date is vague, because they left without telling her.”
“Did she have a job while she was here?” asked Hobbes.
“I’m not exactly sure,” Crowley said. “The two of them had run a d/b/a announcement in the paper and took out a license for a business called Singular Aspects. It lists a newsletter, which I assume was a catalog. If it was a store, they didn’t stay long enough to open.”
“That’s what you think it was—a store?”
“I don’t know. That’s my guess, from the sound of it. I defer to you, though, Sergeant Hobbes. Doesn’t it sound like a women’s clothing store? Anyway, less than a month later, the bank account was closed and they had both moved on.”
“That’s the part we need to know,” said Hobbes. “Where did they move to?”
“We’ve got nothing on that yet,” said Crowley. “Neither of them left a forwarding address at the post office or with their landlady. Before they left, they closed their account at Regal Bank, so there’s nothing there, either. They might easily have found a good location somewhere nearby, like San Mateo or Richmond, and moved. By now they could also be in China.”
“Either way, Tanya Starling doesn’t seem to be in any danger, and she certainly isn’t dead,” said Hobbes. “But she’s still our only potential witness on why Dennis Poole is.”
Pitt said, “Did Tanya buy another car before she left?”
“No. Rachel Sturbridge has one, and maybe they drove off in that.” He handed a piece of paper to Pitt. “Here’s the DMV printout on it. A six-year-old Nissan Maxima, black. License plate and VIN are supplied. It’s registered to the address they rented here. So until she gets wherever she’s going and reregisters it with a good address, we won’t know where she is. If she’s in-state, she probably won’t get around to it until next year.”
“Keep us in mind, will you, Doug?”
“Sure,” said Crowley. “When we get anything more, you’ll have it.”
Catherine Hobbes said, “Thank you very much, Detective Crowley. Here’s my card. There are numbers for my direct line, the homicide office, my cell, and my home. It doesn’t matter what time of day it comes in, I would appreciate it if you’ll call.”
“Of course,” said Crowley.
She and Pitt walked out of the police station, and Pitt drove the rental car to the house where Tanya Starling and Rachel Sturbridge had lived. As soon as Pitt found a parking space at the foot of the long, inclining street, Catherine Hobbes got out and began to walk. Pitt locked the car and trotted to catch up. By the time he’d succeeded, he was winded.
“What’s bothering you?” asked Pitt.
Catherine Hobbes walked along the street, her quick strides keeping her a half pace ahead of him so she wouldn’t have to look at his fake concerned expression. “Nothing.”
“Come on,” he said. “You’re going to give me a heart attack walking up this hill at this speed. Something’s bothering you.”
She stopped and looked at him. “We’re not in some boy-and-girl relationship that requires your helping when something’s bothering me. I’m a police officer working a homicide case. Your role is not to delve into my female sensitivities so you can talk me out of them. You’re here with me only because my captain thought you might be able to contribute to the progress of the investigation. That was not an opinion I shared.”
“It’s Crowley, isn’t it?”
“Do
“I won’t. But—”
“I’m also not interested in being told it’s not his fault because you knew each other twenty years ago, or because he’s too old to get used to women in homicide, or because you two are from California and I’m not.”
“Okay,” he said. “It’s just that it’s a waste of time to get mad at me.”
“I’m not.”
“Or even at him.”
“I’m not mad. I’m a woman cop. I’m used to being ignored, and to much, much worse. I’m looking for the house number.”
“Okay,” said Pitt. He followed her along the street for another half block, until they came to a narrow one- story house.
They walked up to the steps and Hobbes rang the bell, then listened for a moment to the door being unbolted and unlatched. It swung open to reveal a woman around sixty years old with dyed red hair wearing a pair of jeans
