16
IN THE MORNING Karyn rummaged through her things and found an old address book with Chris Halloran's phone number. At the time, he was living at a singles' complex in Marina Del Rey called the Surf King. She called the three-year-old number from a phone in her parents' kitchen while Mr. and Mrs. Oliver were in another part of the house.
After a series of clicks a recorded female voice came over the wire: The number you have called is out of service. Please check your directory to be sure you have the correct number, then dial again.
Karyn followed the recorded instructions and again reached the disembodied voice. She banged down the receiver in frustration. She should have expected it, of course. In Southern California, where businesses, buildings, and people come and go overnight, it was a lot to expect that a telephone number would get the same party after three years.
There was still the possibility that Chris lived at the same place, but had changed his telephone to an unlisted number. It was, Karyn decided, worth checking out. She could not give up now. She borrowed the car keys from her father and left the house. It was shortly before noon.
The Buick seemed like an excess of automobile to Karyn after the little Datsun she had driven in Seattle, but it rode smoothly, and the power equipment made it easy to handle. She drove down the San Diego Freeway past Culver City to the Marina turnoff.
The Surf King Apartments consisted of four interconnected buildings in cream-colored masonry with harmonizing pastel balconies. Karyn parked in an area marked Visitors, and entered the complex through a palm- flanked gateway. She crossed the red adobe central court and passed the Olympic-sized swimming pool where an assortment of young men and women presented their bodies to the sun. They eyed her speculatively from behind their Foster Grants as she walked by. Karyn ignored them and followed a series of arrows past the sauna and the Jacuzzi to the manager's apartment.
She touched the buzzer, and the door was swept open by a muscular young man with a full black beard, wearing a T-shirt printed with the Coors logo.
'Hi,' he said, 'I'm Ron.'
'Hello — ' Karyn began.
'You're really in luck,' he said. 'I have a vacancy opening up the first of the week. You'll love it. It's a bachelorette, balcony, built-ins, dishwasher, wet bar, sofa makes into a queen-sized bed. Want to take a look?'
'No, thanks,' Karyn told him. 'I'm not looking for an apartment.'
Ron's smile dimmed.
'I'm looking for someone who lives here. At least he used to. His name is Chris Halloran.'
The manager frowned. 'Halloran? It doesn't sound familiar, but I've got two hundred units here with people moving in and out all the time. I'll check the list of tenants.'
He sat down at a desk and pulled out several sheets of paper with names typed on them. Many were crossed off and inked over. Ron traced a finger down the columns of names.
'Nope, sorry. No Halloran.'
'He must have moved,' Karyn said. 'I know he was living here three years ago.'
'A lot of people come and go in three years,' the manager said. 'I've only been here four months myself.'
'Could you look it up for me?' Karyn said. 'You must have the records.'
'We have 'em, but they're all locked up out in the back.'
Karyn switched on one of her best smiles. 'I'd really appreciate it if you could check for me. It's awfully important.'
Without much enthusiasm the young man left Karyn sitting on the sofa that probably opened into a queen- sized bed, and he disappeared into another room. After several minutes he came back carrying a ledger-sized book.
'You're right,' he said, 'Christopher Halloran was in 314-C three years ago. Had the place a year, moved out the next April.'
Karyn calculated that Chris had given up his apartment here shortly after their split-up in Las Vegas.
'What was the forwarding address?' she said.
Ron scowled down at the ledger. 'There isn't any.'
'But there has to be.' A note of panic crept into Karyn's voice.
'Well, there isn't,' Ron insisted. 'There's no law that says you have to give one. Listen, if you're so hot to find this guy, why don't you hire a detective?'
Because there's no time, Karyn thought. I need Chris now, today, before something else happens. Before someone else dies.
'Anything wrong?'
Karyn realized she had been staring right through the manager. She shook her head and managed a smile. 'No, nothing. Thanks for your trouble.' She turned to leave.
'Sure you don't want to just take a look at that bachelorette? We're building tennis courts, and there're parties three nights a week.'
Karyn gave him another small shake of her head and walked on out of the Surf King. The dashboard clock in the Buick told her the day was half gone. She felt a terrible urgency to locate Chris before nightfall.
Her next stop was Techtron Engineering, in Inglewood, near the airport. She went inside and spoke to the personnel manager in his small, functional office.
'Chris Halloran left Techtron two years ago,' he said.
Karyn felt a sudden emptiness.
'He took a long leave of absence, and when he came back he was never quite the same. Restless, sort of. We were all sorry to see him go. Everyone here liked Chris. In the last few weeks here, though, he couldn't settle down to handle the routine parts of his job. Said he needed more freedom. So he quit.'
Afraid of the answer she would get, Karyn asked the question, 'Do you know where he went?'
'Oh, yes.'
Hope flickered again.
'Chris and another man who worked here at the time, a man named Walter Eckersall, went into partnership and started their own consulting firm. They were a perfect team. Chris supplied the enthusiasm and the creative thinking, and Walt took care of the solid, practical details.'
'Are they still in business?'
''Yes, they are. And doing very well, too. We even call them in to do a job for us now and then.'
The personnel man wrote down an address in North Hollywood. Karyn thanked him and hurried out to the Buick. It was mid-afternoon. Time was slipping away.
The building on Lankershim Boulevard was a low, cinderblock structure with clean lines and a modest sign on the front identifying it as E & H Engineering Consultants. Karyn scanned the automobiles parked in the diagonal spaces in front of the building, half-hoping to see Chris's bright red Camaro. It was not there. But of course, she told herself, he would have a different car by now.
Inside, the girl at the reception desk, a chesty brunette, smiled up at her.
'I'd like to see Mr. Halloran,' Karyn said.
'Mr. Halloran isn't in,' the girl said carefully. 'Can Mr. Eckersall help you?'
Karyn's spirits sagged again. Finding someone in real life could be so difficult. In the movies all you did was pick up a phone, and there they were. But in the movies there was always a parking place in front of the bank too. 'I'll talk to Mr. Eckersall,' she said.
Walter Eckersall was a tall, loose jointed man with bushy brown hair. He wore black-rimmed plastic glasses and spoke in a voice of surprising gentleness.
'You had some business with Chris?' he said.
'Not really,' Karyn said. 'It's more personal.'
