Liar

The more I studied the bill, the more I became aware of a pattern to the calls. They began to follow a kind of geographical order: the call after Crescent City was to Eureka, then Leggett, Santa Rosa and San Francisco. A straight line down the Northern California coast. Following San Francisco, she called Vallejo, then Sacramento, Stockton, Fresno and Visalia.

I pulled an atlas off a reference shelf in the newsroom and opened it to a map of California. As I had thought, this group of calls followed a line inland from San Francisco to Sacramento, and then down the San Joaquin Valley along Highway 99. The other calls were the same, as if the caller-Briana-had also looked at a map, using the course of major highways to decide where to call next. There were some leaps (as I began to think of them) here and there-places where the pattern jumped to another area, a separate highway. But after each leap, the pattern continued.

With this pattern in mind, I logged back on to the computer and accessed the same database. The program can also search by phone number-enter the phone number, and it produces the name and address of the listed party. I decided to try the numbers for the three longer calls and entered the Mission Viejo phone number.

When the listing appeared on the screen, I double-checked the number on the phone bill, thinking I must have made a mistake. I hadn’t.

The number was that of the Mission Viejo Public Library. I tried Lake Arrowhead and El Cajon. Both were public libraries. Puzzled, I tried a few of the others. More libraries. I looked up every phone number; almost all were public libraries. The only exceptions were four elementary schools and two children’s bookstores.

I tried ru

I was about to try ru

It was Rachel. “You hear the news?”

“What news?”

“Our boys are going to Idaho.”

“What?”

“Yeah, they’re trying to find a witness for one of their cases-guess it’s about to come to trial.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Don’t worry about Frank,” she said, guessing the direction of my thoughts. “He’ll be fine, except that Pete will probably make him crazy. Might do him some good to get out of town for a few days.”

“Yes,” I said, “you’re probably right.”

“You don’t sound convinced. I guess I should have let Frank tell you.”

“No, it’s all right. Glad to have some warning. It will help me to not overreact when Frank tells me. I mean, it really isn’t a big deal, is it?”

“Unless maybe you were recently forcibly separated from someone, and spent time worrying about whether he was alive or dead. Then you might be forgiven for being a little worried the next time he says he’s going out of town to find a witness.”

“Thanks,” I said, vowing to keep silent on the issue of her co

“Look, I’m between cases here. I know you and your aunt were just yanking McCain’s chain when you told him I was working with you, but I’d be happy to help you out. You want some help locating this cousin of yours?”

“Sure. But don’t call in any favors at the DMV or the voter registrar’s offices just yet. I think her phone bills may lead us to him.”

“Found a number for him?”

“Not exactly,” I said, and told her what I had learned so far.

“Libraries, bookstores and elementary schools?”

“Maybe he sells children’s books,” I said. “All of this is assuming it was Travis she was trying to reach.”

“Were the calls made during the day?”

I looked at the bill again. “Most were. Some of the library calls were made in the early evening. But more interesting are the dates; I think she was trying to tell him that his father had died. Maybe she wanted him to go to Arthur Spa

“It must have been Travis. You want to fax me that list of Maguires and Sperrys? I could start checking them out for you.”

“You sure you have time for this?”

“One day I’m going to convince you that I don’t make offers just to hear the sound of my own voice.”

“Okay, okay. Thanks. Give me your fax number.”

I wrote it down, then said, “I’ll call these last three numbers-the ones for the longest calls. If I get a little time, I’m going to try to look up the story of the DeMont murder. If I learn anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Same here.”

I went back to work on my story, getting interrupted only when Frank called to break the news of the Idaho trip to me. When I reacted calmly, he said, “Rachel already told you, didn’t she?” I confessed. He laughed, then told me he’d be home late.

If he was going to be home late, I wasn’t going to have the luxury of staying late at the paper; two dogs and a big cat can only be kept waiting for so long. Jack, the best of neighbors, was always more than willing to help out with pet care, but I didn’t like to abuse his generosity.

I called the Lake Arrowhead Library and asked if anyone there recalled speaking to a Briana Maguire within the last month. I was politely told that the library received many phone inquiries in a given month, but the librarian was kind enough to ask other staff members anyway. No one recalled speaking to her. I asked if someone named Travis had visited the library recently. That got a laugh. I mentioned that he might have been selling children’s books; no, the library did not buy children’s books from traveling salesmen.

She transferred me to someone in acquisitions, who went on to give me a brief explanation of the library’s acquisitions procedures. They involved a complex decision-making process that made me feel a new respect for children’s librarians, but left me no wiser about Travis or Briana’s call.

I drew a blank with the other libraries as well.

I decided to look up the DeMont murder. I knew the year, but couldn’t recall the month. I called Mary and asked her if she remembered.

“Of course I do. It was summer. July or August. Hotter than Hades. Are you making any progress?”

I told her what I had learned so far.

“Hmm. I expected more by now, I’ll admit.”

“Your faith in me is inspirational. Do you know what Travis does for a living?” I asked.

“No idea.”

The DeMont story was too old to be indexed on the computer, which meant I’d have to look it up on microfilm in the library-the place formerly known as the morgue. This type of search was much slower, but it would have the benefit of letting me see the story in a context, next to other stories.

I asked for the appropriate roll of film and threaded it through a reader. Context. Gwendolyn DeMont had been murdered a month before Elvis died, in one of the years I had spent in Bakersfield as a green reporter, years away from Las Piernas by much more than a fixed distance. I hit the forward switch and stopped the reel on an early July issue. I adjusted a few knobs and the images of old news came into focus. The late seventies.

Nostalgia wasn’t going to get me anywhere, so I ruthlessly hit the forward switch again. Eventually, I found the headline I was looking for. It was an Orange County story, so the Express didn’t give it big play on the first day. It ran on the inside of the B section.

“Heiress Found Slain.” About a twenty-four-point headline. Beneath it, in slightly smaller type, “Husband Missing.”

Husband missing. Not, I supposed, for the first time.