By the time he reached his motel, he’d decided something else, too. There were no answers in Vegas. Wherever Casey and the boy were, it wasn’t here, any more than it was in Laughlin or Bullhead City.
One other place to look.
And one other possibility for the shooter. It had come to him out in the desert while he was questioning Bobby J.—a name he’d have considered before if he hadn’t been so focused on Jablonsky and the Rossis.
The private detective, Sam Ulbrich.
PART V
SAN DIEGO
ONE
FALLON WENT OVER IT and over it on the five-hour, three-hundred-and-fifty-mile drive to San Diego, and Sam Ulbrich was the only way he could make it all fit together. Ulbrich had traced Spicer to Las Vegas; he could have traced him to Laughlin and Bullhead City, too, using his own resources and making his own luck. If his one brush with the state board of licenses was any indication, the man didn’t have a lot of scruples. So he might’ve gone to Spicer’s rented house to try a shakedown of his own— blackmail the blackmailer. Only something had gone wrong and Spicer had ended up dead, with the boy as a witness.
Casey might have been another witness, but that explanation still didn’t ring true. There was a more likely answer: Ulbrich had contacted her on her cell phone right after the shooting, told her he had her son and offered her a deal, Kevin in exchange for some kind of guarantee of the boy’s silence and hers. She’d have jumped at it. Agreed to any terms to get her son back safely.
Best-case scenario, and logical enough as far as it went. But there was a flaw in it. If that kind of deal had been made, she and Kevin should be home by now. And nobody had picked up when Fallon called the Avila Court number again before leaving Vegas.
Near dawn he stopped in Quartzsite, halfway down Highway 95, for gas and a packaged sandwich, and tried her number once more. Nobody picked up this time either.
Where were they, then?
One possibility: part of the deal between Ulbrich and Casey was that she didn’t return to San Diego, that she take the boy and disappear the way Spicer had. It didn’t satisfy Fallon because it didn’t explain why her Toyota was still parked at McCarran International, but he clung to it anyway. The other alternative, that they were both dead, he refused to consider.
San Diego.
Another land-gobbling urban creature, its concrete arteries bloated with morning commuters. Speed up, slow down, stop and go, crawling toward the city’s heart—to be pumped out again in eight or nine hours, then pumped back in tomorrow in an endless loop. Early sunlight already beating down on the segmented lines of metal bodies, throwing off laserlike glints and flashes that stabbed the eyes. Highway 95 might have been one of the freeways in L.A. and he might be on his way to work at Unidyne, as on every weekday morning for the past dozen years. One of the faceless multitudes, robbed of his identity for the duration of the ride. No longer free. Engulfed by noise.
Engines. L.A., Vegas, here—all the same. Vast humming, throbbing, roaring man-made turbines composed of millions of interchangeable moving parts. Running in perpetual motion, never still.
This was when he heard them loudest, when he was one of those moving parts. This was when his hunger for escape was the greatest.
Confidential Investigative Services was in the North Park section of San Diego, between University Avenue and the upper corner of Balboa Park. The building, three stories, nondescript, housed a mix of a dozen small professional services—personal injury and family lawyers, certified public accountants, and the like. Ulbrich’s office was on the third floor, front. And closed up tight when Fallon arrived there a little after nine. The lettering on the door gave no hours, just the agency’s and Ulbrich’s names.
The office across the hall housed a firm of CPAs. He tried that door, found it open, and walked in. Behind a desk in the anteroom a middle-aged woman sat making an appointment with somebody on the phone. When she finished, Fallon told her he was looking for Sam Ulbrich and asked what time he opened for business.
“Well, I don’t believe he has set hours,” the woman said. “Catch as catch can. Have you tried reaching him by phone?”
“Not yet. Would you know if he’s been in his office the past couple of days?”
“No, I’m sorry. I haven’t seen him, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t in.”
“Do you have a phone book I can look at?”
She did. There was a small ad for Confidential Investigative Services in the yellow pages, and a white pages listing for Ulbrich, S., on Descanto Street in National City. Fallon wrote down both numbers and the address.
Before he went downstairs, he spoke to people in two other third-floor offices. No one could tell him anything about the detective’s business hours, or remembered seeing Ulbrich on Monday or Tuesday.
A call to the detective’s home number got him an answering machine. That could mean Ulbrich was in transit. Fallon went to a nearby coffee shop, forced himself to take his time eating a light breakfast—the first food other than the packaged sandwich he’d had in nearly twenty hours. Half an hour later, he was back at the door to Confidential Investigative Services.
Still locked.
He couldn’t keep hanging around here, on the chance that Ulbrich would show up. Better try to press it. Back in the lobby he called the Confidential number—another answering machine—and then Ulbrich’s home number again. He left brief messages on both machines, giving a made-up name and asking for a callback and an appointment ASAP to discuss a professional matter.
As tired as he was from the long drive, he was too keyed up to sit in one place. He let the Jeep’s GPS guide him to National City and Ulbrich’s home address, an apartment building just below the San Diego line. Lower middle-class, racially mixed neighborhood, the building a three-story walkup and as nondescript as the one where Ulbrich had his office. So his business couldn’t be all that profitable. Scraping by, probably, on domestic and insurance work. The kind of small-timer who’d overcharge a client if he thought he could get away with it, even though he’d been exonerated on the one charge five years ago. Who’d be inclined to cross the line into blackmail if the situation looked ripe enough.
Fallon rang Ulbrich’s bell, got nothing for the effort. Two other tenants answered their bells, but neither would talk to him about Ulbrich. On the same block were a small grocery store and a dry-cleaning place. Better cooperation there, but no information. The merchants knew Ulbrich, but not well enough to remember seeing him recently or to describe his habits. Evidently he didn’t spend much time in the neighborhood, kept pretty much to himself when he was there.
North Park and the Confidential office again. Running around in zigzag loops, going over and over the same ground the way he had in Vegas when he was hunting Bobby J. But what else could he do?
When he walked into the lobby this time, a fat, tired-looking man in overalls was perched on a tall ladder replacing a burned-out fluorescent ceiling tube. Fallon rode the elevator to the third floor. Ulbrich’s office was still closed tight. He rode back down to the lobby, where the overalled man was just coming down off his ladder. Fallon asked him if he worked here regularly. Affirmative; he was the building’s maintenance superintendent.
“So then you must know Sam Ulbrich.”
“Oh sure, I know Mr. Ulbrich. Been here almost as long as I have.”
“Last time you saw him?”
“Couple of days ago.”
“Monday?”
The super’s face screwed up in thought. “No, it wasn’t Monday. Must’ve been last Friday. That’s right, last Friday around noon. He was on his way out to lunch at O’Finn’s.”
“A place he goes regularly?”
“When he’s here. He’s away a lot on business. I guess you know Mr. Ul-brich’s a private eye. He doesn’t like you to call him that, but that’s what he—”
“Where is it, this restaurant?”
“Not a restaurant,” the super said. “They serve food, but it’s a
pub, Irish pub. I go there myself sometimes. Great corned beef and cabbage.” He glanced at his watch. “Almost noon. Some of that corned beef and cabbage would go good today, now I think of it.”
“O’Finn’s. Where?”
“Up on University, half a block east.”
Fallon found it easily enough. Typical urban Irish pub, with shamrock-and-shillelagh décor inside and out. Long, brass-railed bar, clusters of tables covered by Kelly green cloths, a row of high-backed wooden booths parallel to the bar. Most of the lunch trade hadn’t come in yet; the score or so of customers were either grouped at the bar or occupying the booths.
He bellied up to the plank. When the bearded bartender came his way, he said, “You know Sam Ulbrich? Has an office over on Chenango Street, comes in regularly for lunch.”
“Sure, I know him.”
“Seen him recently?”
“That I have.”
“When?”
“Oh, about three seconds ago.”
“. . . What?”
The bartender laughed. “Right behind you. Third booth from the front.”
TWO
FALLON TURNED TO PEER across the room. He hadn’t expected anything walking over here, but he’d finally caught a piece of luck. He hesitated, watching the man in the booth hoist a pint of Guinness. Brace him here and now? Or wait until he was finished and then follow him and brace him when he was somewhere by himself? Either way, he would have to do it without the Ruger for leverage. The sidearm was still locked inside the Jeep.
He went to the booth, walking slow, getting a read on Ulbrich on the way. Midfifties, heavy-set, craggy features, close-cropped iron-gray hair. Wearing a short-sleeved blue shirt, no tie, in deference to the warm weather. There was a sports jacket folded neatly on the seat beside him. If he was armed, it was probably a hideout piece and he’d have to be crazy to flash it in here.
“Sam Ulbrich?”
Ulbrich looked up, cocked his head to one side when he didn’t recognize Fallon. “That’s me.”
“My name’s Fallon.” No reaction. “I’d like to talk to you.”
“Business?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I’ve just ordered lunch. First food I’ve had a chance at all day— I’ve been on a job in Lemon Grove since seven. Join me and we can talk while we eat. Or if you’d rather wait until afterward, my office isn’t far . . .” “Here’ll do.”
“Corned beef’s the house specialty,” Ulbrich said. “Lamb stew with black pudding’s good, too, if you like black pudding.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Guinness? Ale?”
“Just talk.”
Ulbrich shrugged, lifted his glass again as Fallon sat down opposite. On his right forearm was a faded tattoo of the Marine Corps EGA, a spread-winged American eagle holding in its beak an unfurled banner with the words Semper Fi emblazoned on it. Ulbrich saw him looking at it, said, “Four and out in the early seventies. You ever in the military?”
“Army. MPs. Four years.”
“MPs, huh? I went into police work when I got out. San Diego force for fifteen years.”
Fallon said nothing.
“See any action on your tour?”
“No.”
“Me, neither. Came close, though. My company was in Saigon, just sent over from the Philippines, when the war ended.” Ulbrich drank again. “I was lucky. Sounds like we both were.”
Fallon was silent again.
“So. What can I do for you, Mr. Fallon?”
“You can tell me where to find Casey Dunbar and her son.”
Like tossing a dud grenade. A raised eyebrow was Ulbrich’s only reaction. His gaze remained steady on Fallon’s eyes, its only expression one of curiosity. “What’s your interest in the Dunbars?”
“I’m a friend of Casey.”
“What’s your interest in the Dunbars?”
“I’m a friend of Casey.”
“Is that right? Then you ought to know where to find her.”
“She’s missing. She’s been missing since Monday night.”
“Is that right?” Ulbrich said again. “Well, I’m sorry to hear it. But why come to me?”
“You found her ex-husband for her.”
“I wish that was true, but it isn’t. I traced Court Spicer to Vegas, but that was as far as I got. I might’ve been able to find him eventually if I’d stayed on the case, but she couldn’t afford to keep paying the bills—”
“Laughlin,” Fallon said. “Bullhead City.”
“I don’t get you.”
“Rented house. Sixty Desert Rose Lane.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
Another dud. Fallon felt uncertainty moving in on him again. He’d convinced himself Ulbrich was his man, yet the responses he was getting didn’t support it. Not a whisper of guilt.
Ulbrich said, “So Mrs. Dunbar is missing. Monday night, you said? Where? What circumstances?”
Fallon said carefully, “The last I saw of her was in Laughlin.”
“Laughlin. Why go there?”
“Hunting for Court Spicer.”
“What made you think that’s where he was?”
“Lucky piece of information.”
“Luck’s the name of the game. Find him?”
That put Fallon up against the line again. Tell Ulbrich that Spicer was dead, murdered, see what kind of reaction that bought him? No. The situation here was different than it had been with the Rossis and Bobby J. He’d be leaving himself wide open if Ulbrich wasn’t involved. He didn’t know the man, how law-abiding he actually was. Ex-cop, licensed private investigator . . . he might take that kind of knowledge straight to the Laughlin authorities.
He said, “No. Casey Dunbar disappeared before we could.”
“Two of you hunting her ex together,” Ulbrich said musingly. “You’re not in the investigation business yourself, are you?”
“No. I told you, she’s a friend.”
“She didn’t mention your name when she hired me.”
“I haven’t known her that long. How we got involved is a long story. And not relevant right now.”
“So what it amounts to, you’ve been playing detective.”
“If you want to put it that way. Four years MP duty, dozen years security work for a company in L.A. I’m not exactly an amateur.”
A waiter appeared bearing a steaming plate of corned beef and cabbage, set it down in front of Ulbrich. “Another Guinness,” Ulbrich said to him. Then, to Fallon, “Sure you don’t want anything?”
Fallon leaned back away from the mingled aromas of the food. They made the eggs he’d had earlier churn in his stomach.
Ulbrich fell to with gusto. Between bites, he said, “You still haven’t told me how it happened. Mrs. Dunbar’s disappearance.”
“She was at the motel where we were staying. I went out to see if I could track down Spicer and when I got back she was gone. No note, nothing— just gone. I haven’t heard a word from her since.”
“So you’ve been hunting her for two days.”
“That’s right.”
“What about Spicer? He kidnapped his son, he’s capable of snatching his ex-wife too. You must know there’s no love lost between them.”
“I know, but Spicer’s not responsible.”
“No? How do you know?”
“Reasons I don’t want to go into.”
“Suit yourself. If not Spicer, who else? Somebody he knew in Vegas?”
“That’s what I thought at first. And that’s where I went from Laughlin.” “And you didn’t find out anything and now you’re here talking to me. Looking for leads, or have you got some screwy idea I’m mixed up in it?”
“Are you?”
“Hell, no.” Ulbrich didn’t sound any more offended than he did guilty. Cabbage juice drooled from one corner of his mouth; he licked off some of it, wiped the rest away with his napkin. “What possible reason could I have for going to Laughlin, making a f
ormer client disappear?”
“I can think of one, if you did locate Spicer and found out about his sideline.”
“What sideline would that be?”
“Blackmail.”
The eyebrow went up again. “Blackmail. Well, well.”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“I’ve been around too long to be surprised by much of anything. So? Why would this blackmail angle interest me?”
“You could’ve tried to cut yourself in. Or to put the bite on him to keep quiet.”
Ulbrich thought that was funny. He laughed, nearly choked on the hunk of corned beef he’d stuffed into his mouth, coughed, swallowed the rest of his beer, coughed some more. “Man,” he said when the fit had passed, “you’ve got some imagination. Either that, or you’re so desperate you’re grabbing at any straw that blows by in the wind.”
“Seems plausible to me.”
“Not if you know Sam Ulbrich, it isn’t. I’ve been in one kind of law enforcement or another for nearly thirty years, Fallon. Spotless record. I’d never do anything to jeopardize it.”
“What about the time you were brought up before the state board of licenses?”
Ulbrich sobered. “You know about that? Yeah, well,” he said darkly, “that was a bogus charge made by a client who was pissed that I couldn’t get the kind of evidence he was looking for on a business partner. The judge cleared me, you understand? Completely cleared me.”
“Okay, so you didn’t know Spicer was a blackmailer. Didn’t find out anything along those lines when you were investigating him.”
“That’s right. And if I had, I wouldn’t tell you what it was.”
“But you’d have told Casey Dunbar.”
“Full disclosure to my clients, always. And nobody else without their permission.”
Fallon said, “Where were you Monday night?”
“Still not convinced, huh?”
“So convince me.”
The Other Side of Silence Page 17