He drives past Mystic Arts and Taco Bell. At the Sandpiper he shows the flyer to the nightclub bouncer, who won’t let him in, and to the people coming out the decal-slathered front door. One young woman says the face looks familiar but she can’t be sure. Looks a lot like her friend Jenny in Tustin.
Matt watches the cars go by and sees a VW van stop at the light. His hope launches like an Apollo shot, but he sees that it’s not a late model at all, and it’s white-over-blue, not green. And it’s got batik-looking curtains, not the peace-symbol curtains like the van from last night. Yes, peace-symbol curtains — another image barging in from his subconsciousness! He wonders if adrenalin preserves memories then slowly releases them as it fades. Like an iceberg melting in summer. Yes, he clearly sees the peace-sign curtains on the white-on-green van as it curves away from him, more or less pinned against the GTE building.
Back in the Westfalia Matt gets his sketchbook, sits on the bed, turns on the overhead light, and slashes in a new drawing of the white-over-green kidnapping van, making sure the curtains are detailed and accurate. Black peace signs on a white background. He tries to make the van look like it’s going fast — for a hippie van anyway — coming at him then veering sharply into the U-turn.
The drawing is good. The zoom-like perspective makes the vehicle look closer than it was in real life. It’s the drawing he’d give the Register, he thinks, to illustrate his eyewitness account of the kidnapping. If he defies the police and writes up his story for the paper. What could it hurt? People will read it and see the picture, then see the van and maybe even see Jazz, and call the cops. Though apparently only Darnell believes that he really saw her. Maybe believes. The rest think the whole incident was nothing more than stoned hippies having a wild night in Laguna, and a sixteen-year-old boy seeing who he wanted to see. He remembers the desk officer asking him if he was on LSD that night. Why should the Register believe him?
Five minutes later he’s parked across from Patricia Trinkle’s home on Diamond. He looks out at the wall of bougainvillea. Only the pitched roof of the Craftsman and its chimney show above the flowery walls. A hidden porch light sends up a glow in the damp night, as if something bright and valuable was waiting in that hidden front yard, an open chest of gold coins maybe, or bars of sterling silver.
He props his sketchbook on his knees and the Westfalia steering wheel, opens it to a fresh page. Draws the Trinkle house, trying to get the funny glow from the flower-walled yard. But he can’t. So he touches up the peace-sign curtain van that he now thinks he’ll submit to the Register for sure. It’s still not a photograph, which newspapers prefer. And it’s still kind of cartoony, he sees. When he looks at his latest Laurel from just a few hours ago, her proportions are all off and she looks more like a manatee than native maiden. He wonders if he’ll ever get good at this.
Matt sets aside the sketchbook and lets his head rest against the cool window glass. He’s wasting his time here and he knows it but he doesn’t want to give up. Jazz was here once, not too long ago. Doing what he did earlier — delivering for MAW. Now it’s two fifteen. He closes his eyes, feels his heart thumping away, and sees Bonnie on the rocks at Thalia, and Jazz running through the night on Third. He sees the orgy at Cavore’s, and he knows Bonnie and Jazz have seen it too.
Then bright headlights behind him, almost blinding in the rearview mirror.
They do not approach. They are simply, suddenly, there. Mist rises through the beams as Matt watches Furlong climb out of Moby Cop, slipping his club into the loop on his belt.
Matt rolls down the window, wondering: doesn’t this guy ever sleep?
21
Furlong jangles and clomps. Gives Matt a long look. Lifts his flashlight and beams it in.
“No adult with you? I hope you have more than that learner’s permit.”
Matt works his wallet from his jeans and hands the limp, brine-dipped license to the sergeant, who trains the flashlight on it.
“You just got this today?”
“Yes, sir. It got wet fishing.”
“How’d you do?”
“Three calico bass.”
Furlong hands it back. “Congratulations on getting your license, Matt. But what are you doing here?”
“Looking for my sister.”
“Seeing her two nights in a row would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
“Sure would.”
“I want to believe that you saw Jasmine abducted, Matt.”
“Why won’t you?”
“I think you saw hippie drug fiends. You know, having fun on a summer night. I think with fog and a quarter moon, your perceptions might have been a little off. And I think that, given your involvement with Mystic Arts World, you might have been high on drugs that night.”
“You don’t want to believe me because it happened right in front of the police station and none of you even saw it.”
“That is correct. No cops and no witnesses reported seeing such a thing. Other than you.”
Something in Furlong’s tone makes Matt wonder if the cops know something about his sister that they’re not telling him. It’s an ugly little thought.
Matt sets his wallet on the seat beside him. “I know my sister when I see her.”
“But do you know whose house that is?” Furlong nods toward the Craftsman hidden in the bracts.
“It belongs to Patricia Trinkle.”
“Do you know her?”
“I’ve never met her. I delivered a book to this front porch today. Well, yesterday now.”
“Let me guess. From Mystic Arts World?”
“Yes.”
“But why are you here again at two thirty in the morning? Not making another delivery, certainly.”
“Why are you here and not looking for my sister?”
“I can’t devote every minute of my night shift to her.”
“I’m here because Jazz delivered books to Patricia Trinkle. I’m looking for a connection. A certain connection to her. It’s... hard to explain.”
Furlong turns off the flashlight and slides it onto his belt, gives Matt a long frown. To Matt his eyes look cold and unemotional. He’s so big his uniform is tight.
“What book did you deliver?”
“The Tibetan Book of the Dead.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“I haven’t read it.”
“Isn’t that part of Tim Leary’s LSD sales pitch?”
“The book has to do with living, not dying, Leary says.”
“Grail and Christian Clay both have criminal records by the way.”
Matt knows all about Christian’s. “Christian got busted for a roach in Oregon. The cops beat the shit out of him and threw him in jail for nine months.”
“A light sentence if you ask me.”
Furlong steps closer, puts his nose past the window frame, breathes in.
“Step out, Matt.”
Matt swings open the door and gets out. Moves away to let Furlong lean in with his flashlight again. Watches the beam traverse the tight interior. Furlong climbs into the driver’s seat, shines his light into the ashtray, glove box, side pockets.
Then he squeezes between the seats, and into the back of the van. Matt hears him opening cabinets and drawers, sees the light beam through the bongo-drum-and-palm-tree curtains sewn by his mother for the Westfalia’s many windows. He stands up close to the glass, charting Furlong’s search. Wonders if Furlong will plant evidence, as he’d heard cops do all the time. Nine months for a roach.