don't think Doug would have come home. Not if Jean-Paul hadn't died. At Le Mans it was."
The wound opened inside Dave's chest again. He turned and walked to the glass door and stared out at the empty street with the rain glazing it. A run-down neighborhood business district like a hundred others in sprawling Los Angeles. Shabby one-story stucco buildings. Hairdresser. Florist. Bicycle shop. Without turning, he said, "Now, then, you told me he's not here because he got a telephone call. Wednesday afternoon. October eighteenth."
"He'd been kind of quiet since he saw Fox. Depressed, I thought. But when that call came, well, I've never seen him so excited. His hands were shaking so that when he tried to hang up the receiver he dropped it. The whole phone fell on the floor. His eyes were shining, just shining. He went straight to his room and started packing.
"'Who was it?' I asked him. But he said he couldn't tell me. Nor what it was about, either. Well, I assumed it was the government calling him for a job. He'd expected them to phone—only he didn't think he'd accept. But I guess it must have been a better offer than he'd expected.
"'Where will you be going?' I asked him. 'I hope not overseas again.' He came and gave me a little kiss on the cheek and a hug and said he was sorry but he couldn't tell me that either. So I just decided it was top secret. He promised he'd write me after he got settled."
Dave turned. "Has he written?"
"No, but it's only been a few days.... " She cocked her head, frowning, wary. "Mr. Brandstetter, you don't think that phone call was from Fox."
"Wednesday, October eighteenth, was the date Fox disappeared." Dave came back to the counter. "May I see your telephone directory?" She stooped and rummaged it from under the counter. Birdseed rattled out of it when he turned the pages looking for the area-code num.ber of Pima. "I'd like to call long distance. The town where Fox lived. I thought I'd talked to everyone there who could tell me anything. Now I'm not so sure." He laid down the phone book, dug out his wallet and put a five-dollar bill into her hand. "This should cover the call." It would feed a lot of feathery dependents, but she hardly noticed it. Her stare was anxious. She gave a meager nod. When the Pima operator got him the number, the phone rang for a long time. He almost gave up. Then the voice was the one he wanted to hear, young, sullen.
"Signal station."
"This is Brandstetter, the dirty. old man who gave your bird a hitch night before last. Remember?"
"She says you're a private eye. Figures. You can't get any dirtier than that."
"I'm an insurance investigator. Very clean-living. Fox Olson was insured for a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I think he skipped out, split. You want to help me find him?" It sounded feeble in his own ears, as if he was trying to con a six-year-old. But a cynical kid is still a kid. He was vulnerable. Adventure. Excitement. Revenge. Just like on TV.
"Sure. Why not? The son of a bitch."
"Good. Do you remember a Ferrari gassing up at your place maybe two weeks ago?"
"Yeah. French plates."
"Did you see it only that once?" Dave swallowed dryness. "Or . . . did it come back?"
Pause. "It came back." Grudgingly. "You're sharp."
"The night Olson crashed his T-bird in the canyon?"
"Check. Late. Raining to beat hell. It didn't have the French plate in the front anymore."
"It's nailed up on Buddy Mundy's ceiling," Dave said. "Did you notice where the Ferrari went? Did it tum up the canyon?" His heart thudded.
"Yeah. I watched because it's such a bitchin' car. I stood there just to listen to the engine till I couldn't hear it anymore."
"And . . . you didn't hear it again?"
"I closed up right after that. Went home."
"How come you didn't tell the fuzz about this?"
"They never asked me."
"Sure," Dave said. "Okay. Thanks."
"Shove the thanks. Send bread." Sandy hung up.
Dave put down the receiver.
The wound opened inside Dave's chest again. He turned and walked to the glass door and stared out at the empty street with the rain glazing it. A run-down neighborhood business district like a hundred others in sprawling Los Angeles. Shabby one-story stucco buildings. Hairdresser. Florist. Bicycle shop. Without turning, he said, "Now, then, you told me he's not here because he got a telephone call. Wednesday afternoon. October eighteenth."
"He'd been kind of quiet since he saw Fox. Depressed, I thought. But when that call came, well, I've never seen him so excited. His hands were shaking so that when he tried to hang up the receiver he dropped it. The whole phone fell on the floor. His eyes were shining, just shining. He went straight to his room and started packing.
"'Who was it?' I asked him. But he said he couldn't tell me. Nor what it was about, either. Well, I assumed it was the government calling him for a job. He'd expected them to phone—only he didn't think he'd accept. But I guess it must have been a better offer than he'd expected.
"'Where will you be going?' I asked him. 'I hope not overseas again.' He came and gave me a little kiss on the cheek and a hug and said he was sorry but he couldn't tell me that either. So I just decided it was top secret. He promised he'd write me after he got settled."
Dave turned. "Has he written?"
"No, but it's only been a few days.... " She cocked her head, frowning, wary. "Mr. Brandstetter, you don't think that phone call was from Fox."
"Wednesday, October eighteenth, was the date Fox disappeared." Dave came back to the counter. "May I see your telephone directory?" She stooped and rummaged it from under the counter. Birdseed rattled out of it when he turned the pages looking for the area-code num.ber of Pima. "I'd like to call long distance. The town where Fox lived. I thought I'd talked to everyone there who could tell me anything. Now I'm not so sure." He laid down the phone book, dug out his wallet and put a five-dollar bill into her hand. "This should cover the call." It would feed a lot of feathery dependents, but she hardly noticed it. Her stare was anxious. She gave a meager nod. When the Pima operator got him the number, the phone rang for a long time. He almost gave up. Then the voice was the one he wanted to hear, young, sullen.
"Signal station."
"This is Brandstetter, the dirty. old man who gave your bird a hitch night before last. Remember?"
"She says you're a private eye. Figures. You can't get any dirtier than that."
"I'm an insurance investigator. Very clean-living. Fox Olson was insured for a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I think he skipped out, split. You want to help me find him?" It sounded feeble in his own ears, as if he was trying to con a six-year-old. But a cynical kid is still a kid. He was vulnerable. Adventure. Excitement. Revenge. Just like on TV.
"Sure. Why not? The son of a bitch."
"Good. Do you remember a Ferrari gassing up at your place maybe two weeks ago?"
"Yeah. French plates."
"Did you see it only that once?" Dave swallowed dryness. "Or . . . did it come back?"
Pause. "It came back." Grudgingly. "You're sharp."
"The night Olson crashed his T-bird in the canyon?"
"Check. Late. Raining to beat hell. It didn't have the French plate in the front anymore."
"It's nailed up on Buddy Mundy's ceiling," Dave said. "Did you notice where the Ferrari went? Did it tum up the canyon?" His heart thudded.
"Yeah. I watched because it's such a bitchin' car. I stood there just to listen to the engine till I couldn't hear it anymore."
"And . . . you didn't hear it again?"
"I closed up right after that. Went home."
"How come you didn't tell the fuzz about this?"
"They never asked me."
"Sure," Dave said. "Okay. Thanks."
"Shove the thanks. Send bread." Sandy hung up.
Dave put down the receiver.
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