Double

He still sounded smirky and pleased with himself — he’d probably got laid again by Wanda the Footwear Queen since we’d last talked — but he had the information I wanted. Lauterbach was pretty much the type of operative I had pegged him to be: an angle player, skirting the edges of the law, no doubt working petty scams whenever he could. He’d come close to having his ticket pulled twice in Michigan, once on a divorce case before the no-fault law was adopted, once on a shakedown involving electronic bugging. Lack of evidence had saved his bacon in both cases. He’d had a little difficulty getting a California ticket, but his friend Jack Owens, the guy whose agency he’d taken over, had gone to bat for him and the State Board had finally granted him one on a contingency basis. So far, he’d kept his nose clean in San Diego.

With the other three I drew a blank. Neither Beddoes nor Ibarcena nor Rich Woodall had been convicted of a felony in California or anywhere else in the U.S. Woodall had been arrested three years ago on suspicion of selling animals in violation of the federal Endangered Species Act, but lack of evidence had kept him from being indicted.

When Eberhardt and I were done talking, I gave Kerry’s number another try. No answer. Without much hope I dialed Lauterbach’s home and office numbers one last time. No answer at either place. Scratch him until tomorrow.

Scratch me until tomorrow too. I took one of the issues of Dime Detective I’d got from Charley Valdene into the bathroom and into the tub. H. H. Stinson’s “Rancho El Maniac” was just what I needed to cap a perfect day.

21: McCone

I found a phone booth in a shopping arcade not far from Karyn Sugarman’s office and tried to call June Paxton. Her line was busy. Next I looked up Henry Nyland in the directory; he lived on Coronado. A woman whose voice held the professional tones of a housekeeper informed me he had gone to campaign headquarters and then would be meeting with party officials all afternoon. I got the address of his headquarters downtown and drove there.

The headquarters were in a storefront that looked as if it might once have been an auto dealership. Red, white, and blue banners draped the large plate-glass windows — excessively patriotic, I thought, for a campaign for city council. I tried the door and found it locked, then peered inside. There were desks covered with envelopes and literature, numerous phones, and the obligatory coffee urn for weary volunteers, but no people. Nyland must already be on the way to his meeting. That eliminated the possibility of seeing him, at least until evening.

I found another phone booth and tried to call June Paxton again. Her line was still busy. Lloyd Beddoes and Victor Ibarcena were both absent from the Casa del Rey — Ibarcena’s day off and Beddoes temporarily unavailable, the switchboard said. I wondered who minded the store while they were gone.

Beddoes’s home number was in Elaine’s book. I called it, and listened while it rang ten times. Ibarcena, I found, was listed in the directory at an Ocean Beach address. No answer there either. I tried Paxton again: still busy.

I was running out of people to call and starting to get frustrated. It was steaming hot in the booth, and I propped the door open, trying to decide what to do next. This was a rotten way to spend a Sunday, a rotten way to spend a vacation. I wished I was home in San Francisco, with Don.

Don. Good Lord. I had called him the night I’d arrived, promised to call again in a couple of days. And then I’d totally forgotten to do so.

I fished out my phone company credit card, stuck my well-used dime in the slot, and placed a call to his home number. A woman answered and said to hold on, Don was in the shower.

The temperature in the phone booth must have risen thirty degrees while I waited. When Don’s cheerful voice came on the line, I snarled, “Who was that?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“What am I supposed to think? There’s a woman in your apartment, answering your phone while you’re in the shower.”

“Right. It’s, uh, my cousin Laura from Tacoma. We used to play doctor together, so I hardly think my taking a shower in the same apartment with her is anything new or shocking.”

That gave me pause. Don did have a cousin in Tacoma.

“Laura’s in town for the week,” he went on. “She wants to meet you. When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.” Briefly I outlined what was happening down here.

“Busman’s holiday, huh?” he said when I was finished.

“Sort of. I wish I were home.”

“So do I. I was worried when you didn’t call.”

“I meant to, but...”

“I know.”