Deadfall(68)

At five o’clock I tried Kerry again and finally got through to her. She’d been talking to Cybil, as it turned out—filling her in on our visit to the Church of the Holy Mission and the number she’d done on the Right Reverend Daybreak. She said dinner sounded fine, but she’d just had a sandwich and wouldn’t be hungry again for a while. We settled on seven-thirty and a fish restaurant we both liked out on Geary Boulevard.

I sat down in the living room with a can of beer. So now where was I, after the session with Margaret Prine and the telephone conversation with Alicia Purcell? I now knew for sure that Mrs. Purcell had hidden her possession of the Hainelin box from the authorities, that she’d sold it to Eldon Summerhayes, and that Margaret Prine now had it. So? Did the box have any direct bearing on Kenneth Purcell’s death? It didn’t look that way, unless Alicia was lying about her reasons for secreting the box, or holding something back. But why would she lie? What would she hold back? I had no good answer in either case. And that put me right back where I’d been two days ago, smack up against a dead end. The only concrete lead I’d turned up with all my running around and maneuvering, it seemed, was Danny Martinez. He was the key to the whole case. Without him, there was no way to make sense out of it, to put it all together.

Or was there?

The telephone rang. I went into the bedroom and answered it, and Tom Washburn said, “I just came back from the house. I … well, I couldn’t make myself go over there until today. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t.”

“Don’t apologize, Mr. Washburn. Did you find anything in Leonard’s papers?”

“Nothing pertaining to Richard Dessault or that man Ozimas.”

“Something else?”

“Well, I don’t know. A photograph.”

“What sort of photograph?”

“You’d better see it for yourself. I don’t know what it means; it probably doesn’t mean anything. But I think you should look at it.”

“Are you still at the house?”

“No. I’m back at Fred’s.”

“What’s the address there again?”

He told me, and I said, “I could come by around seven or so.” On my way to Kerry’s, I was thinking. “Is that all right with you?”

“Yes, fine. I’ll expect you.”

A photograph, I thought as I rang off. Which reminded me of the one I’d taken out of Danny Martinez’s farmhouse. I found it in the pocket of my other suit coat and looked at it again. And it bothered me again in the same vague way it had yesterday in my office. Or was it something associated with it that was responsible for the bother? I couldn’t seem to get a grasp on whatever it was. Too many things whirling around inside my head, too many confusing elements that kept me from seeing any of them clearly.

I started out into the kitchen to get another beer, and the telephone rang again. I did an about-face back into the bedroom, picked up, and a familiar voice said, “This is Melanie Purcell.”

She was one of the last people I expected to hear from. I said, “Yes, Melanie,” and managed to keep the surprise out of my voice. “What can I do for you?”

“You still want to see Richie?” The way she said it, I thought she might be angry or uptight about something.

“Yes, I do. Where is he?”

“At the houseboat. He came back a little while ago.” There was a pause. “He was gone two days,” she said.

“Gone where?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. I don’t care anyway, not anymore. That’s why I called you.”

“Where are you?”

“One of the neighbor’s boats. I slipped out when he got into the shower. Listen, I think he’s going out again pretty soon. He acts all excited about something.”

“I can be there in half an hour,” I said. “Can you keep him around that long?”

“I guess I can try. But you better hurry.”

“What kind of car does he drive?”

“A white Trans-Am.”

“All right. Thirty minutes, Melanie.”





Chapter Twenty





It was full dark when I got to Mission Creek. There was not much of a moon tonight and patchy clouds mostly obscured its thin, pale hook-shape; but nightlights strung along the floating walkway and aglow in boat windows and portholes, lights both moving and stationary on the freeway terminus high above, made it easy enough to see. I cut my headlamps just after I made the turn off Fourth onto Channel Street, beyond Blanche’s Café.

On the way down here I had been of two minds as to what to do about Richie Dessault, assuming he was still around when I arrived. One was to brace him, see what I could wrangle out of him by guile and intimidation; the other was to hang around out of sight, wait for him to leave, and then follow him and see where he led me. I had pretty much decided that following him was the best of the two alternatives. Melanie had said he was excited about something. Maybe his emotional state had nothing to do with Danny Martinez or the Purcell murders—maybe he was just tired of Melanie, if not of Melanie’s money, and had found himself another bunny to burrow up with for a while. But if his excitement was related to the case, then I stood a better chance of finding out what it was by shagging him. I could brace him later, when we got to where he was going; or tomorrow or the day after that, if tonight didn’t pan out.