Bill Pronzini - Shackles

“Brown.”

“Dark brown, light brown, reddish highlights?”

“Just… brown.”

“Curly or straight?”

“Straight.”

“Worn long or short?”

“Short.”

“What color were his eyes?”

“Blue? Gray? I’m not sure.”

“Was there anything distinctive about his voice?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Did he have any moles, scars, tattoos?”

“No.”

“How was he dressed?”

“In a suit and tie.”

“Expensive suit?”

“No. An inexpensive one.”

“What kind of car did he drive?”

“I have no idea,” she said.

“You never saw it?”

“Yes. I mean no… no, I didn’t see it.”

Based on her answers, the picture of Lawrence Jacobs that had formed in my mind was just as unfamiliar as the name. But he sounded like my man; the age and build were right. I said, “How did he happen to come to you about Mr. Lanier’s cabin? Did he just walk in off the street? Was he recommended by someone?”

“He saw our ad in the Bee .”

“A specific ad for Mr. Lanier’s cabin?”

“No, it… there were other rental properties…”

“What did he say when he came in?”

She made a breathy sound; she was becoming annoyed by my persistence. “He said he’d noticed the ad. I just told you that.”

“What else did he say? Please, Ms. Belford, try to remember.”

Another sigh. “He… let me think a moment…” She took ten moments. Then, “He said he was looking for a quiet, isolated mountain cabin because he… some sort of project he was working on and he didn’t want to be disturbed by anyone. He said he wanted to hole up for the winter… those were his exact words.”

“Did he want to see the cabin before renting it?”

“No. He asked me several questions… I showed him photographs, we always prepare multiple photos of our listings. When I told him the price he said it would do just fine.”

“How did he pay?”

“With a cashier’s check.”

“Went away and got it and came back?”

“Yes.”

“Which bank?”

Still another breathy sound. “The Bank of Alex Brown, a branch in downtown Sacramento. Now really, I… we’re closing on a property later this morning and I have to… I can’t take any more time to answer questions…”

“Just one more. What was the date?”

“Date?”

“That he came in. That he signed the rental agreement.”

“November second, last year. Now is that all ?”

“Yes, ma’am. I appreciate your time-”

“Thank Mr. Lanier,” she said, and hung up on me.

I put the receiver down. November second. Almost five weeks before he’d abducted me-plenty of time to buy all the things he would need, make two or three or four trips to the cabin, install the ringbolt and the chain, complete the rest of his preparations. But how long before November second had he got his idea? How long had it been in the planning stages? Not sixteen years, not anywhere near that long, or he’d have acted on it years ago… unless he couldn’t act on it. Suppose he’d been in prison, or some sort of mental facility? That could be it. But then where had he gotten the money for the cabin rental, for all the provisions and the rest of the stuff he’d needed? Had it before he was put away? Borrowed it from friends or relatives? Stole it? Probably didn’t matter-but then again, could be it did.

One thing I knew for sure: Lawrence Jacobs wasn’t his name. He would not have wanted his real name on the rental agreement in case anything went haywire with his plan. That was one of the reasons he’d paid with a cashier’s check. The other was that handing over a large amount of cash might have made Susan Belford curious, if not actively suspicious.

James Lanier and I had little to say to each other. He showed me to the door, and we spent a few seconds wishing each other well before I went across to the car. When I drove away he was walking back to his garden, a slow-moving, solitary figure marking time, trying to find ways to fill up the rest of his days until-faith and hope being what they are-he could be with his Clara again.

K Street was one of Sacramento’s central thoroughfares, and 4719 was no more than a couple of miles from the capitol building and all the other not-so-hallowed halls of state government. Still, it was a marginal neighborhood of lower income apartment houses and small business establishments. The building I wanted was an old three-story apartment house, narrow and fronted by two of the city’s wealth of shade trees, wedged between another apartment house and a cut-rate liquor store. I parked down the block, went up into the vestibule. Six mailboxes, each with a name Dymo-labeled on the front. None of the names was Lawrence Jacobs; none of them was familiar. The one on the box marked with the numeral 1, O. Barnwell, had the letters “Mgr” after it.

I tried the entrance door. Locked. But through its leaded glass panels I could see someone in the dim hallway inside-a man up on an aluminum stepladder next to a flight of stairs, changing a light bulb in a ceiling fixture. I rapped on the door with my knuckles, and when he heard that and leaned down to look my way, I gestured for him to let me in. He didn’t do it. He must have been able to see me well enough through the glass to decide I was nobody he knew or particularly cared to deal with: He made a go-away gesture and leaned back up to the ceiling fixture.

I did some more knocking, this time with my fist. And I kept on doing it, harder and louder, until the racket finally brought him down off the ladder and over to the door. He took another, scowling look at me through the glass, yanked the door open, and said angrily, “Chrissake, what’s the fuggin idea?”

“You the manager? Mr. Barnwell?”

“Yeah. But we got no vacancies-”

“I’m not looking for an apartment. I’m looking for a man who calls himself Lawrence Jacobs.”

“Who?”

“Lawrence Jacobs. He lived here around the first of November last year.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Were you the manager back then?”

“I said I never heard of him.”

He started to push the door closed. I got a shoulder up against it and pushed harder than he did, hard enough to crowd him backward and let me slide in through the opening. The hallway was clean enough but it stank of disinfectant, old wood, somebody’s chicken and garlic recipe. It stank of Barnwell, too-sweat and beer and the too-sweet odor of cheap aftershave.

Behind him, down the hall past the ladder, a door to the ground-floor front apartment opened and a skinny blond woman poked her head out. But Barnwell was too busy glaring at me to notice. He was in his late forties, lard-bellied, balding, with a tattoo on one bare forearm-the name Maggie intertwined with blue-stemmed red roses. He had eaten something with ketchup on it in the past few days: There was a streak of dried tomato red across the front of his sleeveless sweatshirt.

“What the hell you think you’re doin, pal?”

“Looking for Lawrence Jacobs. I told you that.”

“And I already told you-”

“Sure you did. Now tell me the truth.”

“Listen-”

“I will, as soon as you start to talk.”

“I don’t have to fuggin talk to you.”

“Don’t you?” I said, soft.

We looked at each other for a time. His features softened first, like wax under a flame; then the anger in his eyes cooled; and then his gaze slid away and a tic began to jump on one puffy cheek. He said, “What are you, a cop?”

“Could be. And maybe I’m somebody you want to mess with even less than a cop. Capisce, mi amico?”