There was a brief silence. “Who’s Renata?”
Oops. “Ahh. Nnnn. She’s a friend of your dad’s. I think he’s been staying at her place with her.”
“She lives here in Perdido?”
“She has a house on the Keys.”
Another silence. “Does my mom know?”
“I don’t think so. Probably not.”
“Man, oh, man. What a jerk.” Silence again. “Well. I guess I better let you go. I want to keep the line free in case he tries to get in touch.”
I said, “You’ve got my number. Will you let me know if you should hear from him?”
“Sure,” he said tersely. I suspected any lingering sense of loyalty to his father had been erased with the news about Renata.
I tried calling Dana. Her machine picked up. I listened to strains of the wedding march, drumming my fingers until I heard the beep. I left word for her to call me, keeping my message brief. I was still kicking myself for mentioning Renata in my conversation with Michael. Wendell had generated enough hostility in the kid without my adding the issue of his common-law wife. I tried reaching Lieutenant Ryckman at the Perdido County Jail. He was out, but I had a quick chat with Senior Deputy Tiller, who told me there was a big department shake-up over Brian’s unauthorized release. Internal Affairs was scrutinizing every employee who had access to the computer. Another call came through, and he had to ring off. I said I’d try Ryckman again when I got back to Santa Teresa.
I’d just about exhausted my list of local calls. I checked out of the motel and was on the road by 10:00. I was hoping that by the time I reached the office in Santa Teresa I’d have some return messages, but I unlocked my door to find the green light glowing blankly on my answering machine. I spent the morning with my usual office routines: business calls and mail, a few bookkeeping entries, one or two bills to pay. I made a pot of coffee and then called my insurance adjuster to report last night’s incident. She told me to go ahead and get the rear window replaced at the auto glass shop I’d used before. It was clear I couldn’t ride around without protection because I’d be ticketed.
In the meantime I was half tempted to leave the bullet holes where they were. Make too many claims and you get your policy canceled or your rates elevated to astronomical rates. What did I care about bullet holes? I was sporting a few of those myself. I called and made an appointment to have the window taken care of late afternoon.
Shortly after lunch, Alison buzzed me to say Renata Huff was in the reception area. I went out to the front. She was sitting on the little sofa, head back, eyes closed. She was not looking good. She wore chinos, bunched together and belted at the waist, and a black V-neck top with an orange anorak over it. Her dark curls were still damp from a recent shower, but her eyes were darkly circled and her cheeks seemed gaunt from stress. She pulled herself together with an apologetic smile at Alison, who seemed especially perky by comparison.
I took Renata back to my office, sat her on my visitor’s chair, and poured us both some coffee. “Thank you,” she murmured, sipping gratefully. She closed her eyes again, savoring the rich liquid on her tongue. “This is good. I need this.”
“You look tired.”
“I am.”
It was really the first time I’d had a chance to study her closely. Her face in repose was not what I’d call pretty. Her complexion was lovely—clear olive tones without flaw or blemish—but her features seemed wrong: brows dark and untamed, dark eyes too small. Her mouth was large, and her short-cropped hair made her jaw look squared off. Her expression ordinarily had a petulant cast, but in the rare moments when she smiled, her whole face was transformed—exotic, full of light. With her coloring, she could wear hues a lot of women couldn’t get away with: lime green, hot pink, royal blue, and fuchsia.
“Wendell got home about midnight last night. This morning I went out to run errands. I couldn’t have been gone for more than forty minutes. When I came home, everything he owned was gone and so was he. I waited for an hour or so and then got in my car and came up here. My real inclination was to call the police, but I thought I’d try you first and see what advice you might have to give.”
“About what?”
“He stole money from me. Four thousand dollars in cash.”
“What about the Fugitive?’
She shook her head wearily. “He knows I’d kill him if he took that boat.”
“Don’t you have a speedboat, too?”
“It’s actually not a speedboat. It’s an inflatable dinghy, but it’s still at the dock. Anyway, Wendell doesn’t have keys to the Fugitive.”