“You from France?” Pete asked in a not-quite-nasty tone.
“Montreal, Canada.”
“Hey, wait, I know you — Guy St. Germain — you play with the Sabres?”
“At one time, yes.”
“Hell, I didn’t recognize you without all the equipment on. I’m an old Sabres fan. Come on in.”
Before I knew it, another hockey discussion began. I should have remembered that Pete came from upstate New York. Almost all those boys from cold country knew something about hockey. They sat on the couch, and Pete was chattering away.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, apparently to myself.
As I started down the hallway to the bedroom, I felt a cool breeze. It made me stand stock-still. The back door was open.
33
“PETE !” I shouted. He was by my side in an instant, Guy right behind him. “I locked that back door,” I said, fear grabbing hold of me.
“Stay here with her,” he said to Guy.
Guy moved me away from the door of the hallway. Pete cautiously made his way outside. We waited while he looked around the backyard and alley and along the sides of the house. He came back shaking his head.
“You sure you locked it?” he asked, inspecting the doorjamb.
“Positive. I was scared, being here by myself. Oh, God, just before you knocked, I thought I heard someone in the house.”
“Let me use your phone. Where is it?”
I led the two of them into the kitchen. Pete called in to the department.
“Boyd? Yeah, Pete Baird. Tell the captain our boy might be back in the area. Yeah, there’s a possibility he was over at the Kelly house just now. Yeah, I’m in the house with her. She’s okay.” He looked up at me. “No, it’s a long story. Anyway, I stopped by to check on her. Back door was open, she says she locked it before I came by. No, I hadn’t been in that part of the house. Yeah, well, tell him anyway. Thanks.”
“They don’t believe me?”
“Irene, when you’ve been a reporter as long as Boyd has been a cop, you won’t believe an angel of God. But you’ll investigate whatever he tells you anyway. You ready to get out of this place?”
“Yes, we need to get going.” They both witnessed the routine of locking up this time, never leaving me alone, one or the other double-checking each window and door.
We walked out front. Guy was driving a sporty blue Mercedes 560 SL convertible. He opened the passenger door and helped me into the car — I tried not to be too clumsy about it.
As we drove off, I saw Pete following us. I knew it wasn’t because he was a hockey groupie.
Guy looked up into the rearview mirror, and noticed it too. “Is this Mr. Baird a friend?”
“More like a friend of a friend. I’ve been working with Pete and another detective on the case you’ve read about in the paper. They’re convinced — and at this point, I am too — that someone would like to see me out of the way. I’m probably a pretty scary person to go out with right now.”
He laughed. “You’re not so scary. And with your friend following us everywhere, I feel quite safe, even if we lack a little privacy. Does it bother you to be ‘shadowed’ so? I could probably lose him if it does.”
“He’d find us sooner or later and he’d just be mad about it, so if you don’t mind, we’d better let him keep an eye on us. He’s a good friend of the man I’ve been working with on this case — the man who was injured in the car chase. I think Pete feels honor-bound to protect me while his friend recovers.”
“Well, there is nothing wrong with loyalty. All right, we will not make his job more difficult.”
We drove along toward the beach, where the gold and pink hues of the sunset colored the sky above darkened water.
“So,” he said, “how did you become a reporter?”
“Went to college during the days when Woodward and Bernstein were covering Watergate. The school was flooded with journalism majors. I guess I was bitten by the same bug. Found out I really liked it. And how does a hockey player become a banker?” I suddenly remembered Frank asking this same question.
“It’s not as strange as it seems. My family was in banking in Montreal. I wanted to play professional hockey right after high school, but my parents begged me to go to college, and so I majored in business while going to school on an athletic scholarship. My parents were right. All players someday have a life outside of hockey. But nothing will ever compare to the thrill of being in the NHL. If I could have, I would have played until I fell over dead on the ice. I wouldn’t trade my hockey years for any amount of money.”
“So how did you end up here in Las Piernas?”
“I married a woman from southern California. We settled in Newport Beach. My attraction to the ocean and the warm weather lasted longer than her attraction to me, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to be. That was years ago. I moved here to get away from old memories and was pleasantly surprised. Las Piernas made me feel more at home. I’ve been quite happy here.”
By then we were on the long road that led out to the cliffs. There were no other houses now, just trees towering above the two-lane blacktop. About three hundred yards from the house, we came to a guardhouse and a gate. A yawning guard took a look at Guy’s invitation and lifted the gate arm. Pete pulled over to one side, as if undecided about following us further. We drove in and pulled into a graveled parking area. I didn’t see Pete’s car come down the drive and assumed he had felt I would be safe for the time being.
