Роберт Стивенсон: Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 35, No. 3, March 1990

“Mmmm. Who’s this?” she mumbled.

“This is Victor Sifuentes. John Schroeder said I could get in touch with him through you.”

She was more awake now. I liked it when they thought they recognized the name, but weren’t sure where they had heard it before.

“John?” she said, surprised. “He isn’t here.”

“Please have him call my office. He has the number.”

As I hung up the phone, I heard her say something else, but I didn’t catch it. Dobbin was staring blankly at the phone, while the Creeper was checking out the cars in the parking lot. We waited for some signs of life but nothing happened, so we decided to go back to our heat sheet.

We got lucky fast. The Creeper I.D.’d a Toyota we’d been carrying for almost a week in a grocery store parking lot. Dobbin hotwired it and took it in.

Then, about ten minutes later, we found an XZ convertible parked out in front of the guy’s house. He must have gotten careless, I guess. We’d been looking for that car for a while. I called the police dispatch number and gave them the details while the Creeper dug around in his bag for the master key. You can’t be too careful with the Creeper. He’s been busted for grand theft auto on a two mile trip back to the lot. He’s just got that kind of face.

That left me alone for a while. I wanted to check out Schroeder’s office anyway, so I radioed in that Dobbin and the Creeper were on their way back and I’d pick them up in an hour.

Del Mar’s not that far north on 805, and it’s a pretty stretch of highway. Right past the turnoff was a long, low row of high-tech offices — the kind with tinted windows that look like giant sunglasses. The landscapes had left colorful rows of pansies and dianthus behind to assure visitors they were still inside the boundaries of civilization, even though the area was ringed with scrub grass and the rocky debris of some ancient volcanic uprising.

The parking lot looked freshly poured and painted, and most of the cars parked there were fairly new. It was a very upwardly mobile kind of place. I pulled into a spot marked RESERVED, JOHN SCHROEDER, and turned off the engine.

The door in front of me said SCHROEDER ENGINEERING. Very fancy. I got out and knocked on it, then tried the handle. It was open.

It was dark in the office, and after the bright light outside, I couldn’t see. I fumbled for the light switch but couldn’t find it. I heard the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, and footsteps, and then something hit me hard and I went down on my bum leg. I tried to stifle a scream, but couldn’t. I felt a breeze as the door slammed. Whoever had hit me was gone.

I lay there for a couple of minutes, doing the Lamaze breathing that the nurse at the hospital had assured me would ease the pain, and when my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, I saw that Schroeder’s office had been trashed. The file drawers had been emptied and rooted through, the desk was littered with papers — even the coffeepot had been torn apart.

I decided to look around. The office was long and narrow, with a formal executive office set up beyond the secretarial alcove, and beyond that, what looked like some kind of studio. The formal office area was decorated in some kind of light wood, with pastel carpet and walls. There was less damage here — lamps broken and pictures tom off the walls. It looked like Schroeder hadn’t used the area much except for decoration, and whoever had just left had figured that out.

The studio was where the noise had come from. It was apparently where Schroeder worked. It had a drafting table, plastic storage containers against the walls, a kitchen, and a bathroom. Drafting paper was wadded up in little balls all over the floor and the storage containers had been emptied of their supplies. The only thing that hadn’t been touched was a six-pack of Vernor’s ginger ale that was sitting on the kitchen counter. The guy at least had some sense.

I got a clean glass out of the kitchen cabinet, some ice out of the refrigerator, and opened a soda. I love the stuff.

I rooted around through the papers a little bit until I finished my drink, but all I found were some weird drawings that looked like they were for electrical stuff.

I heard a door slam and walked cautiously to the service entrance to the studio. Next door, a UPS truck was backing up. The driver nodded in my direction when he saw me. As the truck rolled down the delivery drive, I saw the glint of blue metal beyond it. This is too easy, I thought.

I propped the back door open with a stapler so I wouldn’t get locked out and went to investigate. The info on the receipt of sale in the front window matched what Alicia had given me on the telephone. I got the Creeper on the radio, told him I’d found the Corliss and was bringing it in. He said he’d hitch a ride up with one of the other units, bring my car in, then meet me at the impound lot.

The car still smelled new, the stereo was top of the line, and aside from the ache in my leg when I shifted gears, I was in heaven. I eased into traffic and popped the clutch into overdrive. A guy could get used to this, I thought to myself.

I stuck a piece of chewing gum in my mouth and opened the ashtray to ditch the wrapper. Something inside rattled. I felt around, got a grip on it, and pulled it out. It was some kind of little plastic gizmo with wires in it — probably a piece of the car’s electrical system that the installers at the dealership had forgotten to hook up. I put it in my pocket to turn in at the lot.

I couldn’t wait to show Alicia, so I decided to pull into the dealership on the way to our impound lot. She was standing on the stairs by the front door, going over some kind of list with Bowie. I honked the horn and they came over.

“Hey, fast work,” Alicia said. “Where was it?”

“In the parking lot behind his office. Piece of cake.”

“Did Schroeder give you any trouble?” Alicia asked.

“He wasn’t there.” I was about to explain what had happened, but Bowie stopped me.

“Gimme the keys for a minute, Joe,” he said. He had a puzzled look on his face.

“Sure.” I handed them over. “Is something wrong?”

“There’s something sticking out of the trunk.”

Alicia walked back and peered down. “It looks like a suit jacket. Maybe it’s Schroeder’s dry cleaning,” she joked.

Bowie turned the key in the lock and the trunk sprang open. He jumped back and turned his head away from the sight.

Inside, squeezed around so his face was practically between his knees, was the body of a man. Alicia turned pale and was starting to gag. One of the salesmen was walking over, smiling, to see what was going on.

“Could you shut that thing, Bowie?” Alicia asked.

I was starting to feel a little green around the gills, too. Bowie slammed the lid.

“I guess we ought to call the cops,” I said.

“I’ll do it,” Alicia said. “Maybe we should move the car around back.”

Bowie glanced at me and held up the keys. “No, go ahead,” I said. We were on his turf.

The cops who arrived first were uniforms. I watched from inside the employee lounge as Alicia walked them to the back lot and explained what had happened. The cops opened the trunk, made faces, and shut it again.

I hobbled out to join them. One of the cops had gone back to his unit to radio for intelligent life, while the other was looking at Alicia as if he’d been stranded on a desert island since puberty. Alicia was starting to look irritated. She saw me approach and rolled her eyes.

“This is Joe Camacho,” she said. “He pulled the car.”

The officer was young, blond, tanned, fit — a beach bunny, maybe, or a male model, but not my idea of a cop. His gold nametag reflected the sunlight, wavering. I stared at his shirt for a while, finally made out the name: Warner.