A Time of Predators

“Woody ain’t home,” she said emphatically, in a true Dixie accent. She leaned forward to peer sharply at Curt. “This yere ’bout de car note?”

“Why...” Curt realized that ringing strange doorbells and talking to strangers was going to be like learning a new language. “Why, no. Are you Mrs. Anderson?”

She leaned against the door frame. Her laughter was rich. “I sho’ ain’t Mia Farrow, honey.”

Curt could not help laughing with her. “The Mrs. Anderson I want has a son about ten years old, who—”

“Not me, honey.” Then she roared with body-shaking laughter again. “Less’n dat Woody, he been messin’ ’round ’thout tellin’ me!”

Curt drove the VW into Josina Avenue before stopping to draw a line through Anderson, Woody, 5202 Seville Drive. He felt slightly guilty, because this was supposed to be a serious business and he had been vastly entertained by the ebullient Mrs. Anderson.

Anderson, Stanley, 2983 Montecito Court.

Montecito Court, despite the high house numbers, was a one-block street off Charleston Road. Curt could find no 2983. He finally settled for 2985, ringing the bell and then cupping his eyes to peer into the dim interior through a window. He was sweating from the bright sun.

A woman in her mid-fifties appeared, walking very carefully between the rather expensive pieces of living-room furniture.

“What can I do for you?” She spoke with care but clarity; her voice was golden with a very mellow Scotch.

“I’m looking for Stanley Anderson. He’s supposed to live at 2983 Montecito Court, but I can’t find that number. I wondered—”

“This’s...” She stopped, frowning intently at Curt. She had the heavy drinker’s blurred features. “This house b’longs to my daughter ’n’ her husban’, Frankie...” She belched, very delicately, said, “Shrimp cocktail,” then added obscurely, “I’m from Seattle.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Curt.

“Just visiting.” She made a sweeping gesture which nearly carried her down the steps. “Try Mish... Mrs. Pershin’ next door — 2979. Neighborhood gossip, tell you anything you wanna know. M’daughter Maggie says she can tell you how many pimples on th’ postman’s fanny.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Curt was backing off, nodding and smiling like one of those little dogs with delicately balanced heads which nod in amiable idiocy from the rear windows of many automobiles. “Thank you, ma’am.”

He paused to wipe his face before trying 2979, then realized that Mrs. Pershing already was on her front stoop, arms folded, head cocked toward 2985, her eyes glaring at the Seattle mother-in-law. She was in her sixties, with daintily coiffed bluish hair, a remarkably smooth complexion, and behind glasses her eyes were as bright and inquisitive as a mynah bird’s.

Catching Curt’s eye, she laughed. “Now that you’ve gotten the neighborhood bottleaxe report, come on up. Three weeks that woman’s been visiting Frank and Margaret, and I’ve yet to see her sober, Mr.—”

“Halstead. Curt Halstead. I’m trying to find 2983, and...”

“That’s Stanley. Actually, it’s a cottage right behind us here. I’m his landlady; I hope Stan isn’t in any trouble.”

“Nothing like that.” Curt remembered Worden’s tactics. “Just routine, Mrs. Pershing.”

“Come in and sit,” she urged. “I’ve got some nice iced tea.”

The living room was broad and spacious and cool, with a fireplace and a baby grand and a shelf of books which looked read. She bustled out to the kitchen, leaving Curt neatly immobilized in a comfortable chair. No doubt she would return to pick his brains with the skill of a Manchurian interrogator. She came back, he sipped tea.

“That’s delicious, Mrs. Pershing.”

She leaned forward with a quick and ruthless focusing of energies. “Must get tiring for a man out ringing doorbells on a hot day like this, Mr. Halstead...” Her delicate pause wore a question mark.

“Sure does. I’m... all... with the California education system.”

She nodded wisely. “Stanley’s mother is a professor down south, UCLA, one of those places. I suppose that’s why you’ve come. I look after Stan like he was one of my own, myself...”

Curt drew a mental line through Anderson, Stanley, asked his age.

“Oh, twenty-four, twenty-five. Has a very good job in electronics, but that little devil still makes me wait for my rent. Out chasing the girls in that little sports car of his...”

It took forty-five minutes, four evasions, and two outright lies before Curt could escape her inquisition to check on the next listed name.

Anderson, Kent, 438 San Benito Way.

The address was south and a bit west of the university, a long shot as far as Curt could see; there actually was a shorter way to the address, via Alicante Road, from Sears Lake than by Curt’s house. But...