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At 9:54 a petite, dark-haired woman approached the bank, dressed smartly in a suit, panty hose, and heels. She looked like a sympathetic person, and I wished I was in the market for a loan so I could borrow money from her. She unlocked the glass door and punched in the code for the alarm system on a panel to the right. She disappeared from sight. Five minutes later a second woman crossed the lot, passing my car before she went into the bank. If Michael was right and the guy was a bank employee, surely he’d be showing up soon.
As though on cue, I heard heels tapping on the pavement behind me and turned to watch a balding, heavyset fellow lumber past my car. He walked like a man who hurt. He glanced at me idly and I registered a bouquet of fading bruises on his right cheek, purple, yellow, and green-quite the dashing assortment. I hadn’t caught a full-on view of his face so I couldn’t make a judgment about his sporting black eyes. Seemed reasonable to assume that whatever door he’d walked into would have rendered sufficient damage for blackened eyes along with the puffy cheek. I waited until he’d gone in and then folded the paper and put the lid on my coffee cup, which I stashed on the passenger-side floor.
I went into the bank. There were two half-walls in front of me with a wide aisle between. A corridor opened off each side of the reception area. I counted five doors down one hallway and two down the other. There was no sound, not even bad music being piped in. No employees in sight. Clearly, they were in their cubbyholes, gearing up for the day, unprepared for the early arrival of customers or bank robbers, whichever came first. I was at leisure to case the joint, but it didn’t look like a place that carried cash. I’d have paid a hundred dollars for a ladies’ room.
Finally, the petite, dark-haired woman appeared on my right. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know anyone was out here. Can I help you?”
“A man with bruises on his face came in here a few minutes ago and I think he may work here. You have any idea who I’m talking about?”
“Sure. That’s Walker McNally, the VP of New Client Relations. He has meetings all morning, but if you want to talk to him, I can see if he has a minute.”
“No need. He looked familiar, but the name doesn’t ring a bell so I must have mistaken him for someone else.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I did not actually gallop back to the car, but I proceeded with all due speed, heart thumping. I didn’t want Walker McNally to catch sight of me. Not to flatter myself, but I still looked much as I had in high school while he’d been transformed into a middle-aged man. I unlocked the car door, slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition, and pulled out. I turned the corner onto the side street and parked. Shit. Walker McNally. A critical piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place. Walker had had access to animals galore through his father’s veterinary practice. Our senior year in high school, rumor had it he was dealing dope, which meant he might have supplied weed to Creed and Destiny at the Unruhs’, where they’d parked the bus. That was a stretch, but not beyond possible. If Walker was one of the two pirates, I even had a candidate for his sidekick. He and Jon Corso had been joined at the hip. What a pair. Eighteen years old, arrogant, privileged, stoned, and bored. It didn’t take a leap to imagine them coming up with a scheme to net them some bucks. I couldn’t imagine why either one would be hard up for cash, but maybe their respective parents were parsimonious.
I returned to the office and called Michael’s house again. No answer. Where the heck was he? Madaline had probably already left on her trek downtown. She’d been on the verge of hitting me up for taxi money or a lift, no doubt hoping to inveigle me into waiting while she showered and did her hair.
It was time to talk to Cheney Phillips and I wanted Michael at my side to fill in his part of the story. Again. Sutton’s word was suspect, but what else did we have?
Not one to remain idle, I hoisted my shoulder bag and went out to my car. I drove to the parking structure adjacent to the public library and wound my way upward to the roof, where I found the only spot left. I reached under the passenger seat and hauled out the Thomas Guide to Santa Teresa and Perdido Counties. I toted it with me while I trotted down three flights of stairs and crossed the access lane between the parking lot and the entrance to the library.
I went to the reference department. My personal table had been rudely preempted by someone other than me so I settled at another table. I dumped my bag in the chair and then crossed to the section where the Polk and Haines directories were shelved. I pulled volumes for 1966 and 1967, then loaded the city directories for the same years on top. I added the current telephone book and carried the stack to the table. I sat down and arranged the references in front of me, keeping them in easy reach while I leafed through the Thomas Guide to the pages devoted to Horton Ravine. I looked up the name Corso in both the Polk and the Haines for 1966 and 1967. There was only one Corso listed, that being Lionel M. on Ocean Way. I made a note of the address and then checked the current telephone book. Lionel Corso was still listed at that address. I was under the impression he’d died. I had a dim recollection of ru
I looked up Walter McNally’s old address in the same two crisscross directories. In 1967 McNally senior had owned a home on Bergstrom Hill, just outside Horton Ravine and co
I returned the reference materials to the shelves, and left the library and drove into Horton Ravine to the Home Owner’s Association. There I appealed to the two kind women working in the office, who gave me a dandy map of all the bridle trails through the Ravine. I sat in my car, map open and propped up against the steering wheel, while I studied the warren of trails linking the properties of all the principals. If I affixed the trail map to the wall and used a pushpin for each of the relevant locations, a string ru
Now all I had to do was persuade Cheney Phillips I was on the right track. I went back to the office and called.
“Lieutenant Phillips.”
“Hey, Cheney. This is Kinsey. Are you tied up at the moment?”
“I’m here at my desk for another twenty minutes. What’s up?”
“You mind if I scoot in? I have something I want to run past you.”
“Can’t wait,” he said.
“See you shortly.”
My office was two blocks from the police department so I walked, maps in tow. Anxiety stirred in my gut. When it came right down to it, I was selling air and sunshine, a theory with nothing concrete to back it up. This put me in the same position Michael Sutton had been in, on the same shaky ground. The pieces fit together, but where was the glue? Michael’s claims had been shot out from under him, and now here I was, reconfiguring the facts without a shred of proof.
I went into the lobby at the station and waited for Cheney to come out and accompany me to his cubicle. He looked especially handsome that day-expensive loafers, dark slacks, and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. On anyone else it would have been standard office attire, but Cheney came from money and I knew what he paid for clothes.