24

I spent much of Saturday night sitting in the ER waiting room at Perdido Memorial Hospital, hoping for word about Phyllis’s condition before I made the twenty-five-mile drive back up the coast to Santa Teresa. Phyllis had been taken into surgery without regaining consciousness. She’d been a patient at Perdido Memorial on a prior occasion and the surgical team had no choice but to proceed on the assumption that her medical history was up to date. In the morning, someone would put a call through to her insurance company to determine if her policy was still in effect.

I wasn’t a family member and therefore I was technically not entitled to access, but the floor nurse, Malcolm Denning, was willing to bend the rules. Once Phyllis was out of the recovery room and transferred to ICU, he allowed me to look in on her briefly. She was heavily sedated. Her left arm was in a cast and her jaw had been wired shut. The bruised left cheek and blackened, swollen eyes looked worse, which wasn’t surprising. X rays had revealed a comminuted skull fracture, meaning it was broken in three or more sections and therefore brain swelling was a very real danger.

At my side, Malcolm said, “Someone contacted a neurosurgeon from UCLA and he’s on his way. I don’t know who’s been pulling the strings, but this doc is the best. She’ll be in good hands.”

“That’s good news.”

I gave him my business card with my office number on the front. I jotted my home number on the back. “Can you keep me informed?”

“Can’t go that far, I’m afraid. I’m not authorized to release medical information, but you can check with the desk in the morning if you want an update. You won’t learn much, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Thanks.”

As I turned to go, I saw Erroll standing at the nurses’ station. I thought I might be hallucinating, but his physical characteristics were so distinct that I knew it couldn’t be anyone else. He was wearing a dark three-piece suit, a white dress shirt, and a pair of black loafers that must have cost more than the money I’d refunded the McCabes.

I said, “Erroll?”

He caught sight of me and raised a hand in greeting. He finished his conversation, excused himself, and walked down the hall in my direction. “I was hoping I’d find you here. Can you spare a few minutes?”

“Sure.”

He took me by the elbow and steered me back to the empty waiting room, where we sat down in adjacent chairs. “I’d have been here sooner, but I had some business to take care of.”

“What sort of work do you do? When I met you this afternoon, you were in sweatpants and barefoot. Now you look like a foreign dignitary.”

He looked down at himself with a wry smile. “I’m an attorney. I have a sports management firm that represents professional athletes. Our job is to negotiate contracts and make sure they’re smart about their money so they don’t end up broke. On my way over, I stopped by the office and called a good friend of mine whose company handles personal security. He’s sending a gal who’ll park herself outside ICU and make sure Ned can’t do any more harm.”

“That’s great. I hadn’t even thought of that,” I said. “Someone told me a neurosurgeon from UCLA was on his way.”

“He’s a good friend as well. He should be here shortly, but I wouldn’t advise you to hang around. It will take him a while to do a workup.”

“You arranged all of this in the hours since I saw you?”

“I owe her. She wouldn’t be where she is if it weren’t for me. I don’t know what I was thinking when I let the guy in, but it’s a mistake I won’t repeat.”

“Security in that complex is for shit anyway. Why isn’t there a camera in the elevator?”

“The guy selling these units touted the call buttons and the resident-operated elevator key to control access. Heavy emphasis on the security guard at the gate; no mention of CCTV,” he said. “I use the place when I have business in the area, so it’s not an issue I think about.”

“She said she just moved in.”

“That’s right. Five or six weeks ago. I met her that first day and the two of us hit it off,” he said. “How do you know her? I didn’t have a chance to ask you earlier.”

I gave him a brief rundown of my dealings with Phyllis and my bitter acquaintance with her ex. “Now Ned has transportation, so who knows where he’s gone?”

“Her car is too conspicuous to drive more than a day. He’ll dump it first chance he gets. Altman said he’d make sure the information is in the pipeline. And not just Perdido PD. County sheriff’s office and California Highway Patrol.”

“Ned’s slippery. I don’t know where he’s holing up, but he’s managed to make himself scarce. We canvassed motels down here and picked up a lead from the manager of a place he stayed over last weekend. He was spotted twice in Santa Teresa after that, but he dropped out of sight until this. We even have the homeless population on red alert, checking the beaches and other sites used by transients. So far, all we have is the wreckage he’s left in his wake.”

“How are you holding up?”

“I’ve lost touch with how tired I am, but I know it’s time to hit the sack. I was just heading for my car when I saw you.”

“Come on. I’ll walk you to the parking lot, just in case he’s out there hoping to catch you by surprise.”

By the time I started for home, it was close to three a.m. The road was sparsely trafficked and I rolled down my driver’s-side window, letting cold air stream in as a means of keeping myself alert. There was nothing I could do for Phyllis and nothing I could do about Ned, whose shadow cast a pall I couldn’t seem to shake. My prime concern was whether I was in any way responsible for his finding her. I knew I hadn’t said a word to anyone, but somehow Ned had gotten wind of her address and he’d gone after her with a vengeance. There had to be a leak somewhere. Phyllis wasn’t careless with personal information, but others might not have exercised the same caution.

In addition to my worries about Phyllis, I was still brooding about being fired, though it was my own damn fault. Lauren McCabe had told me point-blank her son wasn’t to be considered as a person of interest when it came to the extortion threat. Despite the McCabes’ initial skepticism, they’d apparently accepted his claim that the tape was a hoax. Then I’d gone to Troy and voiced my suspicion that the hoax business was no more than a cover story. Wrong move on my part. He must have headed straight for the phone to alert Fritz that I was questioning the assertion. Of course, the minute Troy stonewalled me, I knew I was right. Not that it made any difference. Since I had been shit-canned, the identity of the extortionist wasn’t my problem now. The question weighed on me nonetheless. I wouldn’t pursue it. I wasn’t even tempted to do so, but it was unfinished business and that didn’t sit well with me.

•   •   •

I slept late on Sunday morning and finally dragged myself out of bed close to noon. I brushed my teeth and then pulled on my sweats and my running shoes. I found an old fanny pack, where I put my house keys and a folded twenty-dollar bill. Henry’s back door was open and I could smell bacon and eggs. Killer was sleeping on the welcome mat on Henry’s back porch, and since there was no sign of Lucky or Pearl, I assumed he’d invited them for brunch. I can be churlish about such things. At the moment, however, I was still feeling raw from the lack of sleep and I didn’t much care.

I crossed the yard to his back door, stepped over the snoring, slobbering pooch, and knocked on the screen. From what I could see, the three of them were just finishing their meal. Henry set his napkin down and got up to let me in.

“Kinsey. Good to see you. I knocked on your door earlier, but got no response. Why don’t you come in and join us?”

I waved off the invitation, saying, “Thanks. I’m on my way out, but I wanted to check on Ed. Is he back?”

“No sign of him. As soon as we clean up here, we’ll do another run through the neighborhood. He’s done this before so I’m not worried. Yet. Moza tells me there are half a dozen houses he visits, begging for treats.” Henry’s tone was polite throughout, but he wasn’t making eye contact. No big surprise, since he was still laboring under the notion that I was knocked up.

“You think he was picked up by Animal Control?”

“I doubt it. Just to be on the safe side, I called and left a message. I haven’t heard back, but I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

“Well, I have to go out for a couple of hours. If he doesn’t show up in the meantime, leave a note on my door, and I’ll help with the search. We need to talk anyway.”

“I should think so,” he said.

I was too tired to get into it right then and it wasn’t a discussion I wanted to embark on if Pearl and Lucky were listening. I said, “See you later.”

He said, “Take care.”

I stepped over the dog again, pausing to watch him whimper and twitch in the throes of some doggie dream. I hoped he caught whatever he was chasing. I walked around to the front, let myself out through the squeaky gate, and headed for the beach path. I didn’t have the energy to jog, so instead I walked. I followed Cabana Boulevard three blocks to State Street and then eight blocks up State past my old office at California Fidelity Insurance. The walk was good for me, allowing me to take in changes in the downtown businesses I wouldn’t have noticed by car. Some shops had closed down, some had moved, and one was trumpeting yet another in a series of liquidation sales.

Eight blocks later, I reached a hole-in-the-wall Mexican diner where I sat at the counter and loaded up on carbs: huevos rancheros, sopes, beans and rice, two cheese enchiladas, a chicken taco, and three cups of coffee. Then I walked the sixteen blocks back to my place. There was no note on my door, which I hoped meant Ed was home safe and sound. Pearl, Lucky, and the dog were gone and Henry’s place was buttoned up tight. I let myself into the studio, locked the door behind me, and went back to bed. It was 1:35 by then and I slept through the rest of the day and through the night. I’m too old to be pulling an all-nighter. Witness the toll it took out of my poor beleaguered hide.

By Monday morning, I was feeling restored to my usual optimism. I did make one adjustment in the aftermath of Ned’s attack. I hauled my H&K and holster out of the trunk at the foot of my bed. If Ned was declaring war, I’d be carrying. I pulled my navy blue windbreaker over my rig and checked the effect. Not bad. I’d half expected a note from Henry slipped under my door, confirming that Ed was safely in hand, but there was no word.

By the time I emerged from my studio at eight thirty, Cullen, the technician from the S.O.S. Alarm Company, was coming out of Henry’s back door, already at work on the installation that would provide security for both his residence and mine.

I said, “Hey, Cullen. Is Henry here?”

“No ma’am. He just left. He showed me where he wanted the control panels and then he and the lady in the wheelchair went over to Kinko’s to have fliers made up about the cat. One of the neighbors said she thought she saw him over on Bay, so that scruffy guy with the big dog is checking that out. Henry says they have it under control and he’ll call you if he needs help.”

“Good. Tell him I’ll touch base with him in a little bit.”

“You want to show me where you’d like your alarm panel?”

“Just inside the front door is fine. Henry has a key to my place.”

“Thanks. Have a good one.”

“You, too.”

Once at the office, I let myself in with my usual OCD routine: unlocking the door, using my code to disarm the system, arming the periphery, and relocking the door. If I’d had dead bolts and burglar chains, I’d have mobilized those as well. I didn’t want to live like this, concealed carry included, but I had to be sensible, even if my caution bordered on the paranoid. In the meantime, I scooped up the mail that had been shoved through the slot Saturday afternoon and proceeded into my office proper, where I sat down at my desk.

This is how the subconscious works, mine at any rate. I’d been fretting about Phyllis and Ned off and on in the upper regions of my brain. While I was chewing on the issue of how Ned had picked up her address, the speculation had sifted down into my Dark Side like lightly falling rain. Answers—those little kernels of truth—had stirred to life much in the way seeds germinate when conditions are right. By this point, my conscious mind was bored with the subject, since I’d been running the same questions relentlessly with no tangible relief. I was restless, ready to move on to a problem more easily solved, so I really wasn’t thinking about anything at all. And that’s when the following notion popped into my head: I’d been assuming that the puzzle of Ned’s whereabouts and the mystery of how Phyllis’s address had been leaked were two separate issues.

But what if they were one and the same?

I rejected the idea at first because it seemed so unlikely. There was only one set of circumstances I could think of that would net one answer for those two questions. Then again, if I was right, it would make sense of Ned’s disappearance and what passed for his clairvoyance. I reached for my shoulder bag and searched the depths until I found the Leatherman tool set Henry had given me for my birthday. I slipped the minitools in my windbreaker pocket, opened my bottom drawer, and took out the heavy-duty flashlight that was a mate to the one I had at home. As I rose from my swivel chair, I touched the holstered gun under my left arm like a talisman.

I left my inner office and walked down the hall to the back door, where six months earlier Cullen had placed a second alarm panel, identical to the one he’d installed at my front door. I disarmed the periphery, unlocked the back door, and went out. I took a left and moved along the walkway that runs between my bungalow and the look-alike bungalow next door. My telephone junction box is mounted to the side of the office and when I reached it, I stopped.

The box is a bland gray, some kind of heavy-duty plastic, maybe three inches thick, six inches wide, and seven inches high. The General Telephone logo was embossed on the front. There was a bracket that read CUSTOMER ACCESS, with an arrow pointing to a metal snap, labeled SNAP, and an arrow pointing to a screw, labeled SCREW. Those guys really had it down. Running from the bottom of the box there was a fat round black wire, a bright blue wire, and a gray conduit an inch in diameter that contained the cable connecting my box to the wires mounted on the telephone pole at the street. The black wire and the bright blue wire trailed down from the box and disappeared into the crawl space through one of the vents that allows fresh air to circulate under my office.

Now a third wire had been added, this one white. I opened my Leatherman and removed the minitools. I had a choice of nineteen, all neatly folded together like a pocketknife with assorted blades. I selected a pair of needle-nose pliers that I used to loosen the snap. Then I used the Phillips-head screwdriver to remove the screw. The telephone company probably had special tools that performed the same job in half the time, but I had to make do.

I stuck the Leatherman back in my windbreaker pocket and then opened the junction box. I have two lines into my office, one for the telephone and a second for my combination printer and fax machine. My phone number was neatly written in black marker pen beside one set of wires and my fax number was inked beside the second set. Alligator clips had been clamped to the two contacts that served my phone line. Attached to the alligator clips was the white wire, which extended from the bottom of the box and disappeared into the crawl space along with the other two wires.

All three bungalows are built over a three-foot concrete footer. A sizeable vent opening had been cut into the stucco just above the footer to provide air flow to the area under each bungalow. The vent cover is a flimsy wooden trellis, easily removed to allow access to the crawl space. I squatted, lifted off the vent cover, turned on my flashlight, and peered into the space. The dirt floor was approximately five feet below the subfloor and flooring joists, running flat for a distance of fifteen feet and then slanting down and away toward the far corner of the bungalow. The soil was dry, but I suspected a good rain (if we ever had one) would result in puddles that would feed the mold spores that had been proliferating there for years. Construction debris was still in evidence: broken bricks and wood scraps dating back the seventy years since my landlord and his father had built the cottages.

There were 3-foot-by-3-foot cinder block piers at intervals. One section of the dirt had been covered with widths of plastic sheeting and there were rolls of pink fiberglass insulation like hay bales left out in a farmer’s field. I couldn’t believe my landlord had been too cheap to have the insulation properly tacked into place. I’d have to have a little chat with him. I didn’t like to think about the shoddy workmanship for which I paid rent. Okay, it wasn’t much rent, but cheap is cheap.

The beam of my flashlight picked out the three phone wires, which meandered from the vent opening across the dirt to one of those telephone company handsets used to determine if there’s a dial tone. I was curious about that myself. I inched my way across the hard-packed soil, using my elbows for leverage. Just as I extended a hand to pick up the phone company handset, there was the shrilling of a telephone above me. I jumped, banging the back of my head on a joist. Without even thinking about it, I pressed Talk and said, “Hello?”

“Kinsey, this is Ruthie. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“It’s not the best. Is it all right if I call you back?”

“Sure. It’s nothing urgent. I just wanted to know how you were feeling.”

“About what?”

“The bun you have in your oven.”

“I don’t have a bun in my . . . oh, the bun in my oven. You mean the bun Camilla mentioned Friday night at Rosie’s?”

“What other bun is there?” she asked.

“Forget it. We’ll talk later.”

I pressed the button disconnecting her, and then stared down at the instrument I was holding. I pressed the button that said Talk and listened to the dial tone, which was actually emanating from the telephone sitting on the office desk right above me. This was how Ned Lowe had managed to tap into my phone line without ever entering my well-fortified work space.