from the two of them, there wasn’t much to be gained by hanging around. It wasn’t like I could, at this hour, pretend to drop by Trixie’s, and discover Angie there by accident. All that would accomplish would be to give Angie the idea that I was a customer.
So, riddled with reservation and doubt, I turned the key forward.
And the car said,
This can’t be happening, I thought. I turned the key again.
This time, not even a
This was not the best place to sit and wait for the auto club to show up. I mentally crossed my fingers and turned the key a third time.
The engine caught.
I put the car into drive and sped out of Valley Forest Estates, got back onto the highway, and broke the speed limit (once I was finally able to coax the Virtue into exceeding it) all the way back into town.
I arrived at the doughnut place around the corner from Garvin Street about 10:35 P.M. and glanced at all the cars in the lot as I pulled in. I felt a weight lift from my shoulders when I didn’t see Lawrence’s Buick. At least I hadn’t kept him waiting.
I went inside. Now that I had been thoroughly drained of coffee, I felt I could accommodate some more. But, rattled as I already was by the evening’s revelations, I opted for a decaf. And an oatmeal muffin.
Some badly mangled, coffee-stained and crumb-covered sections of
The inside of the shop was reflected in the glass, but I could still see outside well enough to watch for Lawrence. I glanced at my watch. It was 10:40 P.M.
I thumbed through the front section of my paper, and came upon, once again, the story I’d been reading at breakfast, about the computer nerd who shot and killed his classmates. I tossed it aside and looked at the Arts section.
I read a review of some new George Clooney movie, not really taking any of it in, and a short write-up on a $1 million advance that was being paid to some unknown writer for his science fiction thriller, which had already been optioned for a movie even before the book had hit stores. I tried to wash down my envy with the coffee, but it didn’t work. And I realized another ten minutes had gone by.
Lawrence was generally pretty punctual, but I decided to give him another five minutes before doing anything about it. I read the editorials, a few letters to the editor. My coffee cup was empty and my muffin was history.
Lawrence was still a no-show.
I dug out his business card again and phoned him. This time, I tried his cell phone first.
It rang five times, then the message kicked in. “Hi. I can’t take your call right now. Leave a message.” Typically cagey Lawrence. Didn’t even give his name.
“Hey, it’s Zack, it’s coming up on eleven, and I’m waiting for you at the doughnut shop. Call me.” And I gave him my cell number, even though I knew he already had it.
I waited another minute. I tried the office number on his business card, which I seemed to recall him mentioning once was also his home number. He lived in a second-story apartment above a shop someplace. His card gave a Montgomery Road address.
Another five rings, and a similar message.
“Hey. Zack here. I already left a message on your cell. I’m here, waiting to go get the bad guys, and get your report on Trevor. I’ve got some news of my own in that department.”
I considered the possibilities. Lawrence had run into some sort of delay, couldn’t answer his phone. Maybe he was in a bad area, under a bridge, where his cell couldn’t receive a signal.
I tried the cell again. “Hi. I can’t take your call right now. Leave a message.”
I phoned home. Paul picked up, sounding a bit groggy. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Let me talk to your mom.”
“She’s not here. She’s gone to that thing. Remember?”
With all that had happened in the last hour or so, I’d completely forgotten about the retreat. “Okay,” I said. “Have there been any calls?”
“I guess. I’ve had a couple.”
“I mean for me.”
“Uh,” Paul said dozily, “I don’t think so.” Paul’s words seemed to be running together, ever so slightly.
“Were you asleep?” I asked.
“Nope.”
I paused. “Lawrence Jones didn’t call there by any chance, say he was going to be late?”
“Lawrence who?”
“The detective? The one I’ve been seeing every night this week? The one who took me to the car auction? The one who called earlier, and you took a message? Paul, what’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. I am perfectly fine.” He worked hard to say “perfectly” perfectly. And the “I am” instead of “I’m” was a bit weird and Data-like. “Where are you?”
“At the doughnut place, a couple of blocks from Garvin. Listen, if Lawrence calls, have him call my cell.”
“Okay.” Sleepylike. Like maybe he’d had a few beers.
“Paul,” I said, “did you find what Trevor left for you out back?”
“Huh?” More awake now. “The what?”
“The six-pack. Sounds like you found it.”
“I don’t know-what?”
“He get your booze for you all the time?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Did Angie tell you-” And then he cut himself off, still sober enough to know that he was letting the cat out of the bag.
“We’re going to have a talk when I get home.”
Paul paused at the other end of the line. “Do you have any idea when that might be?”
“Probably not for a few hours. I’m sort of working right now.”
“Because I’m really tired, and going to bed, so if you’re going to ream me out, could you do it in the morning instead of when you get home?”
“Fine. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Okay. See ya, Dad.” And he hung up.
I shook my head as I hit the button to end my call. It was after eleven now. I tried Lawrence’s cell a third time, without success.
Maybe he was already in position, down the street from the men’s store. Maybe he’d gotten to the doughnut shop on time, waited a few minutes for me, and when I was a no-show, he’d left. After all, his responsibility was to Mr. Brentwood, the owner of the men’s shop, not me. He was doing me a favor letting me hang out with him; he didn’t owe me any consideration.
So I walked out of the doughnut shop and headed in the direction of Brentwood’s. I decided to leave the Virtue in the parking lot. Pulling up behind Lawrence’s Buick might attract unwanted attention on the street. There was a hint of autumn chill in the air, and I pulled my shoulders up, as if that would somehow keep me warm.
I came around the corner onto Garvin, half a block down from the men’s shop, and looked for Lawrence’s aging Buick with the brand-new rear window, not that a brand-new window was something that stood out. A quick scan of both sides of Garvin turned up nothing. The street was lined with several parked cars, but there was almost no traffic, and there was a slight drizzle starting to come down. Within a couple of minutes the street was damp and shiny.
As I walked up the street, nearly to Brentwood’s, I tried to think of other scenarios that could have delayed Lawrence. What if he wasn’t planning to come at all? What if there’d been some arrest in the case, just in the last couple of hours, and Lawrence had gotten a call about it from his contacts in the police, so there was no point in staking out Brentwood’s tonight?
