"What was that about?" Clyde snapped, snatching Joe up in his arms. "Why did you go back? That guy…"
"I… something I needed to look at."
Behind them there wasn't the faintest sound, the front door didn't open. Rising slowly, holding Joe half-concealed under his jacket, Clyde slipped out of the woods and headed fast for the car. Jerking open the driver's door of the Hudson, he tossed Joe on the torn seat, slipped in and locked the door behind them. "You're risking your neck in there and risking mine, you sound like a herd of bulls jumping at the door, but then you just have to go back-for another look at what? Did it occur to you that this guy might snatch up a cat and…"
"It occurred. It occurred. It was something urgent."
Clyde started the engine. "I endanger life and limb playing bodyguard to a demented gum-paw, and something in there is so important you risk both our necks, going back."
"We didn't risk our necks. That guy's a wimp. Ryan beat him up."
Clyde sighed and headed down the hills, turning his lights on the instant he was around the first curve. Watching him, Joe felt almost bad that he wasn't sharing what he'd seen with Clyde.
But for the moment he wanted to keep that puzzling glimpse of the fireplace to himself, wanted to think about it without Clyde's take on the matter, without anyone's input. When something strange nagged at him, he liked to let it fall in place by itself. Let it rattle around with the rest of the mismatched facts and see how they shook out; see what his inner thoughts would do, without outside influence.
He'd had the feeling, when he looked up at that black recess, that this was the moment of truth. That he stood teetering on the brink of one big, momentous discovery.
Beside him, driving down the dark and narrow, twisting streets, Clyde was nearly squirming with curiosity. "So besides whatever you went back for, whatever you're keeping so secret, what else went on in there? Did I hear him talking on the phone? I thought sure he'd find you, I was ready to smash a window." He looked sternly at Joe. "This stuff's hard on a guy's blood pressure, you ever think of that?"
Joe smiled. "He was talking to a woman. I'm guessing it was Marianna, that he's here with her permission, that they're friends."
"That would be a twist. So what was he shouting about?"
"I think the guy's crazy. Kept shouting the name Martie Holland, over and over, wasn't making any sense. You ever hear of a Martie Holland? Harper or Dallas, or Ryan, ever mention that name?"
"Not that I recall."
Joe frowned. He didn't like when the pieces wouldn't add up. Heading home in the Hudson beside Clyde, he thought he'd catch a few hours' sleep until Williams left the Landeau cottage and then, if Ryan or Hanni was to be there early in the morning-and who else would it be?-he'd play friendly kitty with those two, and get a closer look at the flawed mantel.
24
When Ryan left Burger Basher heading for Clyde's place to pick up Rock, she was still steaming with anger; playing back Larn Williams's words about her dad, she was mad enough to chew nails. Clyde had hurried away in his old Hudson on some errand, and just as well. She was in no mood to be civil for long, even to Clyde, though she had greatly appreciated his coming to her rescue-he might have followed her, and that was okay. He might have rescued her from killing Williams, the way she'd felt at that moment.
As she pulled to the curb before Clyde's house, Rock heard the truck and began to paw at the gate. Hurrying back to release him, reaching to open the latch, she stopped. Rock had backed off from her, snarling with a cold, businesslike menace.
"What's wrong?" She reached for him. "Come, Rock." He dodged away growling. She thought of rabies, and shivered; but quietly she moved toward him. He showed his teeth, focused on something she couldn't understand.
Last night he'd been this way. Leaving Lupe's Playa after Williams switched the contents of the envelope on the seat of her truck, following Clyde home, opening this same gate, Rock had been delighted to see her- but when she opened the truck door and told him to load up, he'd pitched a fit, smelling the scent of someone strange in the cab. And when they got home and Rock encountered the stranger's smell there in the apartment, he'd nearly torn the place apart, looking for the intruder.
The smell of the intruder, of Larn Williams. Now that smell was on her. She stared at her hands where she had marched Williams into the alley and shoved him against the wall. And, stepping into the yard past the growling, puzzled weimaraner, she moved around to the outdoor sink and washed thoroughly, scrubbing to her elbows.
Then again she approached Rock.
He cringed low but came to her. He sniffed again at her hands, and he grinned up at her and began to dance around her, all wags and kisses, whining and licking and loving her.
Putting him on the lead and shutting the gate securely behind her, she settled him in the truck and headed home. He watched her seriously, his pale yellow eyes puzzled, as if he couldn't understand about the smells. In the passing lights, his sleek silver coat gleamed like satin. She scratched his ears. "You not only have a very good nose, my dear Rock. Considering the source of your anger, you have superior judgment."
At her lighter tone, Rock grinned and wagged, his long, soft ears thrust eagerly forward. Smiling to herself, she wondered what Rock would do, face-to-face with Williams. And again she saw Williams in the alley, his white, shocked expression as she backed him against the wall. The incident, thanks to Clyde, hadn't turned as nasty as she'd expected. She really wasn't sure how the encounter would have ended if Clyde hadn't appeared so suddenly.
She didn't often lose her temper like that, and tonight was certainly not the time or the place. She would most likely regret later her public display of rage.
What was the source of Larn's remarks about her dad? There could be no source. Sick words from a twisted mind. Williams was riding a loose rail.
Or was it more than that?
And what a bizarre twist, that Clyde's tomcat had been in the restaurant with her and Larn, then had apparently followed them to the alley; she'd caught just a glimpse of him as Clyde snatched him up, heading for his car. "A very peculiar cat," she told Rock. "I don't like to insult present company, but he really does act more like a dog, if you could manage to take that as a compliment."
Rock grinned and wagged, happy for her improved mood. But then as she turned into her drive he stiffened again, watching the stair and her studio windows and glancing at her as if for direction, the hair along his back rising in a harsh ridge.
Scanning the yard and the upstairs windows, she slipped Hanni's gun from her glove compartment. She wondered if she dare let Rock out of the truck? If someone was there, would she be able to control him?
Or was he simply wired again after sniffing the scent of last night's intruder on her hands? She would have to learn to control the dog, and soon, if she meant to keep him.
Slipping the loaded, unholstered gun into her jeans pocket and putting Rock on leash, she moved quietly up the outside stairs. Rock, walking at heel, almost slunk along, silent and wary. She had unlocked the door and stepped in and turned on the light when the phone rang. She didn't pick up but stood looking around the apartment, letting the machine answer.
The room didn't seem disturbed. The kitchen was as she'd left it, cups and glasses in the drain, an inch of stale coffee in the pot. The studio windows all closed and locked. She moved with Rock to the hall, approaching the closet-dressing room and bath. Together they cleared the apartment, and she checked the lock on the door of the inner stairs. When all seemed secure she released Rock. He continued to prowl, perhaps making certain the intruder's scent was not fresh. Sitting down at her desk, she hit replay.
It was Hanni. She was wired, laughing with excitement. "The rug's in! Delivered this afternoon while I was out installing the Brownfield house-I just got home. Starved. Exhausted. The kids hardly know me, I haven't had time to breathe. Jim and the kids unpacked it, we couldn't wait. It's in the living room, one end draped over the couch. It's f
ab, Ryan! Just fab! Are you there? Pick up the phone! Can you meet me in the morning? I was going over anyway, early, to take some Mexican planters. I'm glad we ripped out the old carpet. It won't take us a minute to put this down, just a little two-sided tape. It's going to be sensational. Eight o'clock too late? Call me. I know you've started a new job. Call me please before I go to sleep, and let me know!"
Stripping off her jeans and sweatshirt, Ryan washed her face and brushed her teeth then pulled on her robe and crossed the studio. Pulling the curtains, she made herself a drink, and turned her bed back, removing the hand-printed spread to reveal its matching comforter. Carrying the phone to the bed, she made herself comfortable propped against the pillows. Immediately Rock stepped up onto the foot of the bed looking questioningly at her.
"It's okay," she said softly. Who would know if she spoiled him? If he was going to be her dog, she could spoil him as she pleased. All her childhood, one or another of the hunting dogs had been allowed to sleep on her bed. After her mother died, that nighttime companionship had been important. A warm, caring creature to lie across her feet or to snuggle with.
Easing back into the pillows, sipping her drink, feeling the last of her gritty anger at Larn Williams ease away, only then did she pick up the phone and call Hanni.
Hanni had turned off her tape. Letting it ring, Ryan sat enjoying the high-ceilinged studio, taking pleasure in its plain white angles and tall, open space. Someday she'd want paintings, more furnishings, bright and intricate accessories maybe to the point of crowding. But right now the open, nearly empty interior was deeply soothing. The only real luxury items were her handblocked spread and quilt in shades of black and white and tan, a primitive Australian pattern on which, at the moment, one long, lean, silver-coated freeloader reclined, his short pointer's tail gently thumping as he looked shyly at her, not totally certain that she meant to let him stay. Hanni answered.
Ryan said, "We're working on Clyde's attic, ready to jack up the roof first thing in the morning. Can the rug wait?"
"I can't stand to wait. It's so beautiful. You can't imagine how elegant and rich. I've already added it to Marianna's insurance policy, and I… I could lay it myself, but I don't want to use the stretcher. Could we do it at seven? You don't start work until eight."
"If I can be on the job by eight."
"It won't take long. You'll be so thrilled. See you at seven."
Ryan sighed and hung up. She had to remember that Hanni had designed that rug, that she had indicated the placement of every hand-knotted piece of yarn, that the rug was Hanni's painting, her latest masterpiece. Of course she was excited-and Hanni was never one to quell her passions.
Turning out the bedside lamp she sat going over tomorrow's work to see if she'd forgotten any detail. Against her feet Rock was like a furnace. The fact that he was taking half the bed, that she would likely sleep with her feet hanging out, or twisted up like a pretzel, didn't off-balance her satisfaction at having him there. Maybe, when she had a little break in Clyde's job, she'd put a couple of her men up here to fence that steep backyard, maybe bring some heavy equipment in to terrace it. Finishing her drink she stretched out with her feet tucked securely against the big weimaraner.
But then she couldn't sleep.
She lay wondering if Larn had killed Rupert, wondering if she had had dinner tonight with the man who murdered her husband.
She had gone out for that casual dinner drawn by curiosity, just as Larn had meant her to be. Manipulated like a puppet. And she had learned nothing true about her father, had learned only that Larn Williams was driven by motives she didn't yet understand.
Dad had had woman friends over the years since her mother died, good friends, women he'd dated and whom he'd brought home for dinner or picnics or to hunt with them. Maybe in all those years, no more than four or five woman friends. He'd never been serious enough to think about marriage, he'd always let his daughters know that no one ever would replace their mother. And certainly none of his dating had been of the kind that would embarrass himself or his children. He had never, would never have dated any parolee or probationer. Her father was too much a stickler for professional behavior to do such a thing, he would fire any of his officers caught in such a situation.
So what was Williams trying to accomplish?
Larn Williams was, as far as she knew, no more than a small-town realtor who had, she'd thought, been interested in her work in San Andreas. She'd made it clear that she'd only just left her husband, and wasn't dating. That she would have dinner with him to discuss possible remodel work for his San Andreas clients.
What if it turned out that Larn had killed Rupert?
But what connection could there have been?
If Larn were arrested for Rupert's murder, how would that look to the dozens of people who had seen them having dinner, and heard them arguing? Two conspirators having a falling out? She had turned on her accomplice in anger?
She imagined she was drifting off, she was trying to drift off, when the phone jerked her up and startled Rock so he stood up on the bed with one hard foot on her leg barking loud enough to break eardrums.
Hushing him, she picked up the phone, answering crossly, wishing she'd let it go on the tape. Rock, watching her, hesitantly walked up the length of me bed and lay down beside her.
"It's Clyde. I just… wanted to be sure you're okay."
"I'm fine. Was nearly asleep. Thanks for pulling me out of that, no telling what I might have done. That man… I'll fill you in later, more than I did. I may be late in the morning, would you leave a note for Scotty and Dave? I have to meet Hanni at the Landeau place at seven, to lay the new rug. She's so excited, I couldn't put her off. Do you have company? Who are you talking to?"
"The damn cat. Insists on hogging the bed, sprawling all over my pillow. Guess he likes the sound of the phone."
She laughed. "Don't knock it. It's nice to have a four-legged pal to warm your feet. What ever made me think I wouldn't keep Rock?"
"I never thought that," Clyde said, laughing.
Hanging up, she burrowed into her pillow. She was deeply asleep when the phone rang again encouraging another round of barking. Hushing Rock, she wondered how long it would take to teach him the futility of barking at the phone, while not discouraging his other alarm responses.
The voice at the other end was Dallas. "You asleep?"
"No, not now."
He chuckled. "Thought you'd like to know that Davis and I picked up the old man, up at the Pamillon place. That we've got enough on him, for drug making, to go to the grand jury and maybe enough for a bomb-making charge."
"What did you find?"
"Has a lab up there, all right. We had to suit up like astronauts to go down into it. Talk about stink. It's in a cellar under some chicken houses." Ryan could hear the smile in his voice. "All kinds of stuff with his prints on it, glass jars, retorts. Old man must have thought we'd never find the place.
"And he'd dumped mountains of trash down in the estate, in a cellar, again with his prints on everything- including some electrical parts and a bag of ammonium sulfate that could relate to the bomb. We're taking prints from samples of the trash, and listing the brands, to compare with Max's list of purchases in San Andreas. Should tell us quite a lot."
"That's really great news. That's one down…"
"And one to go. I'd sure like to thank our tipster. Hope we have as good luck with the murder, with these women we're talking to. You can be sure that Wills and Parker are getting all they can."
"You don't have anything, this soon?"
"In fact, I think we can scratch three. Parker called me an hour ago. Three of them have pretty solid stories. That leaves seven, with two of those out of the country, as far as we know."
"I'm keeping my fingers crossed. I'm sure glad you have capable friends when you need them." She yawned, and rubbed Rock's ears.
"Go to sleep," Dallas said, laughing. "Keep the good thoughts."
She hardly
remembered hanging up. She was deeply asleep when the phone rang again. Again, the loud, frantic barking jerking her awake along with the ringing, making her cringe at what her neighbor, on the other side of the duplex wall, would be saying-she hoped they didn't call the department.
"Ryan, it's Dad. Sounds like I woke you. I'm in San Francisco, just got back, checked into an airport motel. Catching the early shuttle down to the village in the morning. You want to meet my plane?"
"I… I'd love to. You're coming because of me, because of the murder. You haven't been home." How strange she felt, talking to her own father. How uncertain-because of what Williams had said. But how silly.
"I'm coming because I have a few days leave and need to rest up after running that training session, before I go back to work. Can you meet my plane or shall I…?"
"Yes, I can meet it. What time?"
"If it's on time, five a.m."
"I'll be there but I can't wait past six-thirty, I promised Hanni. An early installation, one she refuses to put off."
"If you're not there, I'll take a cab or call Dallas. You sound-tired? A bit stiff. You okay? You're not letting this thing get to you? I haven't talked with Dallas. What kind of leads is he getting?"
"It's not that. I… He's working on it, has a couple of guys in the city checking out Rupert's… Rupert's women. And, they know my gun didn't kill Rupert."
"Then you should sound very up, not like you just lost your last friend."
"I'm fine, really. Very very up. Just… dead tired, Dad. That's all. I'll see you in the morning, bright and early. We can have breakfast, if you're on time." But her voice caught, and the tears were just running down. What was wrong with her?
"Ryan? What?"
"Nothing. Honest. Pancakes and bacon. See you at five. G'night." She hung up, choking with tears. She wanted to bury her face against her father's chest and hear him tell her that everything Larn said was lies, that everything about her father was just as she had always believed, just as it should be. She felt like she was six years old again, badly needing comforting by her dad. Did anyone ever get too old for such comforting?
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