The Night Detectives

39

We drove east from San Diego through Poway and Ramona on the old Julian Road. Suburbia slipped away and the hills and mountains surrounded us. Ahead were the Anza-Borrego Desert and the little town of Borrego Springs. We climbed around Grapevine Mountain, huge rocks leaning in on us, and then the desert valley emptied beneath.

Patty and I had been here many times. We made a ritual of staying one weekend a year at a little inn at Borrego Springs. It was a single-story speck in the desert surrounded by rocky, bare mountains. I remembered that it had a traffic circle. And I remembered a photo that Patty had taken of me on a hot day, surrounded by barrel cactuses in bloom.

But our trip to the badlands today was not for pleasure. The temperature was over one-fifteen and the town was emptied out of all but the hardiest year-round residents. A room would be cheap this time of year.

The traffic circle was still there: Christmas Circle, and a little beyond was a simple little motel with statues of desert bighorn sheep out front. Patty and I had stayed at the tonier Borrego Valley Inn, with its Southwest architecture and private patios. But I had seen this motel many times, never giving it a second look.

“There,” Lindsey said.

She pointed to an older Toyota sedan parked in front of the ranch-style block of rooms. It was the only car in the lot. Peralta parked fifty feet away and we all piled out of the pickup truck.

“Let us go first.” By this, Lindsey meant Sharon and her.

Peralta and I were well-armed, but I didn’t think we would need firepower today. He nodded, and we watched the two women walk to the door directly in front of the Toyota and knock. They talked to the person who opened it, and after a couple minutes they went inside.

Peralta and I found some shade and waited, saying nothing.

Lindsey had followed her hunch and it pointed true.

Addison Conway’s car was not in Oklahoma. It was sitting a few paces from us under the mid-day California sun. Thanks to Lindsey’s black magic, the Chinese had hacked the phone company again and tracked Addison’s cell phone. Last Friday, it had been in Ocean Beach, at Tim’s apartment, an hour after I had left. Then it had taken the same route we had just driven and stayed here.

Sharon stepped out and smiled at us: come on in.

Lindsey sat on one of two double beds cradling little David Lewis in her lap. A young woman sat on the other bed. She turned her face to greet us. She was attractive in a girl-next-door way, no Southern California glamour, none of Grace Hunter’s looks hot enough to warm your hands by. She was crying. Lindsey was crying.

“This is Sheriff Peralta,” Sharon said, her voice so soothing. “And his partner David Mapstone. You’re going to be safe now, Addison.” She put an arm on the girl, who leaned into her as if she were a surrogate mother.

Sharon looked at us. “She’s been out here with nothing but her fears.”

I thought my insides were going to drop out on the floor. I tightened my diaphragm just to make sure it was still there. Lindsey’s hunch had been more than rewarded.

Addison Conway spoke with a slight twang and no one would mistake her for a Rhodes Scholar. She had been operating on primal fear these past days, not logic or reason.

“I went to see Tim and Grace,” she said. “I hadn’t heard a word from Grace and I was worried. I knew about her… You know. I was always afraid it would get her killed. When I got to the apartment, Tim was packing up to leave. He was very scared. He told me what had happened to Grace and I just…”

Sobs took her over and Sharon lightly stroked her hair until she could speak again.

“Tim was getting out, going to hide with his parents.” Her voice rose. “It wasn’t my fault!”

The baby started crying, and Lindsey expertly rocked him into happy little murmurs.

Sharon told her nobody was blaming her. We just wanted to understand what had happened.

“It happened so fast. Tim told me to take the baby and go down to the car, you know, it was in the covered spaces in back? So I did. He said he was going to pack up a suitcase and come right behind me. Only…”

We waited beneath the sound of the air conditioning and the baby gurgling contentedly.

I spoke for the first time. “What happened next, Addison?”

“They came for him!” She looked at me with a red face, puffy eyes. “Two men. They called out at the door that they were cops, and then they barged in. I heard Tim yell. Something broke inside.”

She shivered. Sharon coaxed her to continue.

“Tim yelled, ‘Go!’ I knew he meant me. I didn’t want to leave him. And then David started crying and one of the cops looked out the window.”

It was still jarring to hear the baby’s name.

She said, “I ducked behind a wall and I got lucky. Right then, a garbage truck turned into the alley and stopped right there. It was making a racket and I went behind it and ran for my car. I was parked a block away and I’ve never run so fast. I was afraid to look back, but they weren’t chasing me. Thank god for that trash truck. I left the city and I drove to the desert. I thought we’d be safe here. Then I saw the television, the explosion at the apartment and Tim dead. They called it terrorism. I didn’t know who to call or how I could explain what happened, why I just ran…” Her voice trailed into a pitiful whisper: “How did you find me?”

Nobody answered.

“The next day, I was going to call the FBI, but I got a call. He said he was a San Diego detective but he didn’t sound right. He wanted to know where I was. I freaked. I told him I was in Oklahoma…”

I thought: Good old Detective Jones.

Peralta showed her photos of Edward Dowd and Andrew Zisman. “Are these the men you saw going into Tim’s apartment?”

“Yes!”

“They’re not police. And they’ll never bother you again.”

I realized that Dowd never had the baby. He thought we did. The baby was gone when he got to Tim’s apartment. Dowd’s elaborate air show, dropping the baby doll and the blood, had indeed been a threat. But he had never been in a position to carry it out.

She sniffled loudly. “The baby was my priority. I had to keep him safe. I didn’t have the phone number for Tim’s parents. You’ve got to believe me.”

“We do,” Sharon said. “It’s going to be all right.”

And it would, I supposed. Peralta pulled out his cell phone and slipped outside. I watched my wife cradle the baby with such natural love and wondered what might have been, wondered how she could ever doubt she would make a good mother.