“Who?”
“Dorsey O’Shea.”
“Probably. Fuck, I was jabberin’ my fool head off there at the end.”
“Who were they?”
“Cops.”
“How do you know?”
“By the way they asked questions. The good guy, bad guy routine, all of it.”
“You’re guessing.”
I almost put him down and went back to search the corpses, but he was still leaking blood at a good rate. It was the hospital quick or the morgue later.
Going down the stairs he said, “I been grilled by cops all my life. I could tell.”
We took the hitters’ car. Willie was not in any shape to do the two blocks to mine, that was certain. I drove back to my rental heap and took the time to collect the MP-5, then headed for the nearest hospital that I knew about. I asked Willie if indeed the one I was thinking of was the one, but he had passed out by then.
I whipped into the ambulance entrance and carried him into the emergency room. There was a vacant gurney there, so I put him on it. An attendant rushed out to help me.
“He’s lost a lot of blood. Some guys cut him on his arms and chest. No drugs. He’s not allergic to anything that I know of.”
As the attendant rushed the gurney through the swinging doors, I turned to the window where the admitting lady sat with a client.
“I’ll be right with you, sir,” she said. “Please take a seat.”
“I’ll park the car and be back,” I said.
As I got behind the wheel and headed for Wisconsin Avenue, I wondered if Willie did tell them about Dorsey O’Shea. Well, they were dead, so even if he did, it didn’t matter.
Unless they called someone, of course. Maybe that was what the guy in the kitchen was doing when I rudely interrupted. I didn’t recall seeing a cell phone in the kitchen. Of course, he might have put it in his pocket as he drew his pistol, after I fired the first shot.
Perhaps I should go back to Willie’s and search the bodies.
I decided to do it. I had the brains to come down a side street and look toward Willie’s before I turned that way and committed myself, which saved my silly ass. Two cop cars with lights flashing were parked in the street.
I turned the other way and fed gas. As I drove I heard the moan of an ambulance.
My arm was leaking blood where the bullet had grazed me.
I hoped they were dead. All three of the sons of bitches.
Fifteen minutes later I pulled into a McDonald’s and parked. The sky was turning light. The sun wasn’t up yet, but it soon would be. The vehicle registration certificate was in the glove compartment. The car was registered to a Donald P. Westland in College Park. His insurance certificate verified the address. I used his cell phone to call information.
“I’m sorry,” the operator said. “I don’t have a listing for a Donald Westland in College Park.”
“Could it be an unlisted number?”
“No. I have no listing at all for anyone by that name.”
I read her the address. “It might be under his wife’s name,” I said.
After a moment of silence, she said, “I’m sorry, sir. I have no Westland listed.”
I thanked her and broke the connection.
I was getting quite a collection of cell phones. I punched my way through the stored numbers on this one, looking for one I recognized. They were all new to me.
I turned the telephone off and sat there trying to think. My heart was still beating a mile a minute. I was leaving bodies all over, and I didn’t know who these guys were.
What if this was a government car, and the name and address on the registration and insurance were merely cover? I got out, opened the door, looked for an oil change sticker. And there it was: Jiffy Lube.
I opened the wallet. The driver’s license was for one Johnson Dunlap, Bethesda. The mug staring at me from the license was the balding getaway driver outside of Willie’s. That certainly wasn’t conclusive — my employer routinely issued fake ID to back up false identities. The credit cards were also in the name of Johnson Dunlap. Couple hundred dollars in bills in the wallet, several credit card invoices, a dry cleaning stub, and an AAA membership card.
I turned on the telephone and called information. The operator gave me a number for Johnson Dunlap. That number was one of the ones stored on the telephone memory. I dialed it.
After ten rings I broke the connection.
Perhaps Johnson Dunlap was a real man. I tapped his driver’s license on the steering wheel as I considered. If he was a cop or federal employee and lost his wallet containing his real driver’s license while committing a serious felony with three colleagues — now dead — whoever was running this show was going to be very unhappy with Mr. Dunlap. He would undoubtedly realize that. Would he share the bad news with them?
I had another wallet in my pocket, the one I took off the driver who wrapped his SUV around a tree on Allegheny Mountain yesterday. I got it out and gave the driver’s license a close look. Jerry Von Essen, Burke, Virginia. I called information. They gave me a telephone number, so I dialed it.
After four rings, I got a sleepy female. “Hullo.”
“Is Jerry there?”
Talk about a hot woman — she went thermonuclear in two seconds. “The son of a bitch hasn’t come home yet,” she snarled. “Think he’d take the time to call? You see the bastard, tell him I’m not taking any more of his shit! I’m moving out.”
Before I could reply she slammed the telephone down.
Johnson Dunlap. Should I go check on him, or should I hotfoot it back to Dorsey’s? Willie probably blabbed Dorsey’s name, so they would show up before too long.
I glanced at my watch. My sense was that I had a little time, and God knew I needed information.
I thought about calling Dorsey, warning her. Hell, she didn’t even own a weapon. The only thing she could do would be to load Kelly in a vehicle and run for it. Or call the police. Neither option seemed very attractive to me. I couldn’t protect the women if they were running around the country, and I wasn’t ready for the police.
Yesterday’s clouds had dissipated. No rain today. Terrific.
CHAPTER TEN
Johnson Dunlap lived in an older tract home in what had once been a fashionable neighborhood, perhaps sixty years ago, immediately after World War II. The maples, oaks, and tulip poplars that blocked out the sky looked about that old.
His house looked similar to every other house up and down the street — single story, brick facade, not much grass in the front lawn due to the deep shade cast by the huge trees. The driveway was empty.
I checked my watch, then drove down to the main arterial and along it until I came to a convenience store. I bought a newspaper from the box near the door and got back behind the wheel to look it over. The paper contained nothing on the massacre yesterday in West Virginia, not an inch. No story on a massive manhunt; nothing at all on fires and murder and corpses in the forest.
I started the engine and drove back to Dunlap’s. I parked in his drive in front of his single-car garage.
As I walked around the house I checked for a security system, which would have been out of place in this neighborhood. Nope.
I let myself into the backyard through a gate. There was dog poop scattered about, so I wasn’t surprised when the pooch began yapping inside the house as I picked the lock on the kitchen door. As I opened the door a small canine fluffball shot through. Apparently he, she, or it was more interested in relieving bladder pressure than taking a hunk out of my leg. Once in the kitchen, I firmly closed the door behind me.
There were several stacks of mail on a small stand near the kitchen table, but I bypassed them and headed for the bedroom. Sure enough, there was Baldy and a woman in framed photos on the dresser and nightstand. So Baldy was indeed Johnson Dunlap, a real person. Somehow establishing that fact seemed important.