pulled over or anything. Her name is Wanda Achison, and she lives in a suburb called Westlake Village.”
“Has anyone talked with her yet?”
“As soon as we got this information I gave her a call. She sounded a little upset, because she was afraid it was stolen and we were going to take it away from her. She calmed down after a minute, though.”
“Did she buy it from Rachel personally? No intermediaries or dealers involved?”
“Yes. Rachel advertised it in a local swap sheet, Miss Achison called the number, and Rachel drove it to her house to let her check it out. Miss Achison said Rachel was in her late twenties, long dark hair, five-five, one fifteen to one twenty. Rachel told her she was selling the car to pay off a credit card debt.”
“That wouldn’t be too unusual among people trying to start a business. Did she still have her address and phone?”
“No, but the paper did. It was a motel, and they don’t have a record of Rachel Sturbridge staying there. I figured Tanya might have been the one who had signed the register, but they didn’t have her down either. There must be a third person.”
“Maybe,” said Catherine. “Can you give me Wanda Achison’s address and phone number, please?”
He read the information, and she copied it. “Thanks, Detective Crowley.”
“No problem.” He sighed. “Are you and Joe going down there to do an interview?”
“Joe isn’t involved in the investigation anymore.”
“He isn’t? May I ask why?”
“Yes. He’s been very cooperative, provided some information that eliminated some dead ends for us. Obviously he doesn’t need a testimonial from me. But I don’t think a civilian belongs in a homicide investigation.”
“I’ve always liked Joe, and I was glad to see him,” he said. “But I don’t either.”
“Thanks for all of your help,” she said.
“Don’t mention it. And let me know if you need anything else from us in San Francisco.”
“I will.”
She hung up the telephone, then picked up the photograph of Tanya Starling that had been made from the surveillance tape. There she was, caught from the side, entering Dennis Poole’s hotel room. Catherine Hobbes stared at the face. Tanya was just a small-boned woman who appeared to be in her late twenties, her expression untroubled. The blond hair that had obscured the features for most of the tape happened to have swung to the other side of the face for this instant, so all of the features were visible. The outlines were just vague enough to frustrate the viewer’s eye as it tried to focus perfectly on an image that could never be any clearer. The bright, shiny hair drew the mind’s attention more than the face did.
Catherine opened the file and scanned the lists of other agencies that had been cooperating in this case. She found the telephone number she wanted, then called the Illinois Department of Motor Vehicles to make her formal request for the driver’s license photograph of Tanya Starling. She had waited long enough for Tanya to turn up or respond to her inquiries. It was time to go after her.
Catherine thought for a moment. Crowley had said that Rachel Sturbridge’s car had been registered in California, so that meant the driver almost certainly was too. She dialed the number of the California DMV and requested the license photograph of Rachel Sturbridge.
13
N ancy Mills sat in her small apartment, staring out the window. It was eight-thirty, the time of each evening that made her want to open the door and go. She could see the sky through the west window. It was taking on that beautiful shading, the lower edge of it red, then above that a blue that began as only a little bit darker than the daylight sky, but as the eye looked higher, the sky darkened into an indigo canopy, with a few stars beginning to show.
She could almost hear her mother’s voice calling. This was the time of evening when she always had to come in from play, and she used to come home dirty, the
“Has anyone talked with her yet?”
“As soon as we got this information I gave her a call. She sounded a little upset, because she was afraid it was stolen and we were going to take it away from her. She calmed down after a minute, though.”
“Did she buy it from Rachel personally? No intermediaries or dealers involved?”
“Yes. Rachel advertised it in a local swap sheet, Miss Achison called the number, and Rachel drove it to her house to let her check it out. Miss Achison said Rachel was in her late twenties, long dark hair, five-five, one fifteen to one twenty. Rachel told her she was selling the car to pay off a credit card debt.”
“That wouldn’t be too unusual among people trying to start a business. Did she still have her address and phone?”
“No, but the paper did. It was a motel, and they don’t have a record of Rachel Sturbridge staying there. I figured Tanya might have been the one who had signed the register, but they didn’t have her down either. There must be a third person.”
“Maybe,” said Catherine. “Can you give me Wanda Achison’s address and phone number, please?”
He read the information, and she copied it. “Thanks, Detective Crowley.”
“No problem.” He sighed. “Are you and Joe going down there to do an interview?”
“Joe isn’t involved in the investigation anymore.”
“He isn’t? May I ask why?”
“Yes. He’s been very cooperative, provided some information that eliminated some dead ends for us. Obviously he doesn’t need a testimonial from me. But I don’t think a civilian belongs in a homicide investigation.”
“I’ve always liked Joe, and I was glad to see him,” he said. “But I don’t either.”
“Thanks for all of your help,” she said.
“Don’t mention it. And let me know if you need anything else from us in San Francisco.”
“I will.”
She hung up the telephone, then picked up the photograph of Tanya Starling that had been made from the surveillance tape. There she was, caught from the side, entering Dennis Poole’s hotel room. Catherine Hobbes stared at the face. Tanya was just a small-boned woman who appeared to be in her late twenties, her expression untroubled. The blond hair that had obscured the features for most of the tape happened to have swung to the other side of the face for this instant, so all of the features were visible. The outlines were just vague enough to frustrate the viewer’s eye as it tried to focus perfectly on an image that could never be any clearer. The bright, shiny hair drew the mind’s attention more than the face did.
Catherine opened the file and scanned the lists of other agencies that had been cooperating in this case. She found the telephone number she wanted, then called the Illinois Department of Motor Vehicles to make her formal request for the driver’s license photograph of Tanya Starling. She had waited long enough for Tanya to turn up or respond to her inquiries. It was time to go after her.
Catherine thought for a moment. Crowley had said that Rachel Sturbridge’s car had been registered in California, so that meant the driver almost certainly was too. She dialed the number of the California DMV and requested the license photograph of Rachel Sturbridge.
13
N ancy Mills sat in her small apartment, staring out the window. It was eight-thirty, the time of each evening that made her want to open the door and go. She could see the sky through the west window. It was taking on that beautiful shading, the lower edge of it red, then above that a blue that began as only a little bit darker than the daylight sky, but as the eye looked higher, the sky darkened into an indigo canopy, with a few stars beginning to show.
She could almost hear her mother’s voice calling. This was the time of evening when she always had to come in from play, and she used to come home dirty, the
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