lived close to Wichita, and made spur-of-the-moment calls out of anger when something went wrong with the answering service? He got the airline flight magazine out of the seat pocket in front of him, and looked at the flight map again. Wichita, he thought, would be as viable a home town as Springfield. Something to think about…
The second thing came to him as they were landing in Minneapolis: he was looking down at one of the lakes where he'd expected the impact to occur – he could see himself struggling to get out of the flooding cabin, but his legs and arms were broken and he couldn't unfasten the seatbelt – and the name Des Moines popped into his head.
If the killer came from either Springfield or Wichita or virtually anyplace around those cities, and if she were driving to Minneapolis, she'd go through
Des Moines.
If she had done that, he thought, she'd be here now.
He looked down at the broad multi-colored grid of lights that made up the Cities and thought, 'Somewhere?
Chapter Fourteen
Carmel didn't understand the silence: days had passed since she'd left the message for Pamela -if Pamela was her name, which Carmel doubted. Still, she should have gotten back.
Had something happened to her? Had Carmel's name come up through Pamela – had
Pamela been caught? Was she in one of those stainless-steel federal pens somewhere, sweating through the sensory-deprivation stage of a multi-level interrogation? Was the phone connection corrupt, or discontinued, or worse, tapped? What was going on?
She'd worked through her defense two hundred times, and all two hundred times, she'd walked. The cops didn't have a case, couldn't have a case. There was nothing to build a case on – unless that little girl had identified her.
Her contact with the cops said that nothing had come of the photo spread, but
Davenport was running this routine, and he was worse than tricky, he was bad. If he was sure that she was involved, he might be sticking together a morality play, to frame her. With nothing more than a sliver of evidence, a woman could go to prison for life, if a jury didn't approve of her life-style.
She shouldn't have fucked Hale, that was the truth of the matter. Just shouldn't have. Should have waited. Even if there were no proof, if a jury found out she'd fucked Hale the night before his dead wife's funeral, she was history. And where in the hell was Pamela?
She was in her apartment, trying to work, when the phone rang. She glanced at her watch: probably Hale, but she said, 'Be Pamela.'
And Rinker said, 'You got time for a drink?'
Casually: 'Sure, where are you? I'd hoped you'd call.'
'Remember that place we went, the bar where we saw the guy with the cowboy scarf? Let's go there.'
'Oh, sure. An hour from now?'
'Be careful, though; it's dark around there. You'll get eaten by a stalker.'
'I'll bring my switchblade,' Carmel said, laughing. 'See you in an hour.'
Stalker? Pamela thought Carmel was being followed? Is that what that meant? And the place where they saw the guy with the red silk cowboy scarf wasn't a bar, but the lobby of her hotel. Was that where she wanted to meet?
Before she left her apartment, Carmel changed into a loose long-sleeved silk blouse, jet black, with black slacks and a small gold necklace. Ten minutes after she hung up the phone, she was on the street in the Volvo. She took a twisting route out of the downtown area, eased along a one-way lane on the edge of the Kenwood area, past homes of the rich and the strange, and checked her back trail: nothing.
But if what she'd read about complicated tags was right, the cops might have three or four cars following her, changing off, some in front, some behind. She pulled over to the side of the lane, waited two minutes: nothing went by. What if the car were wired, and they were following her from a distance?
No way she could tell that.
Besides, she was beginning to feel that she might be a little delusional. She'd read hundreds of criminal files in her lifetime, and the heavy surveillance never started until the case was made. Before that, they were simply too expensive. The cops might go for a phone tap, or loose surveillance, but there wouldn't be a multi-car track across town.
She looked at her watch. She still had a half hour before she was supposed to meet Pamela. She headed south, on and off 1-35, round and round quiet city blocks, looking for anything that might be a follower. At the south end of the loop, a heavy jet roared five hundred feet overhead, and she turned, heading north, moving fast now. She took the car straight into the hotel parking garage, got a ticket, left it, and took the stairs down to the lobby.
Rinker was sitting in a corner. She saw Carmel step out of the stairway, smiled, stood up and walked back to the elevators. She was just getting in the elevator car when Carmel caught up with her.
'Did you understand what I saw saying on the phone?' Rinker asked, as the elevator car started up. 'I think so. I'm not being followed, unless they've done something electronic, and I'd be willing to bet they haven't – if they really think I'm involved, it's way too early in the investigation to have twenty-four-hour surveillance. But right now, there's nobody with me.'
'I sort of bet myself you'd be coming out of that stairwell,' Rinker said. 'It's what I would have done. Zip into the garage, take the stairs, they can't stick too close behind or you'll spot them… and by the time they sneak in, you're in one of five hundred rooms.'
'They'll go through five hundred rooms if they have to, if it gives them a professional killer,' Carmel said.
'Which is why I'm trying not to touch anything hard, except the TV remote control, the on-and-off faucets in the bathroom, and a few things like that.
I'll wipe them before I leave.'
'What about the credit card?'
'Good card, fake name,' Rinker said.
'So what's going on? I was worried when you didn't call back, I thought they'd picked you up.'
'You tell me what's going on. Why'd you call?' Rinker asked.
'This Davenport guy, the cop. Remember?'
Rinker nodded.
'He took some pictures over to show the little girl who saw us. I was in the photo spread.'
'Ah, jeez. Why?
'I don't know. I've got a contact in the police department, and nobody knows what's going on. But apparently, the kid failed to identify me. Nothing came out of it.'
'But why would they take your picture over in the first place?' -'That's the question,' Carmel said.
Rinker had a room on the seventh floor. Inside, Rinker opened the mini-bar, took out two cans of Special Export. 'I got glasses,' she said.
'Can's fine,' Carmel said, popping the top. 'I really didn't expect you to come all the way back from… wherever. I just wanted to talk.'
'Yeah, well, I got a little problem of my own,' Rinker said. She sat on the bed and Carmel pulled the chair out from the tiny desk and sat down. 'The day before you called me, I got another call, at the answering service. A guy who was supposedly trying to get in touch with Tennex. But when the receptionist asked if he wanted to leave a message, he said no. Then two days later, the cops showed up. That's all I know -cops were asking questions. I don't have any easy way to find out more.'
'Huh.' Carmel thought about it for a minute, then took a cell phone out of her purse, and her address book. She checked a number, as Rinker watched, and punched it in. 'Calling my guy,' Carmel said to Rinker. Then, into the phone:
'This is Carmel. Anything else happen?' She listened for a moment, then said, 'I stopped by to see Davenport a
