Marcia Muller - Vanishing Point

“If you’re looking for your top research man,” he said, “he’s waiting for you in your office.”

Mick looked a little sullen, and the absence of his usual cheerful greeting told me I was at the root of his displeasure-probably because I’d cut him out of the investigation. Normally I would have asked him what was wrong and talked the problem through, but right now I was in too much of a hurry. Let him stew for a while; maybe he’d work it out on his own.

“Thanks,” I told him, and headed for my office.

Derek was in my armchair, staring out at the fog. When he heard me come in, he started and got up, looking guilty.

I said, “Usurping my place, are you?”

“Shar, I’m sorry-”

“That chair’s not sacrosanct, you know. And it’s not even all that comfortable.” I dumped my purse and briefcase on the desk, dragged another chair over, and motioned for him to reclaim his place. “You get an address for Josie Smith?”

“My property search for Klamath Falls shows she’s owned a house at one-thirteen May Street since March of nineteen ninety-five. Taxes’re current. The stuff on that death in Crescent City is in the top file in your in-box, and I also e-mailed it, just in case. It’s pretty routine. The guy was badly burned in a freeway crash, and then he was accidentally administered the wrong IV by a nurse in the ER. No follow-up on the story, except a brief item saying the hospital had settled with the widow for an undisclosed amount.”

“Thanks. I want you to keep on that one. The widow may still be alive; check the Paso Robles area first.”

“You’re close to solving this one, huh?”

“No- we are. Has Patrick come in or called?”

“He spoke with Ted this morning and said he’d be in tomorrow. Told him a wild story involving a woman and a pool cue.”

“It was wild. I know, because I was there.”

“Then it’s true. Ted thought he’d made it up.”

“It’s true, all right.” I went to the desk and buzzed Ted. “Will you check with the airlines and find out when the next flight to Klamath Falls, Oregon, leaves? And while you’re at it, ask about the current regs about bringing a firearm on board.”

Disapproving silence.

“Just do it. Lecture me later.”

When I turned back to Derek, he was standing. “You taking off now?” I asked.

“If you don’t need me. I’ve got a dinner date, but I’ll keep my cell on in case you have to get in touch.”

“You seeing Chris?”

He shook his head. “New lady.”

So Chris and Derek’s involvement wasn’t serious. Well, that meant I didn’t have to worry about Jamie getting her tender young feelings hurt.

“Have fun,” I said.

“Thanks.”

The intercom buzzed as Derek left the office.

“The last flight for Klamath Falls on any airline left at five-thirty,” Ted said. “Your next option is Horizon Air, at six-thirty tomorrow morning. Arrives at eleven-oh-four.”

“Why so long?”

“Stopover in Portland.”

Damn! I didn’t want to wait till morning. But it was a long, difficult drive, and I couldn’t fly myself, since Hy had phoned earlier to say he’d picked up Two-Seven-Tango in Paso Robles and gone back to San Diego for a few days. Not that I could have flown anyplace, given this thick fog. Oh well, at least this way I could drop off the car I’d rented in Grass Valley at SFO tomorrow.

“Okay,” I said, “book the six-thirty, please. What did they tell you about the firearms regs?”

“Disassembled, in a hard case, in your checked baggage.”

“No lecture now?”

“Well, I’m wondering why you need a handgun on this particular trip.”

“You’ll learn about it when I get back.”

Silence.

“Still no lecture?”

“Would it do any good?”

“No.”

“I thought not. Have a good trip.”

Eleven forty-five that night. I hung up the phone after talking with Hy-a conversation during which I’d studiously avoided any discussion about my house-took a sip from my wineglass, and stared into the fire that was slowly dying on the hearth. The cats were curled up on the sofa cushion next to me; Alice was snoring. I knew I should get some rest, but I was too keyed up to sleep.

After a while I went to the kitchen, where my briefcase lay on the table. Removed the original file on Laurel Greenwood and brought it back to the sitting room. The newspaper photo of her was at the back. I took it out and studied it.

What were you thinking, Laurel, when you smiled so radiantly for the camera? Were you looking forward to one of your visits to Josie, or to one of your mental health days? Were you planning a special surprise for your daughters? Or a getaway with the husband whom you didn’t yet know was cheating on you with your cousin?

One thing for sure, you didn’t realize the sudden, dark turn your life would one day take. Didn’t know that Josie would die in a heap at the bottom of the stairway where the two of you stood arguing. Couldn’t know you’d walk out on that husband and those daughters and never be able to return.

Or, as I suspect, cold-bloodedly kill an old friend so he couldn’t reveal your identity.

And since then? What have you been doing, Laurel? What has your life become?

Tomorrow I’d find out.

After the sun-browned terrain of California, south-central Oregon looked lush and green. Klamath Falls, a small city of around twenty thousand, was nestled at the tip of Upper Klamath Lake and spread out over the surrounding, softly sculpted hills. My flight arrived at Kingsley Field on time, to clear skies and balmy weather in the high sixties. Before going to baggage claim, I hurried through the terminal to do the paperwork and collect the keys to the rental car Ted had reserved for me. Normally on a trip like this I wouldn’t have checked my bag, but the firearms regulations made that a necessity. The bag came off quickly, however, and after taking it to the car and removing and reassembling my Magnum, I was on my way, the MapQuest directions to Laurel/Josie’s house on the seat beside me.

The route took me through downtown, along a main street with a pleasant old-fashioned feel and lined by interesting-looking shops. Then I found myself in an area of shabby motels, fast-food restaurants, and strip malls. A right turn, and a mile or so from there I entered an older subdivision where the homes were of the same style, differing only in size and color, and set closely together on small lots. It was clearly an area in decline, and probably had been for some time: many of the houses were in poor repair and in need of painting; lawns were untrimmed, flowerbeds unweeded; some of the yards were surrounded by chain-link fences and posted with Beware of Dog signs. The houses mostly had one-car garages, but their owners had multiple vehicles; cars, trucks, vans, SUVs, campers, and trailers laden with jet skis and boats hugged the curbs. When I got to the 100 block of May Street I wedged my rental car between two pickups and walked down to number 113.

It was one of the smaller houses, a single story, of blue aluminum siding; the main part was set back and formed an L with the garage, which protruded toward the street. While the yard was tidy and the lawn mowed, there were no plantings in the flowerbeds, no other attempts at adornment. The single picture window next to the front door was covered with closed blinds.

I studied it for a moment, thinking of the pretty house in Paso Robles that Laurel Greenwood had abandoned twenty-two years ago. Thinking of how it would feel to come face-to-face with her, after prying into the most intimate aspects of her life for over two weeks now. Wondering how she would react when she realized she’d been found out.