Blacklist

CHAPTER 32

The roads west were clear; we made the forty-mile trip in fortyfive minutes. To my relief, as well as my amazement, the Mustang still stood behind the shrubbery where I’d left it. Maybe Schorr’s deputies hadn’t spotted it: maybe they’d posted the squad car to intercept Benji, rather than to stake out my car. We drove on past the Mustang and parked the Jaguar in the Larchmont carriageway.

While the dogs tore through the underbrush, Mr. Contreras and I cleaned out the Jaguar. I was concerned about obliterating any trace of Benji, but he was happy to think he was getting dog hair and my fingerprints out of the car. We left it on the carriageway, keys in the ignition, for some New Solway cop to find.

We walked back along the ditch toward the Mustang. The route that had been so slow and fear-laden in the dark middle of night was an easy stroll now that I had Mr. Contreras and the dogs with me.

“I’m looking for the culvert where I got under the road,” I told my neighbor. “It’s got a muddy bottom; I’d like Mitch and Peppy to churn it up and hide my tracks.”

The gray air had thickened into blue-black evening. Mr. Contreras used my flashlight while I turned on the headlamp I’d used yesterday. It was Mitch who found the entrance. I stooped to look at the culvert floor.

Benji’s and my footprints were clearly visible; they overlay the wheel marks I’d noticed at the other end on Thursday evening.

“Looks like some kind of little utility truck, forklift or something, come along.” Mr. Contreras said. “Someone chasing after you?”

I stared from him to the wheel marks, suddenly making sense of what I was seeing. The golf cart that had been chasing me through my dreams. That was how Marc Whitby had been brought to the Larchmont Pond. Someone had driven him there. It was so easy. You could get a cart from the Anodyne golf course, drive it into Anodyne Park along the path put up for members, and then, if you knew about this culvert, get to Larchmont Hall.

In disjoint phrases, I explained what I thought had happened. My neighbor nodded intently. “If you’re right, doll, you better try to find that golf cart. Or you think your killer already disposed of it?”

“I don’t know,” I said unhappily. “Whoever it is-it’s not they’re so smart, but the law doesn’t care enough to go after them. So it could still be lying around.”

I looked at my watch. Six-thirty. The longer I put off confronting the law, the harder they would make it for me when I finally surfaced. Still, since we were out here, I’d take the extra time to talk to someone at the golf course.

I bumped the Mustang back onto the road and whipped down Dirksen to the golf course. Naturally there was a gate, an ornate affair with a picture, or maybe a logo, welded into the bars. A spotlight on the design highlighted a pond with cat’s tails sprouting around it. “Anodyne Park Golf Course” was emblazoned in gold and green across the top.

I told the guard in the gatehouse that I was working for Geraldine Graham and had some questions about a missing golf cart. He accepted this claim unblinkingly, but wouldn’t let the car inside the course with dogs in it “You never know, people say they’ll keep their animals in the car, but then they let them out on the course.”

I didn’t waste time on argument, just got permission to leave the car at the entrance while we went in. I pulled my briefcase from the trunk, since it still had Marc Whitby’s picture in it, and hurried up the drive to the clubhouse with my neighbor.

Saturday is such a busy golfing day that the head of the club was on duty in the clubhouse. A doorman pointed him out, a dapper fiftyish man

laughing with a red-faced group of drinkers in front of the fireplace. When I said I was a detective, a hush fell over the group. The manager whisked us into his office, just in case I was going to breathe something ghastly over his members. But when he heard my story-I worked for Ms. Graham; her son had had a near miss with a golf cart on the road several days ago; she was concerned and wanted to know if one had been stolen-he quickly off loaded me onto the equipment supervisor.

When Eli Janicek, the supervisor, trotted in, the club manager told him to get Mr. Contreras and me over to the equipment shed: we clearly lowered the tone of the place. We followed Janicek out the service entrance while the manager rejoined the drinkers at the fireplace.

Although Janicek’s attention was divided between me and his crew, who were calling in with reports on abandoned carts and clubs on the fairways, he answered my questions pretty directly. None of his carts was missing. Yes, some had been picked up from Anodyne Park last Monday morning, but there was nothing strange in that-members were always driving them over to the Anodyne estate and leaving them for the equipment crew to retrieve.

I was turning away, disappointed, when Janicek added, “Now I think of it, one was caked with mud and when we come to clean it up, we found the front pretty well dented in. That didn’t sit with me right. We clean up after the members, that’s our job, but then they abuse equipment and don’t even leave a note saying who was it that did it, that’s not right. People need to act responsible.”

The cart had been parked outside the bar, if he remembered right. When I asked if he could be sure of the date, he pulled out his log: yes, this was the one: the cart had been caked in mud up over the wheels. When, they hosed it down, they found dents in the sides, deep scratches in the paint and the front axle bent. Some kid treating a golf cart like a dune buggy, and, even if they found out who, the parents more than likely would chew out the clubhouse manager, not the kid. On Wednesday, when Janicek had cleaned up the cart, he’d sent it on to the repair shop but he didn’t think the mechanics had gotten to it yet, too big a backlog.

When Mr. Contreras started to chime in on modern-day manners, I cut both of them off.

“Can you hold off on the repairs? The Graham family may want to press

charges, or at least get their insurance company to look at it. Nothing to do with the club, I promise you, but they’re concerned about reckless endangerment and want to talk to Sheriff Salvi about the cart.”

Janicek didn’t like it, didn’t like the thought of the club being involved in a serious legal problem, but he reluctantly agreed to talk to his mechanics in the morning and ask them to wait on the cart.

Before we left, I showed Janicek Marc Whitby’s photograph. He called a couple of the valets over, but no one remembered seeing him, and they would have: the club’s only black member was August Llewellyn and he hadn’t been out for months. Black guests were rare.

Had Edwards Bayard been in the club last week? No, neither he, his mother nor anyone else from the Bayard household.

Mr. Contreras and I walked back to the Mustang while I thought this over. Anyone who knew about the culvert could have used it to get into Anodyne Park, and from there used the park’s private path to the golf course to borrow a cart. They might even have parked it next to the culvert on the Coverdale Lane side. Whitby was in the pond, dead, by the time I got there. If I’d only gone to Larchmont an hour or two earlier last Sunday night!

It was frustrating, to come on one piece of the solution, and yet not be able to follow it. On the drive home, I mulled over the story of the cart with Mr. Contreras without coming to any satisfactory answer. When we got back to Lakeview, I dropped my neighbor in the alley with the dogs.

“I need to face the law-I’ve been putting it off for five hours. It’s eight o’clock now. If I’m not home by eleven, call Freeman, okay? And also, until this business is cleared up, we’ll talk every day between five-thirty and six-thirty. If you don’t hear from me-call Freeman. Under this Patriot Act, if the law gets pissed off enough, they may be able to take me away without letting me talk to my lawyer.”

I squared my shoulders and drove around to the front of our building.