“Ah, mmm. I don’t know what to say about that. He was traveling with a friend, but I really don’t know what their relationship consists of.”
“Right.” He snorted with disbelief. I’d forgotten he was eighteen years old and probably knew more about sex than I did. He certainly knew more about violence. What made me think I could fool a kid like him?
“You want Renata’s number? She may have heard from him.”
“I got a number to call and this machine picks up. If Dad’s around, he calls back. Is this the one you have?” He recited Renata’s unlisted number.
“That’s it. Look, why don’t you give me your current location. I’ll pop over there and we can talk. Maybe between us we can figure out where he is.”
He thought about that. “He told me to wait. He said don’t talk to anyone until he gets here. He’s probably on his way.” He said this without conviction in a tone edged with uneasiness.
“That’s always possible,” I said. “What’s the plan?” Like I really thought Brian would spill the beans to me.
“I have to go.”
“Wait! Brian?”
The phone clicked down in my ear.
“Goddamn it!” I sat and stared at the receiver, willing it to ring. “Come on, come on.”
I knew perfectly well the kid wasn’t going to call again. I became aware of the tension rippling through my shoulders. I got up and moved around the desk, finding a bare expanse of carpeting where I could stretch out on my back. The ceiling was singularly un-informative. I hate waiting for things to happen, and I don’t like being at the mercy of circumstance. Maybe I could figure out where Brian was being hidden. Wendell didn’t have much in the way of personal resources. He had very few friends and no confederates that I knew of. He was also being very secretive, apparently not even trusting Renata with the information about Brian. The Fugitive might have been a great place for him to hole up, but she and Brian would both have to be extraordinarily talented liars to pull that one off. From what I could tell, he’d seemed genuinely ignorant of her existence, and she seemed uninterested in his. I suspected if Renata had known where Brian was, she’d have blown the whistle on him. She was certainly angry enough at Wendell’s desertion.
Wendell almost had to have Brian tucked away in a motel or hotel someplace. If he was able to pop in to see Brian on a near daily basis, the place probably wasn’t that far away. If Brian was left on his own for long periods, he’d have to have access to food without exposing himself to public scrutiny. Maybe a motel room with a kitchen so he could cook for himself. Big? Small? There were maybe fifteen to twenty motels in the vicinity. Was I going to have to drive down there and canvass every single one? That was an unappealing possibility. Canvassing is the equivalent of cold calls in the sales field. Once in a while you might hit pay dirt, but the process is tedious. Then again, Brian was really my only access to Wendell. So far, the Dispatch didn’t seem to be picking up on Brian’s jail release, but once pictures of the two appeared in the papers, the situation was going to heat up. Brian might have pocket money, but he probably didn’t have unlimited funds. If Wendell was determined to rescue his kid, he had better be quick about it, and I had, too.
I checked my watch. It was now 6:15. I hauled myself off the floor and made sure my answering machine was in message mode. I pulled out the newspaper clippings that detailed the original escape. The mug shot of Brian Jaffe wasn’t flattering, but it would serve my purposes. I grabbed my portable Smith-Corona typewriter and my handbag and headed for the door. I clattered down the stairs, typewriter bumping against my leg, and then trotted two blocks to the spot where my car was parked. I decided at the last minute to take a quick detour along the beach. By taking the long way around to a freeway entrance, I’d end up passing the marina, where I could check up on Carl Eckert. It was entirely possible that he’d returned from out of town and no-body’d bothered to let me know. I was also thinking about the little harborside snack shack where I could pick up some killer burritos to munch on in the car. Kinsey Millhone dining al fresco again.
All the slots in the small no-pay parking lot were full, so I was forced to take a ticket and actually drive through to the pay lot. I locked my car, glancing to my left as I passed the kiosk. Carl Eckert was sitting in his car, a little red sports job of some exotic sort. He looked like a man in shock, pasty-faced and sweating, his pupils dilated. He surveyed his surroundings with an air of confusion. He was wearing a snappy dark blue business suit, but his tie had been loosened and his collar button opened. His silvery hair was unkempt, as if he’d been running his hands through it.