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There was an odd breathy silence, very brief, and then I heard a man's voice. "Hey, Kinsey?" Then the breathiness again.
"Yes." I found myself squinting at the sound. I pressed my fingers to my ear again, listening to the quiet as I'd listened to the party noises at Rhe's opening. The guy was crying. He wasn't sobbing. It was the kind of crying you do when you want to conceal the fact. The air was bypassing his vocal cords. "Kinsey?"
"Curtis?"
"Uh-hunh. Yeah."
"What's wrong? Is somebody there with you?"
"I'm fine. How are you?"
"Curtis, what's the matter? Is someone there with you?"
"That's right. Listen, why I called? I was wondering if you could meet me so we could talk about something."
"Who is it? Are you okay?"
"Can you meet me? I have some information."
"What's going on? Can you tell me who's with you?"
"Meet me at the bird refuge and I'll explain."
"When?"
"As soon as possible, okay?"
I had to make a quick decision. I couldn't keep him on the line much longer. Anybody monitoring the call would get cranky. "Okay. It might take me a while. I'm already in bed so I'll have to get dressed. I'll see you down there as soon as I can make it, but it might be twenty minutes."
The line went dead.
It wasn't nine o'clock yet, but there wasn't much traffic around the bird refuge at night. The preserve encompasses a freshwater lagoon on a little-used access road between the freeway and the beach. The twenty-car parking lot is usually used by tourists looking for a "photo opportunity." There was a tavern across the street, but the property was currently without a tenant. I wasn't going to go down there alone and unarmed. I picked up the phone again and called the police station, asking for Sergeant Cordero.
"I'm sorry, but she won't be in until seven a.m."
"Can you tell me who's working Homicide?"
"Is this an emergency?"
"Not yet," I said tartly.
"You can talk to the watch commander."
"Just skip it. Never mind. I can try someone else." I depressed the button and tucked the telephone in against my shoulder while I checked my personal address book. The "someone else" I called was Sergeant Jonah Robb, an STPD cop who worked the missing persons detail. He and I had had a sporadic relationship that fluctuated according to the whims of his wife. Theirs was a marriage of high drama and long duration, the two having met at age thirteen in the seventh grade. Personally, I didn't think they'd progressed much. At intervals, Camilla would leave him-usually without notice or explanation-taking their two daughters and any money they had in their joint bank account. Jonah always vowed each time was the last. It was during one of these periods of domestic upheaval that I entered, stage left. I was the understudy, a role I discovered I didn't like very much. I'd finally severed the co
A woman answered the telephone in a bedroom tone of voice, Camilla perhaps, or her latest replacement. I asked for Jonah and I could hear the receiver being passed from hand to hand. His "Hello" was groggy. God, these people went to bed earlier than I did. I identified myself and that seemed to wake him up some.
"What's happening?" he said.
"I hate to bother you, babe, but a jailbird named Curtis McIntyre just phoned and asked me to meet him at the bird refuge as soon as I can get there. My guess is the guy had a gun to his head. I need backup."
"Who's with him? Do you know?"
"I don't have an answer to that yet and it's too complicated to go into on the phone."
"You got a gun?"
"It's in my office at Lo
"Yeah, I can probably do that."
"I wouldn't ask, but I don't have anyone else."
"I understand," he said. "I'll see you there in fifteen minutes. I'll drive past and then double back on foot. There's plenty of cover."
"That's what concerns me," I said. "Don't trip over the bad guys."
"Don't worry. I can smell them puppy dogs. See you down there."
"Thanks," I said and hung up.
I grabbed my shoulder bag and my jacket with the car keys in the pocket, congratulating myself that I'd had the presence of mind to get the VW gassed up. It would take all the time I'd allotted to get from my apartment to the office and back down to the bird refuge. Whomever Curtis had with him was going to be edgy about delays, suspicious if I didn't show up in the time I'd said I would. I drove faster than the law allows, but I kept an eye on the rearview mirror, watching for cu
When I got to the office, I left my car out on the street with my shoulder bag tucked down against the driver's seat out of sight. There was little or no traffic and all the nearby office buildings were locked down for the night. I moved through the darkened arch along the driveway that led back to the little twelve-car parking lot. I didn't see Lo
I used my keychain flashlight against the pitch-black stairwell. When I reached the third-floor corridor, I could see where Lo
"Hey, Lo
I didn't bother to wait for a reply. I opened my office door and flipped the light switch. My office space had once functioned as the employees' lounge/kitchen, with my current closet serving as a pantry of sorts. There were five cartons still stacked against the back wall, clearly stuff I hadn't needed in the new place so far. I couldn't even remember what was in those boxes. I've heard the theory that if you still haven't unpacked a carton two years after a move, you simply call the Salvation Army and have the damn thing hauled away. I'd cleverly marked each box "Office Stuff." I pulled one out and ripped off the wide brown sealing tape. I peeled the flaps back. This box contained all my income tax files. I tried the next box and hit pay dirt. Oh, yea. The Heckler amp; Koch was sitting right on top, still in the box, the Winchester Silvertips in two boxes just under it.
I sat down on the floor and took the gun out. I grabbed a box of ammo and opened it, pulling out the little white Styrofoam base. I began to push cartridges into the magazine. Once we'd arrived at the gun shop, Dietz and I had had yet another fractious argument about which model I should buy: the P7, which held nine rounds, or the P9S, which held ten. Guess which one cost more? I was in a bitchy mood anyway, feeling stubborn and uncooperative. The P7 was already priced at more than eleven hundred bucks. I'd also griped about the P9S, which I felt was too much gun for me. What I meant, of course, was expensive, which Dietz guessed right away.