Double

29: McCone

I hung up the receiver of the kitchen wall phone and perched on the edge of the counter to think about what Wolf had found out. Interesting as it was, I couldn’t quite tie it to Elaine’s death. Well, better to let Wolf take care of the Casa del Rey angle while I continued to concentrate on the personal aspects of Elaine’s life.

And I could rest assured he would take care of it, in his own way. The distraught mother of Timmy dark — no, Timmy Ferguson — was here in town, offering five thousand dollars just for information leading to her son. Wolf had that information, and what was he doing with it? Going to Mexico because he didn’t like the looks of the mother. Because of some chance remark the kid had made about being afraid. And who had approved the plan, told him he should go? Me.

Five thousand dollars. Wolf had said he would split it with me if he ended up claiming the reward. That would mean we’d be compensated for all this investigative work after all. Five thousand dollars. Twenty-five hundred apiece.

But I had the feeling we’d never see a cent of it. Money — unlike trouble and hassles and confusion — rarely made its way to my door. And I suspected it was the same with Wolf.

I got up and looked in the refrigerator for something to eat. That was the reason I’d come back here in the first place — because I couldn’t face another greasy burger or burrito. There was some of Ma’s caraway potato salad, which I ate right out of the storage dish, standing up at the counter.

Now what? I still didn’t think Beddoes or Ibarcena had killed Elaine. Which left me where I had started, with a more personal motive. I needed to find out about the club in Borrego Springs. And the easiest way to do that was to ask the man who had written Elaine that love note.

Rich Woodall. If it wasn’t Henry Nyland, then it had to be Woodall.

I set the empty dish in the sink, grabbed up my purse, and headed out to talk to him.

I drove past Woodall’s house and parked in the shelter of some palm trees farther down the rutted, unpaved road. As I started back along it, I saw the porch light behind the pyracantha shrubs flash on. Perhaps Woodall was expecting company.

A couple of seconds later, however, I heard the door slam and footsteps sounded on the path. I stopped and watched as Woodall came through the opening in the hedge and got into a convertible parked in the driveway. I hadn’t paid any attention to the make of the auto on Saturday night, but now I noticed it was one of those old Porsches — red and shiny, with the top down. The car fit with what Karyn Sugarman had said about people who had inadequate personalities cluttering up their lives with expensive toys, and, coupled with what else I’d seen of him, it confirmed her assessment of Woodall.

He didn’t notice me standing there, because he gunned the car out of the driveway and down the road. I ran back and got into my MG and followed him, leaving my lights off until I turned onto the main road into Lakeside. Probably he had a hot date, or maybe he was just going to a movie, but it was worth pursuing him to make sure.

The little red car careened along the road as if it were on a racetrack, and eventually roared onto Highway 67 and then over to Highway 8, heading toward San Diego. I’ve never trusted Porsche drivers — they tend to be unpredictable and do things they wouldn’t behind the wheel of a Toyota, for instance — so I followed cautiously, several car lengths behind. When we got to the exit for Balboa Park and the Porsche’s signal light flashed, I realized Woodall. was heading for the zoo. Why would he be going to work at this time of night? Maybe one of the animals was sick. No, that wouldn’t concern him — Woodall had said his was a strictly administrative capacity.

I followed him along a wide street, past a school, and when he turned right into Zoo Place, once again I switched off the MG’s lights. He went along the palm-lined drive and made another abrupt turn directly opposite the zoo’s Warner Administration Center. The car’s brake lights flashed and then went out.

I stopped on the drive and watched as Woodall crossed to the wood-and-glass building that housed the zoo offices. When he had disappeared into the shadows, I drove on, past where he’d left his car. It was parked in one of the slots reserved for vendors and the media. I coasted along into the vast, empty parking lot and left my car near the perimeter, where it wouldn’t be easily noticed.

There was a covered walkway leading from the sidewalk to the front door of the administration center. The lobby was dark and there were no lights to indicate Woodall’s presence, but to my left was an iron gate with an entry-code device like a push-button phone mounted beside it. That was probably the way Woodall had gone.

I went over to the gate and touched it, starting when it opened under the pressure of my hand. In his haste, Woodall had neglected to close it completely. I hesitated, looking through the bars at the jungly courtyard beyond. There was a pond, with a bridge to the left, and directly ahead was an archway leading into the zoo itself. The courtyard was illuminated by a shaft of light coming from one of the windows of the administration center.

It wasn’t really breaking and entering, I thought, if I walked through an unlocked gate. There was no sign saying to keep out or warning that this gate was for employees only. I cringed mentally, knowing what Wolf would have said to that reasoning. Then I went through the gate.

I moved toward the shaft of light, keeping close to the thickly planted vegetation next to the building. As I neared the window, I paused for a moment. Behind me it was quiet, but in the distance I could hear indistinct noises — animal noises, an occasional birdcall. The wind rustled through the leaves of the tall palm trees, and the moon shone in the dark sky behind them. In spite of the night’s warmth, I shivered.

Crouching, I went closer to the window and stopped just outside the beam of light. Through the glass I could see an office with four desks. Woodall stood at a file cabinet, the kind with small drawers that hold 3” X 5” cards. His back was to me and he was reaching into one of the drawers.

He turned, a white card in his hand, and I hunched lower. He went to one of the desks, pulled the plastic cover off a typewriter, and inserted the card. Still standing, he began to type.

After about thirty seconds, he pulled the card from the typewriter, went to a different drawer in the file, and flipped through the cards until he found the place he wanted to insert the one he had in his hand. Then he shut the drawer and looked around the office, an expression of satisfaction on his face.

I started to inch closer, to see if I could make out the label on the file drawer. Woodall stared directly out the window at the place where I was and I froze, even though I knew he couldn’t see me. He remained standing there for a few seconds, then turned and went through a door behind him. A second light flashed on.

I moved closer, crawling through the plants until I was below the window, then stood up and peered through the glass.

The file had little blue labels on each drawer. They were alphabetical — A to C, and so on. The top drawer of the cabinet, however, had a longer notation. I strained my eyes and made out the words Adopt-an-Animal Program. Quickly I ducked back down and squatted behind a rubber tree plant.

So Woodall. had been adding a card to the file of people who sponsored zoo animals. And as near as I could tell, the drawer he’d added it to was P to R. P for Picard. The 3” X 5” card undoubtedly listed her as the proud mother of a gorilla named Fred.

Woodall had lied to me about how he knew Elaine. And now he’d manufactured evidence to back up the falsehood. But why, I wondered, hadn’t he merely filled out the card when he was at work?

Well, for one thing, the card file was in an office with four desks. It would have been hard for Woodall to get to without someone observing him. And secondly, he might not have felt it important until today. After all, there had been another murder—

I heard a noise in the zoo proper, outside the archway. Standing up, I slipped back toward the gate. A silhouette appeared in the archway, swinging a flashlight. I looked around, saw the little footbridge to my right, and tiptoed across it into the darkness beyond.

Ahead of me were tall shapes that reminded me of a bandstand. A path sloped downward and I took it, not thinking, just wanting to get away from what was surely a security guard. After a moment I looked back to see if his light was gone, but found the path had turned and I could no longer see the bridge or the courtyard.

I doubled back, came to a fork in the path, and took the left-hand branch of it. After a few seconds, I realized I couldn’t see the administration center at all. I’d taken the wrong branch, and it was leading me farther away, into the zoo itself.

Now what? I thought, stopping and looking around. I could see nothing but dark vegetation and hear nothing but the distant animal sounds and the overhead drone of a plane heading for Lindbergh Field. Closing my eyes, I tried to picture the zoo as I remembered it from dozens of past visits. But that didn’t help much; I’d always come in through the visitors’ gate.

Where were the guards? How often did they patrol? The one I’d seen had probably checked the courtyard; if he’d noticed the open gate and locked it, I was in real trouble. Or had he seen the light in the office and gone in to see who was working late? There was no way of telling until I got back there. If I got back there.

I went back up the path, took another fork, but found it wasn’t the right one either. At this rate, I could wander all night. The zoo covers a hundred acres of canyons and mesas in the northwestern reaches of Balboa Park. The animals live in relative freedom in natural habitats, which are separated from visitors by low walls and moats rather than barred cages. I supposed if I came to something I recognized, the bear den or monkey island, I could find my way to the main gate. And that was just down from the administration center—

Off to my right something screamed.

I almost screamed back at it. Then I leaped off the path, heading for the cover of the shrubbery. Whatever it was yelled again, and then a great ruckus started, with all sorts of shrieks and flapping.

Birds. I must be near where they kept the big birds — ostriches and emus and God knows what else.

Had I caused this uproar? Or did it happen frequently? Would the guards come to investigate, or just ignore it as a matter of course? I crouched in the shrubbery, waiting.

Birds. That didn’t help me one damn bit. The things were everywhere, all over the zoo. I’d have to figure out some other way to get my bearings.

But how? It was dark, and I didn’t dare use my flashlight...

Dummy, I thought. The moon. The moon is out tonight. You can fix your position by it, like a good little Girl Scout.

The birds were quieting down now, and I didn’t hear any footsteps coming to investigate the commotion. I stepped out from the cover of the bushes and looked up at the sky. The moon was there all right. I took a mental reading, figured out which way was which, and soon was on the right path, heading for the little bridge and the gate beyond.

At the bridge, I paused, looking around and listening. The light was still on in the office, but all was quiet. Probably the guard had checked to see who was there, and now Woodall really was working late, to back up whatever story he’d given security. I slipped across the bridge and grasped the iron bars of the gate. It was still open.

I went through it fast, breathing hard, and hurried down the walk and across Zoo Drive to where Woodall’s car was still parked. From here I’d be able to hear him close the gate if he left, so I decided to take the opportunity to examine the car. It would be easy to do, since the convertible top was down.

I slipped into the driver’s seat. The car smelled of leather and more faintly of cigarette smoke. I opened the glove compartment and found it empty except for the registration and a San Diego map. The ashtray was full of butts, and a side pocket on the door was stuffed with odd bits of paper. I pulled them out and went through them.

There were credit card slips from gasoline stations, mostly Union Oil; a crumpled bill from an auto repair shop; an empty matchbook from an Italian restaurant; ticket stubs for the symphony; several business cards. I looked carefully at each card. One was from a New York Life Insurance salesman; another from the alterations department of a downtown men’s store; still another from a lawyer, Newell Dunlap.

And one from Arthur Darrow.

I looked closer at Darrow’s card. It was ragged, seemed old. Probably it had been in the side pocket a long time. It gave Darrow’s occupation as an investment counselor, and showed both business and office addresses and phone numbers in Borrego Springs.

Turning it over, I found a notation in a thin, spidery hand: 9 p.m., Les Club.

Les Club. French for “The Club,” I supposed — but if that was so, it was bad French. It should have been Le Club, instead of the plural Les. In any case, a utilitarian label with a Continental flare.

But for what? It sounded as if it could be a restaurant. Or a bar. A fancy nightspot, perhaps. Or even a health club, as I’d first supposed.

Well, whatever it was, I’d now found a link connecting Woodall with Arthur Darrow. Darrow, who was connected to Elaine by Jim Lauterbach’s file. Lauterbach, who had been hired by Henry Nyland. Nyland, who suspected Elaine had been involved with another man — another man who had to be Woodall. Woodall, whom Karyn Sugarman had classified as an Inadequate Personality. Sugarman, who...

Everybody seemed connected. Loosely connected, to be sure, but all linked by something called Les Club.