Fugitive Nights(34)

The chief was sweating Nelson Hareem because of a threatened lawsuit from a mortgage banker who'd passed through their little town two weeks earlier in a Porsche 928 while driving from a seminar in Scottsdale to his home in Encino. The mortgage banker had turned off Highway 10 intending to get one of those tasty date-shakes he'd heard so much about. He'd carelessly blown past a stop sign without making a complete stop, and quickly found himself lighted up by the whirling gumballs of Nelson Hareem, who happened to be dawdling down the street at a poky seventy miles per hour, the speed limit he ordinarily reserved for parking lots and residential driveways.

After that, the story was open to interpretation. The mortgage banker, having contributed heavily to the reelection of one of Southern California's most prominent sheriffs, possessed one of those courtesy badges that the sheriff handed out as a thank you. The mortgage banker had pinned the badge inside his alligator wallet next to his driver's license for just such eventualities as this.

First, the banker had handed his driver's license to Nelson and then he flipped open the wallet. With one of those "You got the loan at primed banker grins, he'd said, "How far will this go, pal?" referring to the badge.

But Nelson thought that the banker was referring to a fifty-dollar bill, whose corner was clearly protruding from the alligator wallet, thus signifying a bribery attempt. Nelson became totally indignant, incensed, offended and finally outraged by the insult.

Nelson said, "I don't know how far it'll go. Let's see!" And he impulsively ripped the wallet from the fat guy's hand and sailed it like an alligator Frisbee over his shoulder into the passing traffic, where it happened to land on the bed of a flatbed truck bound for Phoenix.

Then there was a semidesperate wrestling match out there, with outraged little Nelson Hareem rolling around on the ground with an equally outraged mortgage banker before Nelson managed to get the fat guy hooked up with his hands cuffed behind him and proned out on the ground, and only a few bumps and bruises that had to be treated.

But that wallet was never seen again, and the mortgage banker claimed he had over a thousand bucks in it. The banker got cited for running the stop sign, but was booked into jail for battery on a police officer. The deputy district attorney said that Nelson Hareem might use a tad more patience and better judgment next time he thinks he's being offered a bribe.

The morning after Nelson had met Lynn Cutter, his chief said to him, "The guy's lawyer's offered to drop the five-million-dollar lawsuit if we drop the charge of battery on a police officer, along with the vehicle code violation. And the city manager wonders if this might be a bargain for all of us. He also wonders if a daily dose of one thousand milligrams of Thorazine might make you a nondangerous citizen of our community."

Nelson gulped, and his baby blues rolled, and he said, "Chief, if I could get a lateral transfer to another department, say, Palm Springs P. D., would you be willin to recommend me favorably?"

The chief said, "I would tell them you're the finest police officer since Eliot Ness! Since Wyatt Earp, even! Do you think it's possible they might take you?"

"I think I'll have a good chance real soon, sir," Nelson said. "Meantime, could I take about a week off from my compensatory overtime? Startin right now?"

"Are you sure a week of your comp time is enough?" the chief asked, hopefully. "They really want you at Palm Springs? Honest?"

By eleven o'clock that morning, Nelson Hareem was visiting various motels and hotels in and around Palm Springs, beginning with the letter A.

Clive Devon was apparently waiting for his wife to leave for Los Angeles before going out. Breda watched the electric gates roll open at 10:10 that morning as Rhonda Devon's silver Mercedes swung out and drove away between the walls of oleander, plaster and brick that lined both sides of the winding palm-studded street.

Five minutes later, Clive Devon pulled out in the Range Rover and drove to a grocery market five minutes from his house, the kind of market where shallots and saffron are available year round, not to mention truffles so expensive you could bribe a judge with three of them.

Breda waited outside the market for a few minutes then moseyed inside, got a shopping cart and strolled through the aisles. She picked up a few brand-name sundries she could have bought for half the price at her local Sav-On Drug Store. Then she stood in one of the two checkout lines where she could watch Clive Devon from behind.

His groceries were checked by a pretty young Latina with long black hair. Breda watched very closely, but nothing more than a few smiles and pleasantries were passed. Still, she did fit the description given by Lynn Cutter. Breda decided to send him in as soon as possible to have a look at this grocery checker.