Evidence of Guilt (28 page)

I sat at the bar and ordered a beer. The bartender, a gnarly man who bore a striking resemblance to Popeye, delivered my bottle indifferently, without saying a word and without once making eye contact. It was clear he wasn't given to small talk. When he returned with my change I decided to go for the direct approach.

"How long have you worked here?" I asked.

"Couple of years. Why?"

I pulled a picture of Lisa Cornell out of my purse. "Does this woman look familiar to you?"

He barely glanced at the photo, then shook his head. "I don't have much of a memory for faces."

That's because you never look at them, I thought. "She would have come here alone, maybe met someone."

He shook his head again. "Can't say as I've seen her."

"Does anyone else work behind the bar?"

"Ricky. He ought to be here any minute. He'll probably remember. Recognizes every broad that was ever here."

"Why's that?"

"He plays this game, kind of like taking bets with himself. Tries to figure out which ones are going to score and which aren't."

"Does he do the same with the male customers?" I asked.

The bartender looked at me like I was crazy. "Why would he want to do that?"

I shrugged, and decided I didn't have the energy for male consciousness-raising.

While I waited for Ricky, I sipped my beer and looked around. The place wasn't exactly jumping with activity, but it was a weeknight. Most of the patrons were male, and most were alone. There were only two other women in the whole place. They sat together in the far corner with a dark-haired man who was leaning so far across the table in their direction he was practically horizontal.

I finished my beer, went to the ladies room and checked for peepholes before using the facilities. It was that kind of place. I'd just ordered a second beer when Ricky arrived.

He was younger than the other bartender, probably in his forties, with a tight goatee and a sizable beer belly.

"Hal says you want to talk to me."

I nodded and again pulled out Lisa's picture. "Did you ever see her here?" I asked.

He frowned. "I might have."

"What does that mean?"

He shrugged and started to turn away.

"Wait," I said, reaching for my wallet. I tried to be cool, but I felt like an absolute jerk. It wasn't the money; it was the triteness of the situation.

Ricky didn't appear to have the same aversion to cliches that I did. He took the money and shoved it in a pocket. "Yeah, I seen her. She was here a couple of times. Haven't seen her for a while though."

I decided not to tell him she was dead. That kind of stuff makes some people clam up fast. "Did you ever see her with anyone?"

He nodded.

"Broad-shouldered fellow, dark hair?" I'd intended to bring a picture of Wes too, but I'd realized just as I was leaving that I didn't have one.

"The guy she usually met had light-colored hair, long and kind of shaggy."

It sounded like the man Wes had seen her with the first time. "Did they come here regularly?"

"Couple of times is all that I seen her. The guy used to come more often; then he disappeared for a while. He was back a few weeks ago, though."

"Alone?"

"Was when he came in. I didn't keep track after that."

"Did you ever see her with anyone else?"

Ricky tugged at his whiskers. "One time, I think, she ended up having a drink with a different guy. But she didn't make a habit of it."

"Can you describe this other man?"

"I can't remember much except that I'd seen him here before. Dark coloring, tattoo on one arm."

It appeared the first part of Wes's story checked out. "Did you happen to see if they left together?"

He gave me an oily smirk. "Yeah, they were together. Like they was stuck to each other with glue."

"How about this other man, the one she usually met. Did they leave together?"

"Sometimes, not always."

"And were they, uh, like glue as well?"

Another smirk. "They weren't brother and sister, that's for sure."

I wrote my number on a slip of paper. "If this other man comes back again, would you give me a call? It doesn't matter what time it is."

Ricky fingered the paper, then shrugged and let his eyes drift away. "I might."

I pulled out another bill and handed it over. "You call me when he comes in and I'll make it worth your while, okay? Double what you got tonight."

Sleazy dialogue in a sleazy bar. My twenty-seventh floor office with a view of the San Francisco Bay seemed light years away. I thought of it with longing. And yet, there was something galvanizing, even gratifying, about fitting the pieces to the facts. A kind of symmetry you didn't often find working on the twenty-seventh floor.

Dusk had turned to darkness by the time I started home. It was the kind of inky darkness you get when there's no moon, and no city lights reflecting off the horizon. The road was narrow and unlit, twisting through the rolling foothills with only cattle for company. What had been a

leisurely, scenic drive on the way over was going to require more concentration at night. I began to wish I hadn't had the second beer. I began to wish, even more, that I'd made another trip to the rest room before leaving.

Traffic was almost nonexistent, which made the driving a little easier. I rolled down the window for fresh air, flicked on my brights for better vision and punched the tape player. It picked up in the middle of a Bach quartet.

Of its own accord, my mind began to run through what I'd learned from the evening.

Wes's story jibed with what the bartender had told me. Whether or not Lisa made a habit of meeting men in bars, she'd done it at least twice: Wes and the fair-haired man. Was the other man someone she'd once picked up, the way she had Wes? Or was he someone she knew through a different avenue altogether? In either case I wanted to talk with him. And I wanted to know why Lisa was meeting him in a bar half an hour from home.

But the questions that occupied me most involved Wes. I found myself thinking about the story he had told me, thinking that it just might, actually, be true. The entire thing, word for word.

The realization hit me like the shock of a cold shower. If Lisa and Amy had been alive when Wes left them, then the man I was defending was innocent.

The revelation wasn't as liberating as I'd have expected. In fact, it was downright scary.

About ten minutes from town I noticed the glare of headlights in my rear-view mirror. I'd been vaguely aware of a car some distance behind me, but while my mind had been drifting the car had pulled closer and was now right on my tail. The harsh lights from behind made it

difficult to concentrate. Made me feel like a trapped animal.

Because the road was too narrow and winding for the other car to pass I sped up a bit, hoping to put more distance between us. It wasn't enough to satisfy the other driver. He stayed close to my bumper, even when I accelerated further.

About a mile on, the road straightened for a stretch. When the car behind me made no effort to pass I slowed to let him by. He slowed also, like a pilot flying in precision formation. Annoyed, I pulled as far to the right as I could without straying onto soft shoulder. But the car still wouldn't pass. Finally I picked up speed again. He did the same.

Suddenly fear rose in my throat. I was alone on an empty road. The nearest house was miles ahead. I hit the button for the window and cranked it up. Then I reached around and hit the door lock. Not that either would deter a serious pursuer. I checked the speedometer, wishing I'd bought the new rear tire Tom had been urging. This was not the time for a flat.

The car's interior held nothing I could use as a weapon. No tire iron, pocket knife or heavy flashlight. And the canister of pepper spray I'd carried so religiously in the city was at home in my bedroom drawer, where I'd stashed it upon my return to Silver Creek.

Again I glanced in the rear-view mirror, trying to make out faces in the car behind me. The glare was too bright. I couldn't even tell the type of car, except that it appeared to be a large American model, riding maybe a little lower to the ground than was standard.

Had I chanced onto some maniac rapist? Or was it some-

thing I'd stirred up with my questions about Lisa and Wes? Or was I, maybe, reacting with unwarranted paranoia?

I tried to convince myself of the last option but failed miserably. My heart was racing and my hands had begun to tremble.

Stay calm, said the voice of reason. Drive carefully. Eventually you'll come to a more populated area where you can get help.

Unless he runs you off the road first, I thought.

I gripped the wheel, pulled myself up straight, checked the gas gauge. Almost half full. At least I didn't have to worry about that

Just then the lights of an oncoming car reflected in the darkened sky. As it approached, I slowed to a crawl and flashed my high beams like crazy to get his attention. When he was almost beside me I tooted the horn.

The car sped past, not even bothering to flash his lights in return.

The car tailing me had pulled back a little, but once the oncoming car was past he inched forward again. Then started flashing his lights in a mockery of my own feeble efforts. From where I was sitting the effect was something like that of a strobe light, and I had to concentrate to keep my eyes focused on the road.

When we finally approached the outer limits of Hadley I began to relax. I planned to pull up in front of the police department and lean on die horn. I thought it unlikely the car behind me would stick around for the finale, but I wasn't taking a chance.

I slowed at the first stop sign but didn't come to a complete stop. The car behind me did the same. At the second sign I was forced to stop by a truck coming from my right. Before I could start up again the car from behind

swung alongside of me. I cringed, hit the horn and peeked to my left, into the passenger-side window of the other car. It took my eyes a moment to focus. The car had pulled ahead and through the intersection by the time it dawned on me that I'd just been mooned.

Kenny Rogers was crooning about love gone bad as I pulled out of the driveway the next morning on my way to work. I'd returned home the previous night still giddy with relief at learning I'd been tailed by immature males rather than maniac killers. But this morning I'd woken in a cold sweat, racked with lingering doubts.

If we hadn't reached town when we did, would things have turned out differently? What if I'd panicked and driven into a ditch or the path of an oncoming car? More to the point, what if it hadn't been just a couple of rowdies out having a good time? Was it possible that someone had singled me out for the sole purpose of spooking me?

I tried to remember whether anyone had left the Last Chance when I had, or been nearby when I got into my car. But my mind had been on other things and I hadn't noticed.

It was the top of the hour as I pulled onto the main road. Music gave way to news. The president was spending the week at Camp David. A hot spot of world strife had been

doused, temporarily anyway, by renewed peacekeeping efforts. The price of gold was up, silver down. The stock market was even. I listened with half an ear.

"Closer to home," the newscaster continued, "an automobile accident has claimed another life."

My ears pricked up. Could it have been the car following me last night? I didn't want to think about what might have happened if our bumpers had connected.

"The wreckage was discovered late yesterday afternoon by a hiker in the Cottonwood Canyon area. The blue Mazda apparently plunged off an area along Route 12 that is known for its hazardous turns. Authorities estimate that the car had been in the canyon for several days."

I let out the breath I'd been holding. Different part of the county, different time frames. Nothing linking die two incidents but my own skittishness.

'The driver of the vehicle, Dr. Donna Markley of Sierra Vista, appears to have been the only occupant. It is not known how she went off the road or when the accident occurred."

My whole body tensed. I reached over and turned up the volume. What I really wanted was to hit rewind. The newscaster had already moved on to other matters.