L is for Lawless

7

I checked the seat pocket in front of me: barf bag, laminated card with cartoon safety procedures, boring airline magazine, and a gift catalog in case I wanted to do my midair Christmas shopping. This was going to be a long trip, and me without my trusty Leonard novel. I felt my gaze return to the pregnant woman, who was seated across the aisle and two rows forward. At this remove, I could only see a portion of her face. The tangle of auburn hair made me long to have at her with a brush.

I still couldn't believe I was doing this. I decided I'd better do a quick inventory to assess my situation. I had the clothes on my back, which consisted of my Reeboks and socks, underwear, jeans, turtleneck, and blazer. I put my hands in my blazer pockets and came up with last week's movie receipt, two quarters, and a ballpoint pen, plus a paper clip. I felt my right-hand jeans pocket, which was empty. In the other pocket I had a wadded-up tissue, which I pulled out and used to blow my nose. One by one, I removed the items from my handbag and laid them on the seat beside me. I had my wallet with my California driver's license and my PI license; two major credit cards, one of which was good for $2,500 (less the current balance, of course), the other of which I now noticed had expired. Well, damn. I had $46.52 in cash, my telephone charge card, and an ATM card, which would be useless outside California. Where was my checkbook? Ah, sitting at home on my desk, where I'd been paying bills. Virtue is pointless in a crunch, as it turns out. If I'd neglected my debts, I'd have my checkbook with me, extending my tangible assets by three or four hundred bucks. Tucked in the inner compartment of my wallet, I had my key picks, always a handy item for the impromptu jet-setter.

Additionally, I had the toothbrush and toothpaste and the clean pair of underpants I always carry with me. I also had my Swiss Army knife, my sunglasses, a comb, a lipstick, a corkscrew, the key from Johnny's safe, two pens, the used grocery list on which I'd made a note of the Taurus's license plate number, a small bottle of aspirin, and my birth control pills. Whatever else happened, I wasn't going to get pregnant, so why fret? I was, after all, on vacation, and I had no other pressing responsibilities.

I didn't have the faintest idea what I'd do once we'd landed. Obviously, I'd wait and see what course of action my traveling companion elected. If she was leaving the country, there was nothing I could do about it, as the one thing I didn't have in my possession was my passport. I could probably travel into Mexico using my driver's license, but I didn't like to do that. I'd heard too many stories about Mexican jails. On the plus side, my return ticket was paid for, so I could always get straight back on a plane and come home. In the meantime, the worst that could happen was I'd make a fool of myself… not exactly unprecedented in my experience.

As soon as the seat belt sign went off, I unbuckled myself and searched through the overhead bin for a pillow and a blanket. I moved to the back of the plane and utilized the in-flight plumbing, washed my hands, checked my reflection in the lavatory mirror, and picked up a copy of Time magazine as I returned to my seat. The pilot came on the intercom and said some piloty things in a reassuring tone. He told us about our flying altitude, the weather, and the flight course, along with our estimated time of arrival.

The drink cart came by and I treated myself to three bucks' worth of bad wine. I could hardly wait to eat my four-hundred-and-eighty-seven-dollar snack, which turned out to be a cherry tomato, a sprig of parsley, and a "deli" bun the size of a paperweight. Dessert was a foil-wrapped chocolate wafer. Once we'd been fed, the cabin lights went down. Half the passengers opted for sleep while the other half flipped on their reading lights and either read or did paperwork. Forty-five minutes passed and I noticed the pregnant woman walking past my seat.

I turned and watched with interest as she headed toward the two lavatories at the rear of the plane. I scanned the other passengers in the immediate vicinity. Most were asleep. No one seemed to be paying any attention to me. The minute the woman closed herself into the toilet, I eased out of my seat and moved two rows forward, where I sat down in the aisle seat two over from hers. I made a brief display of checking the seat pocket, as if searching out some pertinent item therein. I wasn't going to have the time (or the audacity) to take down the duffel. The woman had apparently taken her handbag with her – not very trusting of her – so I couldn't riffle the contents. I checked her seat pocket. Nothing of interest in there. All she'd left behind was the hardback Danielle Steel novel, closed now and lying in the middle seat. I checked the inside cover, but there was no name written in the book. I noticed she was using her boarding pass as a bookmark. I plucked it out, slid the stub in my blazer pocket, and returned to my seat. No one shrieked or pointed or denounced me on sight. Moments later, the pregnant woman passed me again, returning to her seat. I saw her pick up her book. She rose halfway and checked the seat cushion under her, then leaned down and searched in the area around her seat for the missing boarding pass. I could almost see the question mark appear, cloudlike, in the air above her head. She seemed to shrug. She got up again and took a pillow and weensy blanket from the overhead bin, flipped the light out, and settled down in her seat with the blanket across her chest.

I eased the stub of her boarding pass from my blazer pocket and took in the minimal information printed on it. Her name was Laura Huckaby, her destination Palm Beach.

Dallas/Fort Worth was in the central time zone, two hours ahead of us. After three plus hours in the air, it was 1:45 in the morning by the time we finally landed. A few minutes prior to our arrival, the flight attendant came on the intercom with the gate numbers for various connecting flights. She also advised us that the plane would be on the ground for approximately one hour and ten minutes before the continuation of flight 508 to Palm Beach. If we intended to deplane, we'd need to have our boarding passes with us for re-boarding purposes. Poor Laura Huckaby was now minus her boarding pass, thanks to my chicanery. I watched her with guilt, expecting her to engage in an anxious conversation with the girl steward-person or else remain, unhappily, in her seat until the flight took off again.

Instead, once we were parked at the gate and the seat belt sign was turned off, she got up, retrieved her raincoat and the duffel, tucked the book in the outer pocket, and joined the slowly moving line of departing passengers. I didn't know what to make of this, but I was compelled to follow. We stumped along the jetway in haphazard fashion, an irregular assortment of exhausted late night travelers. The few passengers with carry-on bags gravitated toward the exits, but most people headed toward the baggage claim area. I kept Laura Huckaby well within my sights. Her auburn hair had been flattened in sleep, and the back of her jumper was pleated with horizontal wrinkles. She still had the raincoat draped over one arm, but she had to pause twice to switch the duffel from hand to hand. Where was she going? Did she think this was Palm Beach?

The Dallas/Fort Worth Airport was done in neutrals and beiges, the floor tiles clay colored. The corridors were wide and quiet at that hour of the morning. A group of Asian businessmen was driven past us in a whirring electric cart, a repetitious tone peeping to warn unwary pedestrians. The overhead lighting made us all look jaundiced. Most concession kiosks were gated and dark. We passed a restaurant and a combination news and gift shop selling hard- and paperback books, glossy magazines, newspapers, Texas barbecue sauces, Tex-Mex cookbooks, and T-shirts with Texas logos. The baggage claim area for flight 508 appeared ahead of us beyond a revolving door. Laura Huckaby pushed through ahead of me and then hesitated on the far side, as if to get her bearings. I thought at first she might be looking for someone, but that didn't seem to be the case.

I moved past her and crossed to the carousel where the bags would be coming in. I couldn't figure out what was going on. Had she always intended to deplane at this point? Was her suitcase checked all the way through to Palm Beach or only as far as Dallas/Fort Worth? A row of linked chrome-and-faux-leather chairs was arranged to the left. A television set had been mounted up on the wall in one corner, and most of the heads were tilted in that direction. Pictured, in garish color, was the wreckage of a recent plane crash, black smoke still rising from the charred fuselage in a harshly lighted landscape. The reporter spoke directly to the camera. She wore a camel-hair overcoat, snow billowing around her. The wind whipped her hair and stung her cheeks with hot pink. The sound was barely audible, but none of us had any doubts about the subject matter. I crossed to the water fountain and took a long, noisy drink.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Laura Huckaby approach the wall-mounted directory, where she studied a set of printed instructions about how to call the shuttle service for the numerous hotels in the vicinity. She picked up the phone receiver and punched in four numbers. A brief conversation followed. I waited until she'd hung up again and then I intersected her path, falling in behind her as she approached the escalator. We descended to street level, where we proceeded through a set of plate-glass doors.

Outside, the night air was surprisingly cold. Despite the artificial lighting, a pervasive gloom blanketed the pickup area. Landscaping had been tucked in between the sidewalk and the building. Along the buff-colored facade, the grass was planted in tufts at distinctly placed intervals like the plugs on a hair transplant. I proceeded to the area marked "Courtesy Shuttles," where I turned and waited, peering patiently along the roadway. Laura Huckaby and I made no eye contact. She seemed tired and preoccupied, exhibiting no interest in her fellow travelers. At one point she winced, pressing a fist into the small of her back. Two others joined us: a portly gentleman in a business suit, toting a briefcase and a garment bag, and a young girl in a ski parka with a bulging backpack. A few cars passed at speeds sufficient to create an exhaust-laden breeze that swirled around our feet. At this hour of the morning, air traffic had diminished, but I could still hear the dull rumble of jets taking off from time to time.

Several courtesy shuttles passed us in succession. She made no move to flag them down, nor did the other two waiting with us. Finally, a red van swung around the curve into view. On the side, in flowing gold script, The Desert Castle was written with a symbolic castle depicted in silhouette. Laura Huckaby raised a hand, signaling the van. The driver spotted the gesture and pulled over to the curb. He stepped out of the bus and helped the businessman with his luggage while she and I got on the bus, the businessman following. The young woman with the backpack remained where she was, her gaze still focused anxiously on approaching vehicles. I found a seat near the rear of the darkened bus. Laura Huckaby ended up near the front, her cheek propped wearily against the palm of her hand. Most of her hair was straggling out of her topknot. '

The driver returned to his seat and closed the door, then picked up a clipboard and turned halfway toward us to confirm the names on his list. "Wheeler?"

"Here." The man in the business suit identified himself.

"Hudson?"

To my surprise, Laura Huckaby raised her hand. Hudson? Where did that come from? Interesting development. Not only had she deplaned in a city that was not her intended destination, but she'd apparently made hotel reservations in another name. What was she trying to pull?

"I'm meeting someone," I said, speaking up in response to his inquiring look.

The driver nodded, set the clipboard aside, put the bus in gear, and took off. We followed a complicated course of crisscrossing lanes around the terminal and finally sped through the open countryside. The land was flat and very, very dark. An occasional lighted building shot up out of the blackness like a shimmering mirage. We passed what must have been restaurant row: steak house after steak house as gaudily lighted as one of the main streets in Las Vegas. A big commercial hotel finally loomed into view, one of those tasteless facilities with the room price – $69.95 single occupancy – posted right below the name. The red neon letters of the Desert Castle appeared to empty of color and then fill up again. In subscript the sign read WHERE YOU'RE GUARANTEED A GOOD KNIGHT'S SLEEP. Oh, please. The logo consisted of the outline of two green neon palms, flanking a red neon tower with crenellated battlements.

We passed an oasis of tall palms that surrounded a mock-up of the tower depicted on the building, a structure of faux stone complete with an empty moat and drawbridge. When the shuttle pulled into the hotel's passenger loading area, I hung back until Laura Huckaby (aka Hudson) had been assisted to the curb. There didn't seem to be any bellhumans on duty. The man in the business suit picked up his briefcase and his garment bag. The three of us moved into the lobby through revolving doors, with me bringing up the rear. Aside from the duffel, Laura Huckaby was without luggage.

Inside, the "merrie aulde England" motif had been given full play. Everything was crimson and gold, heavy velvet drapes, crenellated moldings, and tapestries hung from metal pikes sticking out of the "castle" walls. Just beyond the elevators, an arrow pointed the way to the rest rooms, which were marked Lords and Damsels. At the reception desk, I made sure I was third in line, reluctant to attract Laura Huckaby's attention. Given the hotel rates, I could afford maybe two nights' stay, but I'd have to be careful about additional charges. I had no idea how long Laura Huckaby would be here. She completed the check-in procedure and crossed to the elevators with the duffel in tow. By craning my neck slightly, I could see that the bank of elevators had a vertical strip of lights, indicating the floor each elevator was on at any given moment of operation. She entered the first elevator, and once the doors closed, I murmured, "I'll be right back," to no one in particular and sped in that direction. The red light advanced systematically from floor to floor and stopped on twelve.

I returned to the counter just as the man ahead of me finished checking in and crossed to the elevators. I moved up to the desk. Given the decor, I expected the clerk to be wearing a wimple or a corselet at the very least. Instead, she wore a regulation hotel management ensemble: white shirt, navy blazer, and a plain navy skirt. Her name tag read Vikki Biggs, Night Clerk. She was in her twenties, probably new to the staff and therefore relegated to the graveyard shift. She gave me a form to fill out. I jotted down my name and address and then watched while she ran off a credit card voucher.

She glanced at the address as she stapled the voucher to the registration form. "My goodness. Everybody's coming in from California tonight," she said. "That other woman was flying in from Santa Teresa, too."

"I know. We're together. She's my sister-in-law. Is there any way you could put me on the same floor with her?"

"We'll sure try," she said. She tapped a few lines on the ubiquitous keyboard, watching the monitor, her expression studious. Sometimes I want to lean across the desk and take a look myself. From Vikki's perspective, the news wasn't that good. "I'm sorry, but that floor's booked. I have a room on eight."

"That's fine," I said. And then as an afterthought, "What room is she in?" As if Vikki Biggs had just mentioned it and it had slipped my mind.

Ms. Biggs was no dummy. I'd apparently just crossed over into hotel management no-no land. She screwed her mouth sideways in a look of regret. "I'm not allowed to give out room numbers. I'll tell you what, though. You can give her a call as soon as you get to your room and the hotel operator will be happy to connect you."

"Oh, sure. No problem. I can always check with her later. I know she's as tired as I am. Flying the red-eye is a drag."

"I'll bet. You here for business or pleasure?"

"Little bit of both."

Ms. Biggs put my room key in a folder and slid it across the counter toward me. "Enjoy your stay."

Going up in the elevator, I was treated to symphonic music while I stared at myself in the smoky-glass mirror. "You look disgusting," I said to my reflection. Once on the eighth floor, the lighting was dim and it was dead quiet. Thieflike, I padded down the wide carpeted corridor and unlocked my door. The medieval affectations hadn't extended this far. I found myself transported from fourteenth-century England to the wild and woolly West, decor left over from some previous ownership. The room was done up in burnt orange and browns, the wallpaper textured like wood paneling. The bedspread was patterned in cactus and saddles, with a variety of cattle brands stitched across the surface. I did a quick roundup survey, circling the room to appraise the accommodations.

To the right of the door was a double closet containing four wooden hangers, an iron, and an ironing boardlet two feet long with short metal feet. Across from the closet was a dressing area with a mirrored vanity and sink, with a hair dryer affixed to the wall on the right. On the counter was a four-cup coffee maker with packets of sugar and nondairy creamer. A basket held small bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and lotion, plus a little mending kit and a shower cap in a box. In the bathroom, there was a fiberglass tub with a shower nozzle extending from the wall at about neck level. The plastic shower curtain was patterned with horseshoes and bucking broncos. There was a toilet, three bath towels, a bathmat, and one of those rubber tub mats designed to reduce the chances of a nasty spill and an even nastier lawsuit.

There was no minibar, but there was a jar of cellophane-wrapped hard candies in four gaudy flavors. Well, hey. What a treat. I'd also been blessed with a telephone, a television set, and a clock radio. In the morning, I'd call Henry and get an update on the situation in Santa Teresa. In the meantime, I closed the drapes and peeled off my clothes, which I hung neatly on my meager allotment of hangers. In the interest of sanitation, I laundered my underpants while I had the chance, using a dollop of hotel shampoo. In a pinch, I could use the hair dryer and the iron to dry them before I put them on again. A quick call to American Airlines showed no flights of any kind out of Dallas to Palm Beach until later that day, which meant Laura should be in for the night.

It was close to three-thirty a.m. when I put out the Do Not Disturb sign and slipped between the sheets buck naked. I fell almost instantly into a deep, untroubled sleep. If Laura Huckaby pulled a fast one and checked out any time within the next eight hours, then forget it. I'd put myself on a plane and head home.

I woke at noon and used my travel toothbrush to get the fur out of my mouth. I showered, shampooed my hair, and got back into yesterday's clothes, using my spare underpants since my newly laundered panties were still damp to the touch. I then enjoyed a wholesome meal of hot coffee with two packets each of sugar and whitener and four hard candies, two orange and two cherry. When I finally opened the drapes, I staggered back from the harsh Texas sun. Outside, I could see dry, flat land all the way out to the horizon, with scarcely a tree or a shrub in sight. Light blasted off the only other building in view: an office complex with a mirrored exterior on the far side of the cul-de-sac. To the right, a four-lane highway disappeared in two directions with no clear indication of the destination either way. The hotel seemed to be built in the middle of a commercial/ industrial park with only one other tenant. As I watched, a group of runners appeared on my left. They looked to be kids, maybe middle school age, that stage of adolescence where body sizes and types are all over the place. Tall, short, squat, and thin as rails, knobby kneed they ran, with the slower ones bringing up the rear. They were dressed in shorts and green satin singlets, but they were too far away for me to read the school name on their uniforms.

I pulled the drapes shut and went over to the bed, where I stretched out, propping pillows behind me while I put in a call to Henry. As soon as he answered, I said, "Guess where I am."

"Jail."

I laughed. "I'm in Dallas."

"That doesn't surprise me. I talked to Chester this morning and he said you were off on some kind of wild goose chase."

"What's the latest from Bucky's? Has anybody figured out what was stolen last night?"

"Not as far as I know. Chester did tell me the kickplate at the bottom of the kitchen cabinet was pried off. It looks like the old man constructed some kind of hidden compartment when he put the sink in. The space might have been empty to begin with, but more likely somebody walked off with whatever was in there."

"A secret compartment in addition to the safe? That's interesting. Wonder what he had to hide."

"Chester thinks it was war documents."

"He told me about that. I can't believe it, but I intend to find out. The fellow I saw passed the duffel over to his wife or girlfriend, and she carried it with her on the plane last night. The guy wasn't on the flight, but he probably intends to join her. She was booked through to Palm Beach, but she got off in Dallas, so naturally I did, too."

"Oh, naturally. Why not?"

I smiled at his tone. "At any rate, you might have the police check the Capri motel. I didn't have a chance to tell Chester about that. I'm not sure about the number, but it was the second unit on the right. Her pal might still be there if he hasn't taken off by now."

"I'm making notes," Henry said. "I'll pass this along to the police, if you like."

"What about Ray? Do they think he was in on it?"

"Well, he must have had some connection. Police tried to question him, but he clammed right up. If he knew anything about it, he wouldn't say."

"Sounds like somebody pounded on him for the information about the kickplate."

"That'd be my guess. One of the officers took him over to the emergency room at St. Terry's, but as soon as the doctor finished treating him, he disappeared and nobody's heard from him since."

"Do me a favor. Go over to the Lexington Hotel and see if he's there. Room 407. Don't call first. He may not be answering his phone-"

Henry cut in. "Too late. He's already gone, and I don't think there's much chance of his turning up. Bucky went over there this morning and his room's been cleaned out. Not surprisingly, the police are interested in him as a material witness.

What about you? You want me to tell the detective what you saw?"

"You can, but I'm not sure how much good it will do. As soon as I figure out what's going on, I'll call the Santa Teresa cops myself. The police here won't have jurisdiction, and at this point I'm not even sure what kind of crime we're discussing."

"Assault, for one thing."

"Yeah, but what if Ray Rawson doesn't show up again? Even if he surfaces, he might not know the identity of his assailant or he might refuse to press charges. As for the alleged burglary, we don't even know what was stolen, let alone who did it."

"I thought you saw the guy."

"Sure, I saw him come out of Johnny's place. I can't swear he stole anything."

"What about this gal with the duffel?"

"She might not even know the significance of the bag she's toting. She certainly wasn't involved in the assault."

"Wouldn't she be guilty of receiving stolen goods?"

"We can't even swear there was a theft," I said. "Besides, she might not have the slightest idea anything's amiss. Husband comes home. She's going off on a trip. He says, Do me a favor and take this with you when you go."

"What do you intend to do?"

"I'm not sure. I'd love to get my hands on that duffel. It might give us a feeling for what the deal is here."

"Kinsey…" Henry warned.

"Henry, don't worry. I'm not going to take any risks."

"I hate when you say that. I know what you're like. Where are you staying? I want the telephone number."

I gave him the telephone number printed on the telephone pad. "It's a hotel called the Desert Castle, near the airport in Dallas. Room 815. The woman's up on twelve."

"What's the plan?"

"Beats me," I said. "I'm just going to have to wait and see what she does. She's ticketed on through to Palm Beach, so if she gets back on a plane, I guess I'll get on, too."

He was silent for a moment. "What about money? Do you need additional funds?"

"I got about forty bucks in cash and a plane ticket home. As long as I'm careful with my credit card, I'll do great. I hope you'll impress Chester with my professionalism. I'm really not interested in getting stiffed for expenses."

"I don't like it."

"I'm not crazy about the situation myself. I just wanted you to know where I was."

"Try not to commit a felony."

"If I knew the Texas statutes, it would help," I said.