L is for Lawless

6

A one-car surveillance is usually a waste of time, especially at night, where a second set of headlights becomes conspicuous in a subject's rearview mirror. In this case, whatever this guy was up to, I didn't think he had any idea I was following. Coming out of Johnny's garage apartment, he'd seemed neither watchful nor cautious, and I had to believe a tail was the last thing he expected. I hadn't expected it myself, so I was at least as surprised as he was. He did nothing on the freeway – no tricky lane changes, no sudden exits – to indicate that he was aware of my presence. The Stetson, in silhouette, gave me a nice visual cue against the wash of approaching headlights. He took the off-ramp at upper State Street, and I slid into the lane behind him. While I steered with my left hand, I scrounged around in my handbag for a scrap of paper and a pen. At least I could take his license plate number while I had him in range. The nature of the plate number indicated that the car was a rental, a further clue being the Penny-Car-Rental on the license plate rim. Big duh. I made a note of the number on the back of an old grocery list. Later, I'd find someone to check the rental car records.

It was 7:17 by the time the white Taurus pulled into the gravel courtyard of the Capri, a ten-unit "motor hotel" off the frontage road. The perimeter of the parking area was delineated by a drooping strand of Christmas tree lights that had been strung from pole to pole. The motel itself was made up of two rows of small frame and clapboard cottages, each with a carport affixed to one side. The darkness had draped the exteriors in sufficient shadow to conceal the flaking paint, warping window screens, and poor construction. Most of the cottages appeared to be empty: windows unlighted, no vehicles in the carports. A pint-size U-Haul truck was parked in front of one unit. The first two cottages on the left were occupied, along with the second unit on the right, which was where the Taurus was now parked.

The driver locked his vehicle and moved up to the cottage's small concrete porch, with its light offering forty watts' worth of illumination. I waited until he'd unlocked the cottage and entered before I eased my VW along the gravel parking lot to a darkened unit across the way. I backed into the carport, doused my headlights, and rolled the window down. The stillness was punctuated by the ticking of my engine as the metal cooled. Also, by a failing green Christmas tree bulb that flickered and buzzed somewhere above my head like a jolly green bee. I sat in the dark, pondering how long I'd be willing to wait before I headed for home.

Poor Nell must be wondering how far away the supermarket was. I'd promised her a quick trip – fifteen minutes max. I'd now been gone twice that long. I had a squirrelly feeling in the pit of my stomach, a strange emotional concoction of anxiety and excitement. What was in the duffel the guy had taken off the premises? Could be burglars' tools. I was operating on the assumption that this was the same guy who'd tossed the place before, though I couldn't imagine what was worth coming back for. Ray Rawson had some suspicions about who the break-in artist might have been, but he'd given no indication why anyone would bother. I wished now I'd pressed him for the information. Meanwhile, it was worth a short wait. If I ran out of patience, I'd make a note of the motel address and use a phone ruse in the morning to find out who was staying there.

I checked my watch again. It was now 7:32. The fellow had been in there fifteen minutes or so. Was he in for the night? I really couldn't sit here indefinitely, and I didn't think it made sense to go prowling around the cottage, trying to peer in the windows. The guy might be traveling with a bad-tempered mutt that would set up a stink. This was the kind of place that would have to accommodate kids and weird pets. How else would they get business except by accident?

Just about the time I was ready to pack it in, I saw some movement on the cottage porch. The man emerged accompanied by a woman, who now carried the duffel bag. He still wore his hat and he was toting a suitcase, which he stowed in the trunk. She handed him the duffel and he tucked it in with the suitcase. He opened the car door, giving her an assist as she got into the seat on the passenger side. I noticed they didn't bother with any checkout procedure. Either they were only leaving for a short time or they were decamping without paying. He went around to the driver's side. I started my engine at the same time he started his, using his noise as a cover for mine. His taillights came on, the two bright red spots overlaid with the white of his backup lights.

I left my headlights off, waiting until the Taurus backed out and made a right turn into the street. The Taurus took off toward the highway, and I followed at a discreet distance. I wasn't happy with the arrangement. There wasn't much other traffic on the road, and if I had to tail the guy for long, I was going to get burned. Fortunately he headed for the northbound freeway on-ramp, and by the time I eased in behind him, there were sufficient cars on the road to camouflage my presence.

The driver of the Taurus stayed in the right lane and proceeded for two off-ramps before he finally took the exit designated for the airport and the university. With two bags in the trunk, I didn't think they were on their way to a UCST night class. The ramp curved up and around to the left, widening into six lanes. A Yellow Cab merged with us from an access road, and I eased back on the accelerator, allowing the taxi to slip in between us. The Taurus stayed in the right lane and turned off at Rockpit, turning right again at the stop sign. I stayed in the slipstream as first the Taurus and then the taxi turned in at the airport.

I watched as the Taurus moved into the left lane and slowed at the ticket meter for the short-term parking lot. The ticket arm went up like an automated salute. Meanwhile, the taxi kept to the right, pulling up at the curb in the passenger loading zone, where two passengers got out with their luggage. I waited until the Taurus drove into the short-term lot before I eased the VW forward. The ticket dispenser buzzed and a parking ticket emerged from the slot like a tongue. I snagged it and rolled forward into the lot.

The Taurus had turned into the first aisle on the left and was now parked in the front row, close to the road. I caught a quick glimpse of the couple as they crossed toward the terminal. He carried both the suitcase and the duffel. She was wearing a raincoat pulled around her for warmth. I scanned the spaces available and pulled into the first empty spot. I parked, locked up, and dogtrotted after them. The two were engaged in conversation, and neither seemed aware of my company.

It was fully dark by now, the terminal building lighted up like one of those miniature cottages you put under the Christmas tree. There were two skycaps at the curb, putting tags on the suitcases of the two travelers the taxi had disgorged. The couple went into the terminal. I noticed they were bypassing the car rental offices. Were they skipping? I doubled my pace, my shoulder bag banging against one hip as I jogged down the short walk to the entrance. The terminal at the Santa Teresa Airport has only six working gates.

In the left wing, Gates 1, 2, and 3 serviced commuter airlines: the puddle-jumpers doing short runs to and from Los Angeles, San Francisco, San Jose, Fresno, Sacramento, and other points within about a four-hundred-mile radius. In the main lobby, United Airlines was sharing counter space with American. I did a quick visual survey, checking out the passengers seated in various groupings of linked upholstered chairs. The Stetson should have made the guy fairly easy to spot, but there was no sign of the pair.

Most departing passengers were processed through Gate 5, which was plainly visible across the small lobby. At this hour of the night, air traffic wasn't heavy and a check of the departures monitor indicated only two outbound flights. One was a United prop jet to Los Angeles, the other an American Airlines flight to Palm Beach with an intervening stop at Dallas/Fort Worth. Dead ahead was Gate 4, which was used as the arrival gate for United's incoming flights. Arched windows looked out onto a small grassy area, defined by outdoor lights and surrounded by a stucco wall topped with a three-foot rim of protective window glass. I could hear the high-pitched drone of a small plane approaching along the runway. I moved to the double doors and checked the courtyard. There were maybe six or eight people scattered across the area: a woman with a toddler, three college students, an older couple with a dog on a leash. No sign of the couple I was looking for.

As I passed through the main lobby toward the commuter wing, I spotted the Stetson, black felt with a broad brim and a high soft crown. The guy was in the gift shop, paying for a couple of magazines. I was catching him in profile, but the light was excellent. As if obliging me, he took off his hat and ruffled his hair before he readjusted the angle of the hat on his head. I studied him with care so that I could identify him again if it ever came to that. I put him in his late fifties, with small dark eyes in a lean, hawkish face. He had a bushy salt-and-pepper mustache. What by streetlight had appeared to be dark curly hair I could now see was heavily interwoven with strands of silver. He wore cowboy boots, jeans, and a heavy dark wool jacket. I pegged him at six feet, though the boots might have added inches, maybe 160 to 175 pounds. He tucked the magazines under his arm and crammed the change in his pocket. I backed away from the door as he turned in my direction.

Behind me was a bank of public telephones. In part as cover and in part out of desperation, I turned to the first phone and hauled up the phone book that was chained to the metal shelf below. I busied myself looking up Bucky's number while the guy came out of the gift shop behind me. Obliquely, I watched as he crossed the lobby, joining the woman, who was now standing at the ticket counter with her back to me, the duffel at her feet. Where had she come from? Probably the ladies' room. The line she was standing in was designated for the purchasing of tickets. She'd taken off her raincoat, which was now folded across one arm. The passenger in front of her finished his business and she moved to the counter, placing a big soft-sided suitcase on the weighing apparatus. She reached back with one foot, shifting the duffel forward until it rested against the counter beside her.

The ticket agent greeted her, and the two exchanged a few words. While the agent tapped on her computer keyboard, the woman reached over and picked up a cardboard identification strip from a container on the counter. She filled in the details and then gave the tag to the ticket agent, who was just in the process of assembling the ticket. The woman laid out a sheaf of bills, which the ticket agent counted and then put away. She secured the woman's identification to the suitcase, along with a claim tag, and then placed the suitcase on the conveyor belt. The moving bag was spirited through a small opening like a coffin on its way to the flames. The two finished their transaction, and the agent passed the woman's ticket envelope across the counter to her.

When the woman turned to her companion, I could see that she was six or seven months pregnant. Was this his daughter? She was much younger than the fellow who accompanied her: early to mid-thirties, gaudy auburn hair piled in a tangled knot on top. Her complexion had the pasty look of too much foundation, overlaid with a shade of powder that made her face seem faintly dirty. Her maternity outfit was one of those oversize pale blue denim dresses with short sleeves and a dropped waist, against which her belly bulged. Under the dress she wore an oversize white T-shirt with long sleeves. She also wore red-and-white-striped tights and high-topped red tennis shoes. The dress itself I'd seen in a gardening catalog, a style favored by former hippies who'd given up dope and communal sex for organic vegetables and all-natural fiber clothes.

The guy picked up the duffel and the two moved aside as the next passenger in line moved up to the counter. He put the duffel down again and they stood to one side, engaged in desultory conversation. These people were about to get on a plane, and what was I supposed to do? A citizen's arrest seemed like dicey business at best. I couldn't even swear that a crime had been committed. On the other hand, what else was this guy doing up in Johnny Lee's apartment? I'd been a cop just long enough to have a nose for these things. To all appearances, the duffel bag was about to be transported out of state. I had no idea if the pair intended to return to Santa Teresa or were engaged in unlawful flight.

I turned back to the phone book and flipped through the pages with agitation, talking to myself. Come on, come on. Lawrence. Laymon. I ran a finger down the columns. Leason. Leatherman. Leber. Ah. Fifteen listings under Lee, but only one on Bay. Bucyrus Lee. Bucky's name was Bucyrus? I found a quarter in my blazer pocket, dropped it in the slot, and dialed the number. The receiver was picked up on the second ring. "Hello, Bucky?"

"This is Chester. Who's this?"

"Kinsey…"

"Shit. You better get over here. All hell's broken loose."

"What's going on?"

"We came home from Rosie's to find Ray Raw-son crawling down the drive. Face all bloody, hand swoll up the size of a baseball mitt. He's got two fingers snapped sideways and God knows what else. Somebody busted in again and ripped into the space under the kitchen cabinet…"

Over the intercom system, an announcement was being made about an American Airlines flight. "Hang on a second," I said. I put my hand across the mouthpiece. I'd missed the specifics, but it had to be the boarding call for the flight to Palm Beach. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the guy pick up the duffel, and together he and the pregnant woman moved out of the terminal, turning left toward the American Airlines departure gate. I could feel my heart pound. I turned my attention back to Chester. "Is Rawson okay?"

"Hey, we got cop cars all over and an ambulance on the way. He don't look so good. What's all the racket? I can hardly hear you."

"That's why I called. I'm at the airport," I said. "I saw a guy coming out of the apartment with a duffel. It looks like he and some woman are about to get on a plane. I tailed him this far, but once we lose track of that bag, it's only my word against his."

"Hang on. I'll grab Bucky and head out. Just don't let go of him until we get there."

"Chester, the plane's boarding. Do you know what he took?"

"I have no idea. I can't even get in until the place clears out. What about airport security? Can't they give you a hand?"

"What airport security? There's not an officer in sight. I'm here by myself."

"Well, for God's sake, do something."

I flashed through the possibilities. "Authorize a ticket and I'll follow him," I said.

"To where?"

"The plane's on its way to Palm Beach with a stop in Dallas. Make up your mind because two minutes more and he's out of here."

"Do it. We'll settle later. Call me when you can."

I banged the receiver down and checked the departures monitor again in passing. Beside the posted departure time for American flight 508, the word boarding was blinking merrily. The terminal had emptied of waiting passengers, who were apparently assembling at the gate. I trotted across the lobby to the American Airlines ticket counter. One of the two agents was busy with a passenger, but the other caught my eye. "I can help you over here."

I moved to her station. "Are there any seats available on the flight to Palm Beach?" I had no idea if the couple were on their way to Dallas or Palm Beach, but I had to assume the latter if I intended to stick with them.

"Let me see what we have. I know the flight's not full." She began to type rapidly on the computer keyboard in front of her, pausing while her eye took in the data appearing on the screen in front of her. "We have seventeen seats… twelve in coach and five in first class."

"What's coach fare?"

"Four hundred and eighty-seven dollars."

That wasn't bad. "And that's round trip?"

"One way."

"Four hundred and eighty-seven dollars one way?" My voice squeaked like I had just that minute reached puberty.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'll take it," I said. "You better leave the return open-ended. I'm not sure how long I'll be staying." The truth was, I had no idea where the couple was headed. Their real destination could be Mexico, South America, or just about anywhere. I hadn't seen any sign of passports changing hands, but I couldn't rule out the possibility. Since this wasn't the same agent who'd dealt with the pregnant woman, there wasn't any point in quizzing her. I pulled out my wallet and took out a credit card, which I placed on the counter. She didn't seem to question the wisdom of the impulse. Oh, man. Chester had better pay up or I was sunk.

"Would you prefer an aisle seat or window?"

"Aisle. Near the front." For all I knew the couple would be first off the plane, and I wanted to be ready to cut and run when they did.

She typed another entry, tapping away in a leisurely manner. "You have bags to check?"

"Just carry-on," I said. I wanted to scream at her to hurry, but there wasn't any point. The ticket machine began to rattle and hum, generating my ticket, the boarding pass, and the credit card voucher, which I signed where specified. I could feel my eyes cross slightly when I saw what I'd paid. The round-trip coach fare without benefit of upgrade certificates or advance purchase discounts had cost me $974. I did some quick arithmetic. The limit on this credit card was $2,500, and I was still paying off some purchases I'd made over the summer. By my calculations, I had about four hundred bucks left. Oh, well. It wasn't like I didn't have money in my savings account. I just couldn't get to it at this hour of the night.

I took my ticket envelope, thanked the agent, and scurried out the front of the terminal and around to Gate 6, where I placed my handbag on the conveyor moving through the X-ray machine. I removed Johnny's key from my jeans pocket and tucked it in my handbag. I walked through the metal detector without incident and reclaimed my handbag on the other side. First-class passengers and parents with small children had already passed through the gate and had left the terminal. I could see them straggling across the tarmac toward the waiting plane. General boarding was now under way, and I took my place at the rear of the slow-moving line. The man in the Stetson was clearly visible.

About six passengers ahead of me, the couple stood together, saying little or nothing. She now carried the magazines, and he toted the duffel. Their behavior with each other seemed strained, their faces devoid of animation. I saw no evidence of affection except for the belly, which suggested at least one round of intimacy six or seven months back. Maybe they'd been forced to get married because of the baby. Whatever the explanation, the emotional dynamic between them seemed dead.

When they reached the gate, the guy handed her the duffel and said something. She murmured her response without looking at him. She seemed withdrawn, decidedly chilly in her reaction to him. He put an arm around her shoulder and gave her cheek a kiss. He stepped back then and tucked his hands in his pockets, looking on while she handed her boarding pass to the gate agent and walked out with the duffel in her hand. Uh-oh, now what? He waited by the gate until she'd moved out of sight. I hesitated, considering my options. I could always follow him, but the duffel was the point, at least until I found out what was in it. Once the booty was gone, how was anyone going to trace it back to the source?

The guy turned in my direction, heading for the exit. He caught my eye briefly before I could avert my gaze. I flicked another look at him and snapped a mental photograph of his grizzled face, the scar on his chin, a deeply indented line of white that began with his lower lip and continued down along his neck. He'd either gone through a window or had his face slashed.

The gate agent took my proffered ticket, handing back the torn stub from my boarding pass. If I was going to bail out, now was the time to do it. Ahead of me, across the poorly lighted expanse of asphalt, I saw the pregnant woman reach the top of the portable staircase and pass through the door of the plane. I took a deep breath and walked out onto the tarmac, where I crossed the open space to the stairs. The air was brisk and the perpetual wind that seems to whip along the runway cut through the fabric of my tweed blazer. I climbed the portable stairs, shoes tinking on the metal treads as I ascended.

I was happier once I'd crossed the threshold of the 737 into the lighted warmth of the interior. I glanced at the three first-class passengers, but the pregnant woman wasn't among them. I checked the seat number on the stub of my boarding pass: 10D, probably over the wing on the left side of the plane. While I waited for the passengers ahead of me to stow carry-on bags and settle in their seats, I managed to skim my gaze across the first few rows of coach. She was sitting eight rows back in a window seat on the right. She'd taken out a compact and was peering into the mirror. She took out a bottle of makeup, opened it, and dotted beige across her cheeks, blending it in.

At eye level, most of the luggage bins above the seats were standing open. I moved forward, waiting for the college student ahead of me to shove a canvas bag the size of an ottoman in the overhead compartment. As I passed row eight, I saw the duffel, half concealed by the pregnant woman's folded raincoat, both items shoved in between a bulging canvas garment bag, a briefcase, and a luggage cart – the very items destined to tumble out and bonk you on the head on landing. If I'd had the nerve, I'd have simply picked up the duffel and toted it with me, shoving it under my seat until I had a moment to search the contents. The pregnant woman glanced in my direction. I turned away from her casually.

I took my seat and tucked my shoulder bag under the seat in front of me. The two seats next to me were empty, and I sent up small airline-type prayers that I'd have the row to myself. In a pinch, I could flip the arms up and stretch out for a nap. The pregnant woman got up just then and stepped out into the aisle, where she reached up into the overhead bin. She pushed the garment bag aside and wrestled a hardback book from an outer pocket of the duffel. The girl stewardperson moved down the aisle behind her, snapping the overhead bins shut with a series of small bangs.

Shortly after the doors closed, the girl steward-person stood up in front of the assembled company and gave detailed instructions, with a practical demonstration, on how to fasten and unfasten our seat belts. I wondered if there was anybody present still befuddled by this. She also explained what to do if we were on the verge of being smashed, crushed, and burned by hurtling at high velocity from our flying altitude of twenty-six thousand feet straight down through the earth's crust. To me, the little hang-down oxygen bag seemed irrelevant, but it apparently made her feel better to pass along tips about the application of this device. To distract us from the possibility of death en route, she promised us a drink cart and a snack once we were airborne.

The plane rolled away from the terminal and taxied out onto the runway. There was a pause, and then the plane began to surge forward, picking up speed with much earnest intent. We rumbled and bumbled like the little engine that could. The plane lifted off into the night sky, the lighted buildings below becoming rapidly smaller until only a hapless grid of lights remained.