“Did you?”
“Never got a chance. After the wet cleanup, she was so upset, she just paid her tab and scrammed.”
“How old was she, would you say?”
“Lord, I’m not a good judge of age. Middle twenties, maybe.” She almost added something, but reconsidered.
Shepherd seemed to sense her hesitation. “And?”
“It’s just — well, I’d bet she didn’t go far.”
He looked at her. “Why do you say that?”
“Because she was tired. She looked like she’d been up all night and had just wore herself out. I know how that feels.” She surely did. She was bone-tired right now. “You just want to crawl into a bath or a bed and shut your eyes. This lady you’re after had that same look about her.”
“So you think she’s close by?”
“Right in the neighborhood. That’s what I think.”
In the neighborhood.
Shepherd emerged from the coffee shop, blinking at the glare, and scanned the rows of strip malls lining Speedway Boulevard. He knew of two motels on Speedway within a half-mile radius of the Rancheros Cafe. If the McMillan woman had indeed been ready to crash in a nice, warm bed, she might have checked into one of those motels after leaving the coffee shop.
It was a long shot, but any shot at all was better than none.
Which motel? One lay to the east, the other to the west.
West seemed right. Going west, she wouldn’t have had to make a difficult left turn onto Speedway. She would have simply eased into the traffic flow and let the current carry her to the first available lodgings.
Worth a try.
He got in his sedan and pulled out of the parking lot, driving fast out of habit.
Of course, it was possible that she had checked into a motel days ago, in an entirely different part of town. But he didn’t think so. If she’d had a place to stay, she would have gone there directly after making her 911 call in order to wash up and change. Women hated dirt.
He smiled, imagining what Ginnie would have said if she’d heard such an obvious example of stereotypical thinking.
The motel appeared on his right, two blocks ahead. Drawing near, he could read the sign out front, advertising CABLE TV and AIR CONDITIONING, as if both features were exotic luxuries. In larger letters the motel’s name was spelled out:
THE DESERT DREAM INN.
Near the motel office, in an alcove, there was a soda machine. Elizabeth knew she shouldn’t waste any money, even sixty cents, but after her walk in the sun, she was hot and fatigued.
She fished a few coins from her purse, then fed them into the slot and pressed the Coke button. A frosty can rolled down the chute with a thud. She popped the tab and took a long swallow, leaning against the wall.
There were plans to be made. She would have to stop for dinner somewhere; she needed to be well fed and alert. And maybe she ought to pick up another flashlight. Her little pocket flash was probably inadequate for the job she had in mind. Also, she’d better remember to take her gloves and the vinyl jacket.
It was too bad she’d lost her gun. She would have liked the protection it provided. But the gun was gone, and she had no money for a replacement. She would just have to hope she didn’t need it.
Still organizing her thoughts, she stepped out of the alcove, just in time to see a dark sedan pull into the parking lot.
And she knew.
Cop car.
There was no doubt. She knew it with her nerve endings and reflexes, before her mind even had time to process the reasons. Cops always drove either a Ford Crown Victoria or a Chevy Caprice, and the sedan was a Ford straight out of the police motor pool, complete with a stubby, telltale antenna jutting out of its rear.
Instantly she ducked back inside the alcove, her heart booming, the can shaking in her hand.
Had they seen her? She wasn’t sure.
She had emerged from the alcove only momentarily, and the overhang above the doorway had kept her in shadow.
They might not have noticed her. She prayed they hadn’t.
If they had, she was finished. There was nowhere to run. The alcove had no exit except the one that led to the parking lot.
She hugged the wall and listened.
The sedan rumbled to a stop not far away. The motor died. She heard a car door open and shut.
One door.
One cop, then. Alone.
Had to be a detective. It was the detectives who drove the unmarked cars.
He was here, looking for her. He must be.
She had been stupid, so stupid, to check into this motel. She should have known that the cops at the coffee shop would remember her. Should have left this neighborhood, gone outside city limits entirely. But she’d been exhausted, distracted by the news on the radio, not thinking clearly — not thinking at all.
Twelve years of caution, and now it all might have ended for her because of one mistake, one moment’s inexcusable carelessness.
Footsteps on asphalt. The man… approaching.
He was coming for the alcove, straight for the alcove, and coming fast.
God, this was it.
Arrest.
The word she hated most in the world.
Would they put her in another mental institution, or would it be jail this time? She might almost prefer jail. Either way, she would be trapped, caged, and they would never let her go.
He was close now. A few yards away.