Hugh Washington lumbered through the lobby with sagging shoulders and hooded eyes. Only four hours ago the log cabin motif and big game trophies conspired to make him feel at ease, comfortable. He didn’t feel that way now.
He was drained and needed rest. He was almost to the other side of the big room when the red headed kid with the green eyes called out to him.
“ Sir, Mr. Washington. I have a phone message from your daughter. You just missed her.”
“ What?” He swept the cobwebs from his head. Glenna was supposed to be in her room, asleep, not on the other end of the phone. He steeled himself.
“ She said not to worry about her, she’s playing Monopoly with a friend.”
“ She say where she was?”
“ No, sir.”
“ She sound like she was okay?”
“ She sounded fine. She asked if I remembered her. I told her I did and then she gave me the message. Is everything all right?”
“ Yeah, thanks. She didn’t say when she’d be back?”
“ No, sir.”
“ Okay, thanks again.” He continued his trek through the lobby and went straight to his room, his mind working on the possibilities. Either Monday kidnapped her and she was in extreme danger, or somehow she ran across him and went with him on her own accord.
He voted for her going on her own accord. She had disguised her message so that anyone else, the clerk or the local police, for example, would accept it at face value, but anyone who knew about Jim Monday’s wartime nickname would see the real message buried beneath. She was with Monopoly Jim Monday. Christ, what did she think she was up to?
And what about Monday’s sister-in-law? And the Lambert woman? Whose blood was splashed all over that room? So much blood. When he called the locals he was convinced they were dead. Some cult group had done them in, drained their blood and splashed it around the room, but he calmed down after the police arrived and let his training take over. The room was covered in blood. It was torn apart. The furniture was broken and ripped. It looked bad, but there were no bodies. So for now, no bodies meant no murders.
They could be alive, though he doubted it. He thought Edna Lambert and Roma Barnes were dead. He thought it was their blood on the walls and he thought Jim Monday might possibly know who killed them. He didn’t want to think about the possibility that Monday was the killer everybody seemed to think he was. The thought was unbearable, especially now that Glenna was with him.
But even if Monday wasn’t responsible, he had to find him pronto. People around him had a nasty habit of winding up dead. Either way, guilty or innocent, Glenna was in danger.
He went to the nightstand where he’d left his keys and cringed. They were gone. He swept the room with his eyes, no keys. He started for the door, but was stopped by the ringing of the phone. He turned, lunging for the instrument.
“ Glenna?”
“ No, Washington. It’s me, Hart.”
“ How did you know where I was?” Washington was stunned.
“ Don’t be stupid. You don’t think you can dial 911, report a possible murder, identify yourself as a police officer and not have the boys up there check with us?”
“ I guess not. I wasn’t thinking.”
“ Damn straight you weren’t thinking. Do you know where I am?”
“ No?”
“ I’m in my office, that’s where. It’s midnight and I’m not home with my wife and kids. I got called on the carpet, because one of my ex-detectives is off seeking fame and glory, so he can get off the street and worm his way back into Homicide.”
“ That’s not the way it is.”
“ I don’t want to hear a word out of you. If you’re not back here first thing in the morning, you’re through. You got that? And don’t think you can go to your captain, he wanted to toss you to the wolves. It’s only because of old times that I talked him into giving you this one last chance. You be here at 8:00.” And that was the last word, because the captain hung up.
Damn. That wasn’t the way he wanted to leave it. They were his friends, all of them, even Hart. He wanted to leave with a party, a barbecue maybe, everybody wishing him well, patting him on the back, plenty of beer, a few tears. The last thing he wanted was for them to think he was a glory hound. He wasn’t that way, never had been.
He half wanted to go back, but he couldn’t, not now that Glenna was with Monday. He should call Hart back and tell him. Hart was pretty upset though, better to wait till morning and give the man a chance to cool down.
He picked up a pillow, threw it against the wall. A harmless way to let off a little frustration. He mentally kicked himself, then he hurried out the door and down the walkway to the stairway, taking the steps two at a time. He was afraid that no keys meant no Power Glide, but when he got to the parking lot, the car was there. The only car showing headlights and grill. The only car positioned for the quick get away. All the others faced in, the white Explorer was gone.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he grabbed his breath and approached his car the way an antique dealer approaches a Ming vase. He rubbed his hand along the smoothly waxed right fender, continuing the caress till his hand was on the right side of the front bumper. He reached under and pulled out the small magnetic Hide-A-Key, opened the case and took out the spare key.
Monday was on his way to Tampico, probably after Kohler, and Glenna with him. He had no choice, he had to follow. His daughter’s life was at stake. He’d call Hart tomorrow from Tampico and explain. He’d tell him he was quitting too.
Power Glide started, first try. Thank you, God, he prayed, as he rolled out of the parking lot and turned toward the Interstate and he stayed on it until he turned west toward San Francisco three hours later, listening to Smokey Robinson the whole way, until even Smokey couldn’t keep him awake any longer. He ejected the CD and pulled off the Freeway at Livermore, where he checked into a motel. He asked for a wake-up call at 5:00, allowing himself two hours sleep. He flopped fully clothed onto the bed, pushed his worries out of his mind and fell asleep.
The wake-up call was on time. He took a quick shower and was on the road by 5:15. Normally he enjoyed early morning driving, when he had the road to himself, but not today, because he was sick with fear for Glenna.
The sun had been up for an hour when he turned off California’s Highway 1, and took the road into Tampico. He knew the area. Palma was only a few miles away. He’d grown up here and had nothing but fond memories. He prayed that Glenna was all right, that her memories of the Palma-Tampico area would be fond, too. She had never been up before. He’d always wanted to take her, but he’d always been too busy.
He turned off Kennedy Road onto Mountain Sea and decided that he needed to stretch his cramped body before he went any further. He parked across from the beach, got out and took a couple steps when he spotted a small boy reach into a gunny sack and toss a pigeon into the air.
He smiled. He had pigeons when he was a kid. Racing homers, like the boy had. He caught the kid’s eye, waved, then watched as the kid released the birds, one at a time, five in all, then he saw him shout and wave to a woman down the beach gathering shells. His mother, Washington thought. Beyond he saw a homeless beggar approaching the woman. Just another of America’s forgotten.
If he wasn’t in such a hurry, he might have worried about the woman, but the homeless were harmless, for the most part, and he had lingered too long already. He was in a hurry, so he got back in the car and continued on.
The road paralleled the ocean and he remembered how he used to scamper among the dunes when he was a boy. Then it veered off into the pines and climbed up fifty feet above the sea.
He found Kohler’s house, an extravagantly large cliffside home. There had been no homes like this up here when he was a boy. Nothing ever remains the same, he thought. He wanted to stop, but to park across from the isolated house would be to advertise his presence and to announce what he was. He continued slowly by, burning every detail of the place into his mind.
It was set back from the road, a meticulous yard in front, a cliff behind. Bars covered heavily curtained windows. The doctor didn’t want the outside looking in. A stone gray home, with dark gray shutters and trim. A cold, forbidding place. The centerfold-receptionist had been right, it looked like a prison. He could imagine a dungeon, cave-dark and damp, complete with rack and hooded torturer. He shuddered as a drafty freeze seemed to settle on him. He wondered if Monday’s wife was the ice queen ruler of the roost or if she was the innocent maiden, caught under a sorcerer’s spell.
The pine forest was across the street and the nearest neighbor was a quarter mile away. Dr. Kohler had a secure mansion, sitting atop a modest size town. Was he the big fish in a small pond, splashing his weight and wealth around, or was he the secretive mad scientist, never seen, sending servants down to town to deal with the peasants. Washington wondered which. He needed to know.
He was almost past the house, when he saw a silver-gray Mercedes in the driveway, parked in front of a two car garage. He didn’t see the white Explorer and he wondered if he’d arrived ahead of Monday and Glenna. He drove on till he rounded a curve, made a Y turn and headed back. This time he didn’t slow down and he didn’t look. He’d seen all he needed to see.
He drove back into town and took a room at the Tampico Motel. Then he went shopping. First stop, Pacific Sporting Goods, where he purchased an M-1 carbine, two thirty round clips, five boxes of ammunition, a camouflage military shirt with large inside pockets and matching pants, hiking boots and a backpack. At the camera shop next door he bought a pair of ten power binoculars and a flashlight. At the local mini market, where he was waited on by a turbaned Sikh, he bought enough junk food and powdered donuts to half fill the backpack. Almost as an afterthought he grabbed a couple cans of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, a can opener and a case of plastic spoons.
“ This will not be very healthy eating,” the Sikh said.
“ It’s what I’ve been eating since my wife left,” Washington said, warming to the Sikh’s smile.
“ You are not eating well and I am being a bad business man. I should be shutting my mouth and taking your money.”
“ And I should follow your advice, but I probably won’t. My name is Hugh Washington.” He held out his hand.
“ And I am Jaspinder Singh.” He offered Washington a handshake as firm as the one he received.
“ The gray house up the hill, the one with all the bars, you know who owns it?” Washington asked.
“ I don’t like to be getting in anyone’s business.”
“ I can understand that.” Washington showed his badge. “But my daughter is missing.”
“ Oh my, I should like to help you even if you are a long way from home. Not because you are a policeman. I have been on the wrong side of many policemen in my life. I was born in South Africa, so you see American policemen are not threatening to me.”
“ I don’t mean to threaten you.”
“ Oh yes, I know. I am only explaining myself, more for my benefit than yours. It is hard for me to inform on another.”
“ I’m not asking you to inform on anyone.”
“ Oh, but you are. You are asking who owns the big house. Then you will be asking what do I know about him and I do not like what I know. I would like to remain silent and say I know nothing. But you are asking as a father and not a policeman. A policeman I could turn away. A father, I cannot.”
“ I don’t like the way this sounds.”
“ And I am sorry to be telling you. A doctor owns that house. A rich German doctor. A man who has a parade of young girls come and go. He thinks we don’t know, but we are a small town, and even though he keeps to himself most of the time, we see his people bringing them in and taking them out.”
“ His people?”
“ He has some very rough looking people working for him. Doing what, I do not know. Drugs maybe? There is a lot of that up here. Marijuana fields, California’s illegal cash crop.”
“ What does he do with the girls?”
“ Who knows?” The Sikh spread his hands, palms up. “But if he was involved with my daughter, I would most certainly want to know.” Washington thanked him, paid, and on his way out the door the Sikh asked, “Will you be wanting to see the sheriff?”
“ No. It’s something I have to handle myself.” He smiled at the man.
“ I understand and if anybody ever asks me, you were never here and we never talked.”
Understanding lit up Washington’s face. If he were to harm Kohler, or even kill him, this man would say nothing.
“ I appreciate that,” he said.
“ Think nothing of it. I too have a daughter, and besides, I don’t like that man. I think he would have been more happy in Hitler’s Germany than in this free country, where a man like me can own a store and a man like you can be a policeman. He was in here once and in his eyes I saw the hate he had for me. He does not know me, but he hates me. He would hate you more, because you are a policeman and have some power. I pray for your daughter.”
Washington thanked him again and left the store. Kohler sounded like a bad man, who employed bad people, who did bad things with young ladies. Maybe Walker was right about Monday and maybe Monday was right about Kohler.
He took his purchases to his room, changed, loaded the backpack and made a mental note to buy a warm jacket. He remembered how cold it got up here at night, even in the summer. On his way to the door it dawned on him that he was late for a meeting in Long Beach.
He went to the phone and a few seconds later he had Hart on the line.
“ Where are you, Washington?” Hart asked.
“ I can’t tell you that, sir.”
“ Don’t give me that. You still work for this department and if you want to keep working for it you’ll answer me.”
“ I quit.”
“ You what?”
“ I quit.”
“ Have you lost your mind? You can’t quit.”
“ I just did.”
“ You’re working on this Jim Monday thing, aren’t you?”
“ What I’m doing is personal, sir.”
“ Well, why didn’t you say so. We can arrange some personal time. Just tell me everything you have on Monday and we’ll forget this whole thing. You can take all the time you want for your personal problems. You’re trying to work things out with your wife, right?” There were a few seconds of silence then Hart said, “Oh shit, we got an earthquake here. I have to go. Call me back in an hour.”
The line went dead and Washington’s heartbeat started to race, his pulse keeping time like a strobe light, his eyes seeing things in snatches, like time lapsed photography. He tried to take deep breaths, to keep himself from hyperventilating, but images of shaking buildings crashing down on terror stricken children flashed before his mind.
Ever since he could remember he’d been afraid of earthquakes, and even though the temblor was over five hundred miles away, the fact that he was connected to it, even by telephone, was enough to chill his nerves and stampede his heart.
It took him two full minutes to regain control. He was surprised. He had done better in the midst of the San Fernando Quake, a six point five that brought down the VA Hospital. He wondered what was happening to him? It was almost like a seizure. I’m getting old, he thought, once his breathing was regular again.
He thought about calling Walker, but he loathed the thought of calling him in that hospital. The man had enough to worry about right now. Washington shivered. He hated hospitals almost as much as he feared earthquakes. They were places for lying and dying. He didn’t envy Walker.
He scooped up the backpack, went out to the car. His plan had been to go up to Kohler’s as soon as possible, drive by, find a place to hide the car, walk back and find a spot in the woods across from the house to hide and stake out the place. The best strategy was often the most simple. He would sit and wait. Sooner or later Monday would show up and then he’d get Glenna back.
He’d worry about dealing with Monday after Glenna was safe. If Monday was innocent, he’d move heaven and earth to prove it, but not till his little girl was out of harm’s way.
He unlocked the trunk and tossed the backpack on top of the carbine. He was closing it when the silver Mercedes with the dark tinted windows drove by. He scooted around to the driver’s side and out of sight as the Mercedes parked by the diner across the street from the motel.
He watched as Kohler got out of the car. The doctor walked around the vehicle with a straight backed gate, like he had a pipe up his ass, Washington thought. He continued watching as Kohler opened the passenger door and Julia Monday slid out, smoothing her skirt. Then Kohler and Jim Monday’s wife walked arm and arm into the diner.
Hugh Washington decided he was hungry and started across the street. He stopped in the middle of the road, swore at himself for being so stupid and turned back toward his car, parked in front of his room at the motel. I’m the one who put her husband in the police car and took him away. How could she forget me and my ugly face? I remember her. And even if those gorgeous eyes passed over me, Kohler would remember. He didn’t look like the kind of man who forgot anything. He stopped at the car, opened the trunk, took out the backpack, then went back to his room.
From inside his room he had a clear view of the diner across the street. He moved a chair to the window, opened the curtains and sat. He opened the backpack and took out the binoculars. They brought the diner ten times closer.
Kohler and Julia Monday were sitting at a table for two, by the window. Washington could see the shaving rash on Kohler’s neck that edged up to his trimmed beard. He could see the corners of the forced smile on Mrs. Monday. It looked like she might have been crying. He looked back at Kohler, his thin lips, not well enough hidden by the manicured mustache, were moving rapidly, almost snarling.
A young waitress brought them water and took their order. Kohler ordered for both. He continued talking after the waitress left. Mrs. Monday continued listening. Something wasn’t right, she seemed listless, dead on her feet. The shoulder length hair that had been vibrant and fresh two days ago had lost its luster. The sparkle in her eyes was gone. She had that blank look Washington had seen so many times in his career. A combination of sudden shock, loss and grief. It was usually worn on the face of a surviving wife whose husband had been recently murdered.
A third man joined them. He pulled a chair out from an empty table and sat facing the window. Washington had seen his type before. Weasel was the first word that came to mind. He was the sly type that all policeman know, the kind that make good informers because they’re afraid. Afraid of the police, jail, the streets, themselves. Usually they were junkies and this man looked the type, darting eyes, shaking hands, rounded shoulders and nodding head. The hair on the right side of his scalp was exceedingly long and combed over a bald top. The Weasel was vain. He wore a Polo shirt and had a salon tan. He reached into his pocket and took out a brown cigarette. Designer cigarettes, Washington called them. He started to light up when Kohler knocked the cigarette out of his hand with a sudden slap. The Weasel was afraid of Kohler.
Then the Weasel started talking. He punctuated his words with his hands. An excited man. But his excitement wasn’t transferred to Kohler. Mrs. Monday appeared bored. Washington got the impression that the Weasel was always excited. The food came and the Weasel shut up. Pancakes and bacon for Kohler and Monday’s wife. Nothing for the Weasel.
Kohler ate deliberately, Mrs. Monday picked at her food, and the Weasel shifted to and fro, openly leering at Mrs. Monday’s breasts. Washington followed the Weasel’s eyes. Julia Monday was wearing a white silk blouse without a brassiere. Her nipples were visible through the material and she was clearly uncomfortable wearing it and even more uncomfortable with the Weasel’s stare.
He moved the binoculars back to Kohler’s face. The man was aware of what the Weasel was doing and how uneasy it made Mrs. Monday. The bastard doesn’t care, Washington thought. He’s enjoying it. Lady, it looks like when you left your husband, you fell into a bucket of shit. Washington got the impression that if the slimy bastard were to reach out and grab one of those breasts, the doctor would only smile. He was one cold son of a bitch.
“ Glenna, you don’t want anything to do with this man,” he muttered, wishing he hadn’t had lunch with his daughter yesterday, hadn’t told her about his new job, hadn’t allowed her to come with him. If he gets anywhere near her, I’ll kill him.
He put down the binoculars and called Hart back. The thought of the earthquake in Long Beach caused a slight earthquake in his own body as he dialed the number.
“ It’s about time you called back,” Hart said, after he finally got him on the line.
“ You said an hour. It hasn’t even been thirty minutes.”
“ Did you think about what I said? You give us all you got on Monday and all is forgiven. You come back like nothing happened.”
“ Do I come back on the street or do I get back in Homicide?”
“ You get Homicide, if you want it.”
Washington knew the man was lying. He might have believed him if he said they would allow him to work to his retirement in a uniform, but he knew there was no way Hart would take him back in Homicide. He understood they wanted Monday awful bad, but they shouldn’t want anything bad enough to lie to a fellow officer. The man was playing with his life. It wasn’t fair.
“ I’ve given you my decision, Captain. I’m quitting. I’ll find another job. One where they don’t think they have to lie to you to get you to perform the way they want.”
“ Hold on a minute, Washington. You owe us. You owe me. We cleaned that mess up after you and kept you out of jail and your daughter out of court. I saved your ass. You can’t walk out on me.” Hart spat the words down the wire.
“ So this is what it comes down to. You using that to whip me into line.”
“ If I have to.”
“ I told you, Captain, I’m through, finished, I quit.”
“ You son of a bitch! You’ll be sorry. I can charge you as an accessory.”
Washington hung up.
That was that, he thought. No going back now. The only thing left was to make it official. He would have to call personnel, turn in his badge, fill out the forms. It hurt, turning his back on the department that had been his life for so long, but he had a bright future to look forward to with Ron Walker. And he was a man that believed in the future. The past was for losers, the future for winners.
He picked up the binoculars as Kohler was counting out change. He wasn’t leaving a tip. What a swell guy. How do you feel about him now, Mrs. Monday, him and his Weasel pal. They got up from the table, the Weasel leading the way to the door, followed by Mrs. Monday. Kohler brought up the rear.
He lost sight of them for a few minutes as they made their way through the restaurant, but picked them up as they came out the door. He followed them to Kohler’s car, where Kohler went to the driver’s side, unlocked the door and climbed in. The Weasel opened the door for Mrs. Monday, but before she could get in, he placed himself between her and the car and ran a hand along her buttocks, giving her a firm squeeze. She didn’t pull away, didn’t yell, or slap him. She got in the car like nothing had happened, the same blank look on her face.
The Weasel closed the door after her, laughing, turned and walked away. Washington had never seen anything like it. Kohler couldn’t have missed it. The man didn’t care. And from the looks of things, Mrs. Monday was beyond caring. The doctor started the car and Washington put down the binoculars.
He didn’t have to follow them. He knew the way to the doctor’s house. He could afford a few minutes to take care of his personal business. He picked up the phone and called Long Beach. He asked for Captain Roberts. Time to tell his boss what he’d already told Hart.
“ Robert’s desk,” a voice he didn’t recognize said.
“ Is he there?” Washington asked.
“ No, he’s not. Who’s calling please?” It wasn’t 9:00 yet. He was always there till 9:00, rain or shine. He never took a vacation. He never got sick. He was there every morning, six days a week from 8:00 to 9:00. Office hours for his men, he called it. That was when he took complaints, solved problems, listened to worries. Only something important would drag him away. A major crisis. An officer shot. Washington felt his chest tighten.
“ This is Washington, I won’t be in today.”
“ Hugh Washington?”
“ That’s right.”
“ God, I’m sorry about your partner, he was a great guy. Everybody liked him.”
“ What are you talking about?” Hugh felt the lump welling up in his throat. Not Walker, not him. He was young, with a family. He sat on the bed, the phone still at his ear, waiting for the inevitable words he knew were coming next.
They came.
“ Walker died early this morning. I’m sorry, I thought you knew.”
He dropped the phone, buried his head in his hands. He blamed himself. If he would have played it by the book and turned everything over to Homicide, or better yet, stayed out of it all together, Walker would still be alive, but instead he went off half cocked, ignoring all the rules, and Walker had paid.
And he didn’t know where Glenna was.