“ Oh yes, I know. I am only explaining myself, more for my benefit than yours. It is hard for me to inform on another.”
“ I’m not asking you to inform on anyone.”
“ Oh, but you are. You are asking who owns the big house. Then you will be asking what do I know about him and I do not like what I know. I would like to remain silent and say I know nothing. But you are asking as a father and not a policeman. A policeman I could turn away. A father, I cannot.”
“ I don’t like the way this sounds.”
“ And I am sorry to be telling you. A doctor owns that house. A rich German doctor. A man who has a parade of young girls come and go. He thinks we don’t know, but we are a small town, and even though he keeps to himself most of the time, we see his people bringing them in and taking them out.”
“ His people?”
“ He has some very rough looking people working for him. Doing what, I do not know. Drugs maybe? There is a lot of that up here. Marijuana fields, California’s illegal cash crop.”
“ What does he do with the girls?”
“ Who knows?” The Sikh spread his hands, palms up. “But if he was involved with my daughter, I would most certainly want to know.” Washington thanked him, paid, and on his way out the door the Sikh asked, “Will you be wanting to see the sheriff?”
“ No. It’s something I have to handle myself.” He smiled at the man.
“ I understand and if anybody ever asks me, you were never here and we never talked.”
Understanding lit up Washington’s face. If he were to harm Kohler, or even kill him, this man would say nothing.
“ I appreciate that,” he said.
“ Think nothing of it. I too have a daughter, and besides, I don’t like that man. I think he would have been more happy in Hitler’s Germany than in this free country, where a man like me can own a store and a man like you can be a policeman. He was in here once and in his eyes I saw the hate he had for me. He does not know me, but he hates me. He would hate you more, because you are a policeman and have some power. I pray for your daughter.”
Washington thanked him again and left the store. Kohler sounded like a bad man, who employed bad people, who did bad things with young ladies. Maybe Walker was right about Monday and maybe Monday was right about Kohler.
He took his purchases to his room, changed, loaded the backpack and made a mental note to buy a warm jacket. He remembered how cold it got up here at night, even in the summer. On his way to the door it dawned on him that he was late for a meeting in Long Beach.
He went to the phone and a few seconds later he had Hart on the line.
“ Where are you, Washington?” Hart asked.
“ I can’t tell you that, sir.”
“ Don’t give me that. You still work for this department and if you want to keep working for it you’ll answer me.”
“ I quit.”
“ You what?”
“ I quit.”
“ Have you lost your mind? You can’t quit.”
“ I just did.”
“ You’re working on this Jim Monday thing, aren’t you?”
“ What I’m doing is personal, sir.”
“ Well, why didn’t you say so. We can arrange some personal time. Just tell me everything you have on Monday and we’ll forget this whole thing. You can take all the time you want for your personal problems. You’re trying to work things out with your wife, right?” There were a few seconds of silence then Hart said, “Oh shit, we got an earthquake here. I have to go. Call me back in an hour.”
The line went dead and Washington’s heartbeat started to race, his pulse keeping time like a strobe light, his eyes seeing things in snatches, like time lapsed photography. He tried to take deep breaths, to keep himself from hyperventilating, but images of shaking buildings crashing down on terror stricken children flashed before his mind.
Ever since he could remember he’d been afraid of earthquakes, and even though the temblor was over five hundred miles away, the fact that he was connected to it, even by telephone, was enough to chill his nerves and stampede his heart.
It took him two full minutes to regain control. He was surprised. He had done better in the midst of the San Fernando Quake, a six point five that brought down the VA Hospital. He wondered what was happening to him? It was almost like a seizure. I’m getting old, he thought, once his breathing was regular again.
He thought about calling Walker, but he loathed the thought of calling him in that hospital. The man had enough to worry about right now. Washington shivered. He hated hospitals almost as much as he feared earthquakes. They were places for lying and dying. He didn’t envy Walker.
He scooped up the backpack, went out to the car. His plan had been to go up to Kohler’s as soon as possible, drive by, find a place to hide the car, walk back and find a spot in the woods across from the house to hide and stake out the place. The best strategy was often the most simple. He would sit and wait. Sooner or later Monday would show up and then he’d get Glenna back.
He’d worry about dealing with Monday after Glenna was safe. If Monday was innocent, he’d move heaven and earth to prove it, but not till his little girl was out of harm’s way.
He unlocked the trunk and tossed the backpack on top of the carbine. He was closing it when the silver Mercedes with the dark tinted windows drove by. He scooted around to the driver’s side and out of sight as the Mercedes parked by the diner across the street from the motel.
He watched as Kohler got out of the car. The doctor walked around the vehicle with a straight backed gate, like he had a pipe up his ass, Washington thought. He continued watching as Kohler opened the passenger door and Julia Monday slid out, smoothing her skirt. Then Kohler and Jim Monday’s wife walked arm and arm into the diner.
Hugh Washington decided he was hungry and started across the street. He stopped in the middle of the road, swore at himself for being so stupid and turned back toward his car, parked in front of his room at the motel. I’m the one who put her husband in the police car and took him away. How could she forget me and my ugly face? I remember her. And even if those gorgeous eyes passed over me, Kohler would remember. He didn’t look like the kind of man who forgot anything. He stopped at the car, opened the trunk, took out the backpack, then went back to his room.
From inside his room he had a clear view of the diner across the street. He moved a chair to the window, opened the curtains and sat. He opened the backpack and took out the binoculars. They brought the diner ten times closer.
Kohler and Julia Monday were sitting at a table for two, by the window. Washington could see the shaving rash on Kohler’s neck that edged up to his trimmed beard. He could see the corners of the forced smile on Mrs. Monday. It looked like she might have been crying. He looked back at Kohler, his thin lips, not well enough hidden by the manicured mustache, were moving rapidly, almost snarling.
A young waitress brought them water and took their order. Kohler ordered for both. He continued talking after the waitress left. Mrs. Monday continued listening. Something wasn’t right, she seemed listless, dead on her feet. The shoulder length hair that had been vibrant and fresh two days ago had lost its luster. The sparkle in her eyes was gone. She had that blank look Washington had seen so many times in his career. A combination of sudden shock, loss and grief. It was usually worn on the face of a surviving wife whose husband had been recently murdered.
A third man joined them. He pulled a chair out from an empty table and sat facing the window. Washington had seen his type before. Weasel was the first word that came to mind. He was the sly type that all policeman know, the kind that make good informers because they’re afraid. Afraid of the police, jail, the streets, themselves. Usually they were junkies and this man looked the type, darting eyes, shaking hands, rounded shoulders and nodding head. The hair on the right side of his scalp was exceedingly long and combed over a bald top. The Weasel
