Double

“He’s not another detective, is he? The one with the Italian name who called?” Ma had not approved of my relationship with the homicide cop Greg Marcus, because she’d been afraid he’d involve me in more of what she called “those terrible things you poke your nose into.” She hadn’t met Don, but I sensed she thought his work as a disc jockey too frivolous to qualify him as a proper suitor. And I was afraid that she would heartily disapprove of another investigator.

“No,” I said, remembering Wally and the date we were supposed to make, “he’s a lie-detector salesman.”

She looked relieved. “A lie-detector salesman. Do they make good money?”

“Probably. I think they work on commission.”

“Hmm.” She gave the bread a final punch and popped it into a bowl to rise. “Are you seeing him today?”

“We’re supposed to have dinner.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re going out now.”

I set my coffee cup in the sink. “Well, if I go to dinner, I have to have something nice to wear.”

“You’re going shopping?”

“Yes.” Eventually, in the course of the next few months, I supposed I would go shopping. But since picking out a dress couldn’t possibly take all day, and the trip to Borrego Springs would, I added, “And then I thought I might take a drive out into the desert.”

She looked skeptical about that idea, but merely said, “Have you made any headway with your brother?” She has a way of switching subjects that only those who understand how her mind works can follow.

“Not much. He’s as stubborn as the rest of us.”

“Try again, will you please?”

“Yes, Ma.” I kissed her lightly on the cheek and started out.

“Sharon,” she said.

I turned.

“Be careful, while you’re... uh, shopping.”

I have never been able to fool my mother. Never.

The first thing I did was drive downtown to the phone company to check their directory for Borrego Springs. Since no one was home at Arthur Darrow’s house, I needed more to go on than just his address. There was no listing for Les Club, or anything other than the town’s two country clubs. Somehow I doubted either of them was it.

Then I went over to the recorder’s office in the county courthouse and asked a few questions of the white-haired old man behind the desk. He was friendly, with bright blue eyes that twinkled like a man’s half his age, and he flirted a little as he showed me how to search for property listings. Soon I was ensconced at a long table with a big registry for the Anza-Borrego desert area.

And about an hour later I had the location of a piece of property listed in the name of Les Club, Inc.

So it was incorporated. That meant the state would have a listing of the corporation’s officers, and, given enough time, I could find out who was behind it. The trouble was, I had no time to spare.

I went back to the desk and asked the man if he could help me figure out the property’s exact location. He came over and explained about tracts and lot numbers, then sketched a rough map on a piece of scratch paper.

I thanked him and hurried off to find out about Les Club.

32: “Wolf”

Neither Nancy Clark nor I moved for another few seconds after she spoke. I could feel the sweat trickling down my face, down from my armpits; the hot Mexican sun burned against the back of my neck. From out on the terrace, the little boy’s voice rose in a shrill excited cry — a sound that some tropical bird hidden nearby mimicked with surprising accuracy.

I wanted her to move first, to break the tableau, because I wanted to see what she’d do. She didn’t do much. Just came toward me in a herky-jerky stride, with her long legs flashing in the sunlight and shadow. She was wearing a two-piece black bathing suit that didn’t cover much territory and her skin was browned to the color of toast; but when she got up close I could see that her face had gone pale under the tan. Her eyes had a stricken look.

“Who are you?” she said. “What do you want?”

“I came looking for Timmy.”

“How did you find us?”

“Something the boy said when I talked to him in San Diego.”

“Why? What do you want with Timmy?”

“That depends. His mother’s in San Diego now, you know.”

Her mouth opened a little; her tongue flicked out like a cat’s to lick away a droplet of sweat from her upper lip. The stricken look stayed in her eyes, but it had been joined by smoldering anger.

She said, “What are you, some kind of detective?”

“Yes, ma’am. The private kind.”

“Did Lauterbach send you? Is that it?”

“No.”

The negative seemed to throw her off-balance for a moment. Then she said, “That bitch, then. Did she send you?”

“You mean Mrs. Ferguson?”

“Who else would I mean? Well, I’ll tell you this, mister — you’re not taking Timmy back to her. He belongs here with his father.”

“That’s not what the courts in Michigan decided.”

“The courts in Michigan don’t know what a nasty cunt Ruth Ferguson is. If they did they wouldn’t have granted her custody of a dog, much less a child.”

“Meaning what, Miss... Clark’s not your real name, is it?”

“It’s Pollard, and I don’t give a damn if you know it.”