A Time of Predators

“It’s in the phone book, for Chrissake! 1791 Edgewood Drive...”

“She moved from there about a month ago, Mr. Anderson.”

“Look, buddy,” he said flatly, “we got divorced two goddamn years ago. She got the works: house, bank account, everything but my left nut, see? I don’t have anything to do with her, don’t wanna, beyond the support payments — which go to her P.O. box. I ain’t seen her or the kid, either of ’em, for half a year. She owes you money, look somewhere else for it.” He slammed down the receiver with a curse.

Heritage Realty was a small place sharing a new but cheaply constructed building with a doughnut shop. The walls were covered with diagrams, mocked-up house-plan blueprints, and faded Polaroids of uninspiring tract houses. Behind a redwood-faced counter were four desks littered with papers; at the second desk, on the telephone, was a rather suet-faced woman with dark hair. Her name plate announced MRS. PINNEO to a waiting world. When she hung up, Curt asked his question.

“1791 Edgewood Drive? A lovely property, sir. Three bedroom, two bath, patio, electric kitchen, built-in barbecue, new—”

“I’m just trying to get in touch with the owner.”

She had dark piercing eyes, her best feature, a small pursed mouth as if she were drinking cold coffee, and pads of flesh over her cheekbones which gave her a squirrel-faced look. Her smile got soft around the edges at Curt’s remark. “We are fully authorized to act as Mrs. Anderson’s agents.”

“Yes, I’m sure. This is personal, however. Her address would—”

“Quite impossible.” The smile had thawed, and a frown was freezing quickly into place. She tapped her pencil impatiently on the desk. “We cannot give you any information whatsoever regarding Mrs. Anderson.”

“Well, then, just a phone number. I can call—”

“That number is unlisted, sir. Good day.”

“But I—”

“I said good day, sir.”

Curt stopped outside the door, blinking in the glaring midday sunshine. So. No closer to Barbara Anderson, perhaps; but morally certain that she was the one he wanted. She was, after all, obviously secluding herself and her son from someone or something. Curt didn’t doubt for a moment that it was the predators by whom she felt threatened. And didn’t that mean there was a good chance that she, or her son, knew something Curt didn’t? Something the police didn’t? That Worden didn’t?

It was time for Archie Matthews again, because this was it: the new factor in the equation. Barbara Anderson. And Jimmy.

Chapter 19

“Floyd tells me you’re about ready to qualify for the private investigator’s exam,” Archie Matthews said with a grin.

“He oversold the product,” said Curt gloomily. “I’m pretty sure that Barbara Anderson is the mother of the boy I want, but it doesn’t do much good if I can’t find her. When your answering service said on Sunday that you wouldn’t be available until today, I got her P.O. box number from her husband and sent her a letter. But she didn’t answer.”

It was Wednesday, and Curt was in Matthews’ anonymously modem office again. The private investigator had been working a case in the East Bay, had just gotten off it two hours before, and was yawning.

“What about the realty office?” he asked Curt. “They have to be able to reach her in case they get a firm offer on the house.”

“I tried them Sunday. The woman wouldn’t tell me a damned thing.”

Matthews yawned again. “Sounds like this chick has covered herself pretty well. Probably took an apartment with utilities included — which means the connection still would be in the landlord’s name, and my contacts with the gas and electric people wouldn’t be able to help.” He sat down at the desk and reached for the phone book. “Let’s try it the easy way. What’s the name of the woman at the realty company?”

“A Mrs...” Curt squinted, thinking hard. “Mrs. Pinneo.”

Matthews dialed Heritage Realty, leaning back in his expensive leather swivel chair and gazing at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes. Curt got the feeling that countless hours of Matthews’ life had been spent in just this way, patiently, emptily — and a line from Eliot’s Prufrock popped into his head: I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. Or, in Matthews’ case, phone calls.

Matthews leaned forward abruptly. “Yes, Mrs. Pinneo, please.” His voice had thickened and harshened. “Mrs. Pinneo? This is Charles Anderson. I drove by to see Barbara today, and found your For Sale sign on the Edgewood Drive house.”

The phone made squawking noises. Although Matthews’ tired face remained bland, almost cherubic, his voice became positively biting. “And just why the hell wasn’t I contacted? If my ex- had bothered to show you a copy of the divorce decree, you’d know that I retain a one-fourth interest in... what? Don’t give me that crap, lady. I gave nobody any permission...”