Chapter 42
By the time Michael and I finished celebrating my survival, Dad had pronounced that the tranquilizer dart wasn’t going to kill Steele. Foley won his argument with the newly arrived ambulance crew who wanted to whisk Steele away to the hospital, Foley’s partner gave up trying to evict Walker, who managed to sneak in with the medics, and a uniformed officer had rescued the irate health department man from the closet.
“Now, let’s see that cut,” Dad said. “Yes, I think a butterfly bandage and a bit of gauze should take care of it.”
“Should we be staying here?” I asked. “Have they caught Salome yet?”
“Safely sedated, and they’ll take her back to her cage as soon as they rig a stretcher,” Foley said. “Although considering how much prime rib she ate in the restaurant, she’d probably just have curled up to digest anyway. So how long have you known that your business partner was actually Ichabod Dilley? Am I going to have to arrest you for obstruction of justice?”
“He’s not my business partner—we were just splitting a booth for the weekend,” I protested. “I didn’t know he was the killer until after Francis set the tiger loose, and then it was too late to tell you.”
While Dad continued to do necessary but uncomfortable things to the cut on my arm, and Michael went off with his cell phone to call Mother and reassure her that I would live, I explained how the scrap of paper the producer had given me led me to Steele.
“At least we were right about Dilley still being alive,” Foley said, filing away the now-battered paper in an evidence bag, “even if we all had the wrong suspects.”
“Okay, so Nate’s innocent, and Francis isn’t Ichabod Dilley,” I said. “Do we have any idea who Francis is? And why seeing the police sent him scampering off like someone who just got top billing on America’s Most Wanted?”
“Oh, yes,” Michael said, returning to the group. “He broke down in the parking lot and confessed everything. He’s a student radical who’s been on the run since 1970 when he and an accomplice burned all the files at the local draft board. The accomplice was arrested while disposing of the empty kerosene cans—that’s the other half of the Pasadena Pair he was shouting about. But Francis escaped and was never heard from again. Until today.”
“Wow,” Walker said. “So are they turning him over to the FBI?”
“Wouldn’t there be a statute of limitations on that?” I asked, glancing at Foley. “I mean, unless they killed someone, surely the FBI wouldn’t be all that interested after thirty years.”
“The FBI wasn’t all that interested after thirty days,” Foley said. “We did make a little progress on the case while you were swashing and buckling on stage here. Not only did the Pasadena Pair not kill anyone, apparently they didn’t even burn any draft board files.”
“That’s Francis all over,” Walker said, nodding. “Give him a can of kerosene and he still can’t light a fire.”
“Oh, he and his accomplices lit a fire, all right,” Foley said, suppressing a smile. “They just got the wrong office. Instead of the draft board they got the animal control office for a nearby town called La Cañada. Torched the dog license files.”
“That’s definitely Francis’s style,” Michael said, with a sigh.
“Apparently your friend just assumed he was a hunted man,” Foley went on. “Went off and created a new identity for himself. Been living a few miles from La Cañada for twenty years now and never bothered to look up his accomplice or check the newspaper records or anything.”
“That’s Francis,” Michael and Walker said, in unison.
“There’s just one thing,” I said. “If this all took place in La Cañada, how come they called themselves the Pasadena Pair?”
“Well, what were we supposed to call ourselves?” Francis said. “The La Cañada Two? Oh, that’s really catchy.”
Apparently he’d entered the ballroom while Detective Foley was talking.
“Besides, if we called ourselves the La Cañada anything, the newspapers wouldn’t print the tilde, and everyone would think we were some kind of radical Quebec separatist group. So,” he added, turning to Foley, “am I free to go?”
“As far as Loudoun County and the FBI are concerned,” Foley said.
“So Francis isn’t in trouble after all?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound too disappointed.
“That’s California’s problem, not mine,” Foley said, shrugging.