Liars & Thieves by Stephen Coonts Page B

don’t have a listing for a Donald Westland in College Park.”
    “Could it be an unlisted number?”
    “No. I have no listing at all for anyone by that name.”
    I read her the address. “It might be under his wife’s name,” I said.
    After a moment of silence, she said, “I’m sorry, sir. I have no Westland listed.”
    I thanked her and broke the connection.
    I was getting quite a collection of cell phones. I punched my way through the stored numbers on this one, looking for one I recognized. They were all new to me.
    I turned the telephone off and sat there trying to think. My heart was still beating a mile a minute. I was leaving bodies all over, and I didn’t know who these guys were.
    What if this was a government car, and the name and address on the registration and insurance were merely cover? I got out, opened the door, looked for an oil change sticker. And there it was: Jiffy Lube.
    I opened the wallet. The driver’s license was for one Johnson Dunlap, Bethesda. The mug staring at me from the license was the balding getaway driver outside of Willie’s. That certainly wasn’t conclusive—my employer routinely issued fake ID to back up false identities. The credit cards were also in the name of Johnson Dunlap. Couple hundred dollars in bills in the wallet, several credit card invoices, a dry cleaning stub, and an AAA membership card.
    I turned on the telephone and called information. The operator gave me a number for Johnson Dunlap. That number was one of the ones stored on the telephone memory. I dialed it.
    After ten rings I broke the connection.
    Perhaps Johnson Dunlap was a real man. I tapped his driver’s license on the steering wheel as I considered. If he was a cop or federal employee and lost his wallet containing his real driver’s license while committing a serious felony with three colleagues— now dead—whoever was running this show was going to be very unhappy with Mr. Dunlap. He would undoubtedly realize that. Would he share the bad news with them?
    I had another wallet in my pocket, the one I took off the driver who wrapped his SUV around a tree on Allegheny Mountain yesterday. I got it out and gave the driver’s license a close look. Jerry Von Essen, Burke, Virginia. I called information. They gave me a telephone number, so I dialed it.
    After four rings, I got a sleepy female. “Hullo.”
    “Is Jerry there?”
    Talk about a hot woman—she went thermonuclear in two seconds. “The son of a bitch hasn’t come home yet,” she snarled.
    “Think he’d take the time to call? You see the bastard, tell him I’m not taking any more of his shit! I’m moving out.”
    Before I could reply she slammed the telephone down.
    Johnson Dunlap. Should I go check on him, or should I hotfoot it back to Dorsey’s? Willie probably blabbed Dorsey’s name, so they would show up before too long.
    I glanced at my watch. My sense was that I had a little time, and God knew I needed information.
    I thought about calling Dorsey, warning her. Hell, she didn’t even own a weapon. The only thing she could do would be to load Kelly in a vehicle and run for it. Or call the police. Neither option seemed very attractive to me. I couldn’t protect the women if they were running around the country, and I wasn’t ready for the police.
    Yesterday’s clouds had dissipated. No rain today. Terrific.

Liars And Thieves

CHAPTER TEN
    Johnson Dunlap lived in an older tract home in what had once been a fashionable neighborhood, perhaps sixty years ago, immediately after World War II. The maples, oaks, and tulip poplars that blocked out the sky looked about that old.
    His house looked similar to every other house up and down the street—single story, brick facade, not much grass in the front lawn due to the deep shade cast by the huge trees. The driveway was empty.
    I checked my watch, then drove down to the main arterial and along it until I came to a convenience store. I bought a newspaper from the box near the door