“Oh? Then you did see them — a little boy about seven, a brown-haired woman in her middle thirties?”
“That’s right. Why are you so excited about that?”
“I’m trying to find them,” I said. “They seem to have disappeared. You wouldn’t have any idea where they went?”
She shook her bald head. “Not a clue. They went away with that Mexican fellow.”
“What Mexican fellow is that?”
“I can never remember his name. He’s the assistant manager, I believe.”
“Ibarcena? Victor Ibarcena?”
“That’s him,” Miss Andersen said. “I’m not nosy, you understand; I’m too old to be nosy. Only reason I saw them was that I was getting ready for my nap and I like the window open when I sleep. I chanced to look out just as the woman and the boy and the Mexican fellow were leaving. He was carrying their bags.”
“Did you see which way they went?”
“Out to the highway. I expect they had a car parked there. That’s the way Hank and I always used to come and go. Hank was my fourth husband. He hung himself.”
“Ma’am?”
“Hung himself. Left a note saying there wasn’t much use to go on living when he couldn’t get an erection anymore and had a bald wife besides.”
She said that with a straight face, but there was a twinkle in the blue eyes and I had the feeling she was pulling my leg at least a little. She was some little old lady. She’d probably mowed the men down pretty good in her time, and not just a field of four husbands.
I thanked her, and she said, “Don’t mention it, young man,” and I went straight back to the hotel. All right, now I had confirmation that Timmy and his mother had been staying in Number 6. And now I knew that Victor Ibarcena had hustled them away this afternoon. But there was still a lot I didn’t know, a lot that was still puzzling. Like, where had Ibarcena taken them? And why in such a hurry? And why had the desk clerk and the maid both lied to me about them being registered?
In my room I dragged the San Diego telephone directory out of the nightstand. With Ibarcena away somewhere, and Lloyd Beddoes “unavailable,” the best lead I had to some answers was still Jim Lauterbach. There was only one J. Lauterbach listed in the directory, with an address in National City; but when I dialed the number and let it ring a dozen times, there was no answer.
I sat on the bed, brooding. And wondered why I was brooding — why I was doing all this work. Maybe it was just restlessness and boredom. For all I knew, there was nothing the least bit sinister about this thing with Timmy and his mother. No danger to them, no fancy intrigue. It was none of my business, in any case, just as Elaine Picard’s death was none of my business.
Sure. But private detectives are as curious as cats, and meddlers besides; that’s the nature of the beast. McCone knew that and accepted it and didn’t worry about it, but I always had to go around grumbling and rationalizing. So why didn’t I just cut it out? I knew damned well why I was mixing into this thing, and it didn’t have much to do with restlessness or boredom. It was the way Timmy had looked there on that bench, and afterward as his mother was dragging him off: scared and trying not to show it. Brave little kid harboring secrets, on his way to see his dad in some town in Mexico that had monkeys in it...
The telephone rang. Now who the devil is that? I thought. I snagged up the receiver and muttered a hello.
“Wolf, good, I caught you in. This is Sharon.”
She sounded relieved — and a little odd, a little nervous. “What’s up, Sharon?”
“Well, I need a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“A small one. Two small ones, actually.”
“Uh-huh. What are they?”
“Um, first I need you to come and pick me up.”
“Pick you up. What happened, your car break down?”
“No. I’m downtown — not too far from the hotel.”
“Where downtown?”
“The second favor,” she said quickly, “I sort of need you to vouch for me. For my integrity as a private investigator and all that.”
“What?”
“They won’t let me go otherwise.”
“What?”
“Wolf, I’m in jail.”
“What!”
“Well, not really. They haven’t booked me yet.”
“Booked you for what?”
“I got picked up in Chula Vista, at Elaine’s house. For, um, breaking and entering. That cop you talked to, Knowles, showed up just as I was coming out and he dragged me all the way back here to the sheriff’s department and if you say I-told-you-so, I think I’ll scream.”
I didn’t say anything. I just sat there holding the receiver and thinking: Why me, Lord?
“Wolf? Are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m still here. But I wish I wasn’t.”
“There’s nobody else I can call,” she said. “Except my family, and I’d never hear the end of it if I did that. Will you come? Right away?”
Go directly to jail, I thought. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. I sighed. “So tell me how to get there,” I said.
13: McCone
I was sitting in the hallway on one of those uncomfortable molded plastic chairs when Wolf came out of Knowles’s office. He looked at me, his expression a mixture of disapproval and concern, and nodded at the bank of elevators. I got up and followed him over there. He punched the down button impatiently.
“Doesn’t Knowles have anything else to say to me?” I asked.
“He seems to think it’s all been said.”
“Yes, I guess it has.” The Lieutenant had told me I was lucky he wasn’t going to book me for breaking and entering; he’d told me to keep my nose out of his case. On the other hand, I was to report anything I heard or remembered about Elaine Picard immediately; and I was to let him know if I planned to leave San Diego. He hadn’t expressed appreciation for my cooperation, even though I’d done my damnedest in that quarter.
Wolf made an annoyed noise and punched the button again. The doors of the nearest car slid open and we got on. In silence we rode to the lobby and went through the main door to C Street. Wolf led me around the big pinkish building that housed the sheriff’s department and onto Union Street, where a clunky-looking Chevy Monza was parked in front of a bail bondsman’s office. The car was pale yellow, with plenty of dents and scrape marks. Leave it to Wolf to rent the most scabrous vehicle in the airport fleet.
We got into the car and he started the engine. It wheezed to life like a wino waking up after a particularly bad night. Wolf said, “Where to?”
“Go down here and get on the freeway to Chula Vista. I’ll tell you how to get to Elaine’s house. My car’s still parked near there.”
Immediately I regretted mentioning Elaine. Wolf’s brows came together in a frown as he eased the clunker out of the space and turned toward the waterfront, where the freeway entrance was. “You really got yourself into it this time, didn’t you?”
“Listen, I know what you’re going to say, and I’d rather not hear it, if you don’t mind.”
“Well, it was a dumb thing to do.”
“I know.”
“You can lose your license—”
“I know!”
We drove in silence for a couple of blocks.
I said, “Anyway, I cooperated with Knowles. He can’t fault me on that.”
Wolf was concentrating on his driving, trying to get over toward the freeway on-ramp.
“I found some evidence in Elaine’s house and turned it over to him right away.” Actually, I’d turned it over to him when he’d announced his intention to search my purse.
“What kind of evidence?” Wolf guided the car into the stream of southbound traffic on Highway 5.