“I do nothing wrong.” The skin around her jaws was slack and colorless. There was no telling her age. It would be easy to feel sorry for her. But not now.
“Greta, do you know what happened to Mr. Bullard just two days after you saw him?”
Something like terror flickered over her face, and he knew he was on the right track. “So here’s my question,” he said. “And I can find out even if you lie to me.” You’re sounding like a broken record. “Did you tell anybody that you saw Scotty—Mr. Bullard—in his father’s office?”
She hesitated so long he was about to threaten her again. Then, in a soft voice, she said, “Smitty.”
“Who’s Smitty?”
“My supervisor.”
“When did you tell him?”
“The next day.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“Who else did you tell?”
She exhaled loudly, clutching her bundle, and he could smell the tobacco on her breath. “A man.”
“Do you know who he was?”
She shook her head. “He come around the next day, asking if anyone been in the office, if anything been taken out.”
“And you told him you saw us?”
She nodded.
“Why?”
She made no answer. “Don’t make me wait, Greta,” he said, his voice rising. Her breath caught in her throat, and she began to sob quietly. He fought the urge to feel pity for her. “Why?” he demanded again.
“He give me five dollars.”
“So you told him who was in the office. Did you know who I was?”
She shook her head, sniffling.
“Did you describe me?”
She shook her head vigorously. “I didn’t see you good.”
“What else did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“Someone went through the desk drawers not long after I was in that office. Do you know about that?”
She nodded. “I tell Smitty about that too.” Her breathing sounded labored.
Scotty told him someone had broken into old man Bullard’s desk within a few hours after he and Scotty had sat there. Whoever it was, he found nothing, and so he came back the following day to question Greta.
“Is that all?”
She nodded.
“Now tell me: What did he look like?”
She seemed to be thinking, possibly trying to find the words. “Dark hair. Same size as most other men. On his face—” She held a finger under her nose, the way people used to satirize Hitler.
“A mustache?”
“Mustache.”
Sounds like Falco, he thought with a kind of grim satisfaction. And Greta, do you know you’ve got some responsibility for what happened to my friend? He wanted to say that to her, but his anger felt dried up now. Whoever deserved it, it certainly wasn’t this defeated and pitiable woman who scrubbed floors for wages.
He walked around, opened her door, and helped her out. “Thank you, Greta,” he said, the hardness gone out of his voice. He handed her a couple of dollars—not much on the bribery scale, he thought. “You get on to work now, and I’ll try not to bother you any more.” He watched her walk slowly away. Nice work, Horn.
* * *
On his way home he stopped for dinner just this side of Santa Monica. Before placing his order, he went over to the restaurant’s pay phone. It was time to check in with Paul Fairbrass. He tried dialing the number, but the operator came on the line and told him a call to Long Beach had to go through her, so he asked her to ring it. Since it was after hours, he wasn’t surprised when no one answered the phone at Fairbrass Pipe Fittings. He hesitated to call him at home, knowing Fairbrass wanted to keep Iris out of this. But much had happened since they had met, and even though Clea was still among the missing, her father was entitled to some current information. Horn had no idea if Falco or his employer were any threat to Iris or her husband—most likely they were not. But if Fairbrass chose to take any precautions, he should probably do so sooner rather than later. And so, there were things he needed to know.
Horn dialed the home number, and Iris answered.
“It’s John Ray,” he said. “Sorry if I’m bothering you. Just wonder if I could have a word with your husband.”
“Hello,” she said, and she sounded almost glad to hear from him. “Paul’s not here. He had to go to Chicago for a few days.”
“I guess it can wait. Hope I didn’t—”
“If it’s about Clea, you could tell me.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Please, John Ray. I know Paul’s been talking to you. He wants to protect me, but this isn’t the way to do it. If you’ve found out anything, don’t you think I should hear it?”
“I haven’t found her. I’m sorry. Are the police still looking?”
“I suppose,” she said, and he could hear the nervous exhalation of cigarette smoke into the mouthpiece. “But they’re not being very encouraging. One of them told me that children run away every day, and if they haven’t committed any crime, the police can’t devote a lot of energy to finding them.”
“Well, I wish I could say something encouraging. But—”
“Have you found out anything at all?” She drew out the vowel sounds the way she sometimes did when she was drinking. If she is, she has good reason, he thought.
“A few things.” She doesn’t know about Tommy and his fondness for knives, and I’m not going to be the one to tell her. “Just little pieces, you know? I’m hoping I’ll get lucky.”
“If you called Paul, you must have something to report.”
“Come on, Iris.” He was beginning to get angry. “You left me, you took her away from me, and you’ve tried to keep me out of this from the beginning, even though you know there’s no one who wants to get Clea back more than I do. When your husband recruited me, he said it was a deal between the two of us. If you want to know what’s going on, ask him.”
Over the line, he heard the breath catch in her throat. The sound surprised him, because Iris wasn’t a woman who cried often. It was one of the things he’d admired about her.
“Oh, God,” she said softly. “I just want her home.”
“I know,” he said. “I’ll do what I can. Promise.”
“You know, for days now, I’ve been thinking: Wouldn’t it be nice if she were home for her birthday? I have a present sitting on her bed, all wrapped—”
“Her birthday. It’s today, isn’t it? I’d forgotten.” He turned around, looked out the window, and saw that the sky was almost dark. It was Clea’s birthday. “Iris? I have to go.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In ten minutes he was at Ocean Avenue. Far below the Palisades and stretching out to the horizon, the great bulk of the Pacific was gray-black in the fading light. Streetlights were on, and signs lit up one by one along the avenue, advertising the small hotels, the bars and seafood joints.
Below him was the Santa Monica Pier, an avenue of dancing lights suspended over the water, the illuminated outline of its Ferris wheel bright against the sky. He drove down to the pier, parked, and followed other summer evening strollers out onto the boardwalk. Clea had always liked this place, and he had last been here just days before, on one of his trips in search of her. But this time felt different. Each birthday, she had wanted to celebrate at the carousel.
She was older now, of course, possibly too old for brightly painted make-believe horses. Horn wondered if he was only being wishful—imagining Clea coming to a place like this just as she had as a little girl, in search of a little girl’s pleasures. It helped him avoid thinking of her being with men. One man in particular.
As he approached the circular building housing the carousel,
he saw that it was dark and shuttered. On the entrance hung a sign: Closed for Repairs.
“Well, hell and damnation,” he muttered. He looked around, unwilling to give up so easily. Not far away stood a young couple sipping on iced drinks. The girl looked about Clea’s age.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi, there,” said the boy.
“Got a question. I’m from out of town, and my date’s supposed to meet me here. Said she wanted to go for a ride on the merry-go-round, and the darn thing’s closed. So I’ve got to take her someplace else. Any ideas?”
The boy stared at him. I know what you’re thinking, Horn said to him silently. I’m too old to have a girlfriend who rides the merry-go-round. So go ahead and say it.
“Well,” the boy said finally, “just about every pier around here’s got one.”
“Right. So which one’s the best?”
“You mean after this one? I don’t know. . . . The one at Lick’s Pier is good, because they play swing, not a lot of old organ music. But I think the one at the Pike down in Long Beach is my favorite, because it’s the biggest and the fastest. Friend of mine fell off once.” He snorted. “Most of the guys like that one.”
“Thanks.” Horn glanced over at the girl. “You agree?”
“No,” she said. “I like the one at Ocean Park Pier.”
“How come?”
“The horses,” she said. “They’re just. . . beautiful.”
* * *
Ocean Park Pier was a short drive away, on the boundary between Santa Monica and Venice. By the time he got there, the pier was a circus midway, throbbing with light and music and the sounds of a crowd of people out for a good time on a breezy summer night. Halfway down the pier stood the sea-serpent shape of the roller coaster, and the screams of the riders rose to a crescendo, faded, then rose again.
The carousel was lively and crowded, the recorded organ music belting out Hindustan. He stood and watched for a few minutes. The horses were fine examples of the woodcarver’s art—eyes staring, nostrils flaring, legs rearing, tendons straining. They bucked and pranced in their circular dance, and the kids, along with some grown-ups, clung to them, managing to look both silly and proud.
He scanned the crowd and the riders, trying hard not to expect to see Clea. After a while, the smell of grilled meat spilling in from the boardwalk reminded him that he’d had to postpone dinner. He went outside and bought a hot dog and an orange soda, then walked down to the end of the pier, where he stood and ate and watched the crowd for about twenty minutes. Then he started back past the fortune teller’s booth, the cotton candy stand, the guess-your-weight man, the target-shooting booth.
Nearly overhead, the screams of the roller coaster riders reached a shriek, and he looked up at the cars streaking earthward, the people wailing like lost souls headed straight for perdition. When he lowered his eyes, he saw Clea coming toward him.
She was with a man. Horn ducked his head and strode quickly over to a souvenir booth, where he dropped to one knee and pretended to tie a shoelace. He watched as she passed. She was holding onto Tommy’s arm, but Horn barely saw him. They slowly passed, and he lost sight of them in the crowd, but he waited there by the booth, knowing they had to come back this way.
Ten minutes later they appeared again, and he stood in the shadow of the booth, watching, hat brim pulled low. His throat tightened as he regarded her, not because of his relief at finding her but because of the pure sight of her. Paul Fairbrass’ description had not prepared him for how much she had changed. She wore a light summer dress and high heels and she walked with a long-legged, limber stride. Her fair hair was brushed back from her face; the breeze off the ocean played with it. Her features appeared more defined, and her face looked as if it was about to cross that hazy boundary between girl and woman.
Tommy was talking, gesturing expansively, obviously having a good time. She said little and wore a half-smile, her eyes looking left and right, seemingly focused on other things. They passed abreast of him. He waited a minute, then fell in behind them, keeping a few dozen people in front of him.
They passed the carousel without stopping. Must have already had her birthday ride, he thought. He followed them into the parking lot until he confirmed that they were getting into the sky-blue Chrysler convertible, then sprinted for his own car and was able to pull in behind them as they exited onto the main street.
Off the pier, Tommy turned left and crossed into Santa Monica, where he picked up Santa Monica Boulevard and turned right, headed northeast. As in his pursuit of Falco, Horn tried to keep a couple of cars between himself and the Chrysler. Whenever he got stopped by a traffic signal and had to watch the other car’s taillights recede, he drummed his fingers on the wheel and muttered, then darted ahead when the signal changed, closing the distance once again. Working in his favor was the fact that the Ford was the most nondescript of cars, but too much had gone wrong for him to be optimistic. He knew this might be his one chance.
You lost Sykes, and Falco lost me, but I’m with you tonight, Tommy my boy. Or whatever your name is. You won’t shake me. And if you know I’m behind you, and you stop and try your little knife game on me, I swear I’ll run you over in the street.
But the pursuit went uneventfully. Up Santa Monica through Beverly Hills they went and on into Hollywood. Santa Monica doglegged to the right, and a few blocks later Tommy picked up Crescent Heights and turned left up Laurel Canyon. At first Horn thought they might be headed for Bonsigniore’s house high in the hills. But after about a mile, the Chrysler turned off onto a side street. Horn waited ten seconds, cut his headlights, and followed. The street was narrow and twisted, with a blind corner every few dozen yards. He gripped the steering wheel as he squinted for a sight of the Chrysler’s taillights, spotting them, losing them, catching them again. A few times he hung his head out the window, the better to see up ahead.
Then he saw brake lights, and the Chrysler was turning into a short, steep drive. Horn stopped, crept forward, finally cut his engine about twenty yards short of the house. He got out and walked up to it. It was an ordinary looking bungalow near the spot where the street crested and started downhill again, the small lawn sloping steeply down from the front porch to a five-foot-high stone retaining wall that bordered the narrow street. He could make out the Chrysler parked at the rear of the dark driveway that ran alongside the house.
As he stood there, undecided, lights came on in the front room. Foolishly, he realized that he didn’t know exactly what to do. If I knock on the door, I could get my head blown off, he thought. Or at least arrested. The ex-con who’s causing trouble for the girl who’s not even his daughter any more. That would do nobody any good.
The best thing to do, he concluded, would be to tell Paul Fairbrass where he could find his daughter and let him take it from there. Clea may or may not want to go home, but she was certainly underage, and Fairbrass could cause Tommy much grief over that. Once Clea was safe, Horn could find out why she had run away, could determine if there was indeed a connection between her disappearance and Scotty’s death.
He went back to the car and wrote down the address of the house. He moved to start the engine, but something held him back. Now that he had found her, he wanted to stay near her for a while. So he made himself as comfortable as the Ford’s cramped front seat would allow and watched the lights in the house.
What do you want with her? he asked the man in the house. Why did she run to you? Is she happy? Have you done anything to hurt her? If you have, Paul Fairbrass isn’t the one you need to worry about.
When the lights in the house went out, he checked his watch and was surprised to see he’d been there over an hour. It was almost midnight, and the street—barely lit by its widely spaced lights—was so quiet he could identify the radio music drifting out someone’s open window.
He yawned and shifted pos
ition, thinking it was time to go, when he heard a sound, like a slamming door. It came from up ahead, in the vicinity of Tommy’s house. He leaned out the window, ears straining. After a few seconds, another sound, this one more of a pop. Silence after that, for thirty seconds or so, then another pop, the same pitch and volume as the second sound. All three had been slightly muffled, but Horn knew them—small-caliber gunshots, probably from two different weapons.
As the third shot sounded, he was out of the car and running toward the house. When he reached the stone wall, he ducked below it, listening. Nothing except the furious barking of two dogs apparently reacting to the unusual noises. Peering over the wall, he saw the same darkened house.
He went up the uneven stone steps to a pathway that led to more steps and the front porch. Holding his breath, he quietly tried the front door. Locked. She’s got to be inside. Is she all right? He made a quick decision, rattled the door handle again, forcefully enough this time to be heard inside the house. “You hear those noises too?” he said loudly, feeling like a fool. “I think it was inside. Tell you what, I’ll go around the back, and you all wait here for the cops, okay?”
A few seconds later he heard a noise somewhere in the back—a door closing, footsteps running on gravel, then silence for almost a full minute, then the sound of a car starting up far behind the house, possibly a street away.
He went back to the car and pulled a flashlight out of his glove compartment. Then, feeling his way along the side wall, his breathing shallow and quick, he made it to the rear of the house, where he found the intruder’s way in—a door with a jimmied lock.
For an instant, he allowed himself to dwell on the insanity of walking into a house where anything might be waiting for him. Don’t stop to think about it, the inner voice said. If you think, you won’t do it. He cleared his throat and said loudly, “Hey, there. It’s your neighbor. I’m coming in.” He held the screen door ajar, pushed the broken inner door open, and stepped quickly inside. The house was dark. He flicked on the flashlight and saw that he was standing in a small kitchen. Nothing seemed out of order. A hallway led toward the front of the house, and he took it.
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