Fugitive Nights(49)

The fugitive read the business names, addresses and phone numbers aloud as he paced back and forth in his motel room.

"Desert Trail Monuments," he said aloud in slightly accented English.

Then he read aloud for practice: "Depend on us to provide the perfect memorial in granite, bronze or marble."

He went into the bathroom and splashed a little more shaving lotion on his face. His upper lip was still pinpointed with a raw and tender telltale rash, where he'd shaved off his mustache. He'd had that mustache since he was twenty-three years old and hated losing it.

He wondered what his wife would say when he got home. He had to admit that he looked a few years younger. Most people said he looked older than thirty-nine years, but it was only the premature baldness. His mother's father had been bald, and three of her brothers. But without the mustache he did look younger, he was sure of it.

He resumed his pacing. The second company under monuments was Johnson and Son Memorials. The company was in Desert Hot Springs.

He said it aloud, "Johnson . . . J-J-Johnson." It was hard to say J's.

He'd worked many years at perfecting what everyone said was excellent English, and he'd tried to convince his children that they could not hope to succeed in the future without a solid knowledge of the English language. He was very much aware that one of the reasons he'd been chosen for this mission was because he spoke English better than any of his comrades.

The fugitive began to pace with more determination while he committed the address and telephone number of Palm and Sand Markers. When he was finished with that one, there was one more in Cathedral City, Serenity Markers and Memorials. He liked the name of that one: Serenity. He understood the word very well.

He paced and said quietly: "Serenity, Serenity, Serenity. . ."



Chapter 12

No sneaking up on a guy like Jack Graves, Breda thought. He must've been a pretty good dope-cop. They had an awful lot of dope down there in Orange County where he'd done his work. Breda would've used a man like that in intelligence gathering rather than in drug raids, then he never would've shot that boy. Or was it written somewhere?

He stuck his hand out the car window and waved when she was still thirty feet from the right rear fender of his Mazda. Breda opened the passenger door and got in just as the first low rays were washing over the valley from above the Santa Rosa Mountains.

It wasn't like getting into Lynn Cutter's messy Rambler. Jack Graves' Mazda was disturbingly clean and tidy. He had a thermos of coffee waiting, and two mugs inside a vinyl gym bag. Along with a plastic container of real cream and another of sugar, there were two plastic spoons in a folded paper napkin; everything ready for her, including three pieces of Danish to choose from.

"I thought you might not have time for breakfast," he said, as Breda put the binoculars, video camera and the Clive Devon file folder on the rear seat.

"What, no espresso?" She tore off a piece of Danish to be polite, poured herself some coffee and added a few drops of cream, no sugar. "What time did you get up?"

"I always get up at five-thirty," Jack Graves said, and Breda was sure that it would be at 5:30 a. M. exactly. Not 5:20, not 5:40.

"When this case is wrapped up I'm gonna sleep till noon," Breda said.

"Then you'd miss the sunrise. Sunrise and sunset are a part of it. That's when the desert tells you that no matter what, everything's gonna be burned up and blown clean. That's a big part of it, living in the desert, I mean."

Breda sipped her coffee and studied the gaunt, sorrowful face. Then she said, "Know how to work the video camera?"

"Sure. We used them all the time when we worked the Peruvian smugglers. That a Panasonic?"

"Uh huh," Breda said, taking another nibble of Danish though she knew she shouldn't.

"I doubt that I'll be able to tape anything you'd recognize, even with the zoom. The open desert doesn't let any hunter get very close."

"Do the best you can," she said. "Who knows, he might go straight to the Soltero house down in Indio. Far as I'm concerned, if he's swimming and picnicking and visiting that young woman at her house, his wife can start to draw a few conclusions."

"I'd sure hate to tape any hanky-panky through somebody's bedroom window, but I said I'd do the job and I will."

"I don't think it'll come to that," Breda said. "I don't know why, but I don't." She noticed that he couldn't use the word shoot. It was tape any hanky-panky, not shoot.

"I considered getting in the P. I. business," he said, "but I didn't think I'd like it."

"I don't think I like it, but my only skill and training involves dealing with the worst of people, and ordinary people at their worst."