20

On the way back to Colgate, I stopped at a gas station and filled my tank. This crosstown driving was the equivalent of a round-trip to Idaho and I was beginning to regret the fact that I wasn't charging Lonnie for the mileage. It was just after 6:00 and traffic was heavy, most of it inbound, heading in the opposite direction. Clouds lay across the mountains like a layer of bunting. I headed for Voigt Motors, trying to calculate the odds of Kenneth Voigt telling me the truth. Whatever his relationship with Curtis, it was time for some straight talk. If I couldn't get it out of Kenneth, I was going to track Curtis down and have a chat with him. I parked in the little strip lot in front of Voigt Motors, tucking my VW between a vintage Jaguar and a brand-new Porsche. I went in through the front door, ignoring the saleswoman who stepped forward to greet me. I went up the wide stairs to the loggia of offices that rimmed the second floor-Credit, Accounting. Apparently the salespeople were required to be on the floor until closing time at 8:00. Those working the business end were a little luckier, already in the process of going home for the day. Kenneth's office door carried his name in two-inch brass letters. His secretary was a woman in her early fifties who'd gone on being a bleached blonde way beyond the legal age for it. Time had marked the space between her eyes with a goalpost of worry. She was tidying her desk, putting files away, making sure the pens and pencils were placed neatly in a ceramic mug.

I said, "Hi. Is Mr. Voigt here? I'd like to talk to him."

"You didn't pass him on the stairs as you came up? He left two minutes ago, but he may have gone down the back way. Is there something I can help you with?"

"I don't think so. Can you tell me where he parks? Maybe I can catch him before he takes off."

Her expression had changed and she regarded me with caution. "What is this regarding?"

I didn't bother to reply.

I ducked out of the office and continued along the upper level, peering briefly into every room I passed, including the men's room. A startled-looking fellow in a business suit was just shaking himself off. God, that would be convenient. If there were any justice in the world, women would have the little hang-down things and men would get stuck with putting the paper down on the seats. I said, "Ooops. Wrong room," and shut the door again. I found the back stairs through a door marked "Fire Exit." I took the stairs two at a time going down, but when I reached the parking lot, there was no sign of Ken and there were no cars pulling out of the exit.

I went back to my VW and headed out of the lot, turning left onto Faith in the direction of upper State. Curtis McIntyre's motel was only a mile away. This section of town was devoted to fast-food restaurants, car washes, discount appliance stores, and assorted small retail establishments, with an occasional office building sandwiched into the mix. Once I was past the Cutter Road Mall, the northbound freeway entrance appeared on the right. State Street angled left, running parallel to the highway for another mile or two.

The Thrifty Motel was located near the junction of State Street and the two-lane highway that cut north toward the mountains. I hung a left into the gravel entrance to the motel parking lot. I pulled into the unoccupied slot in front of Curtis's room. The lights in most rooms along the L were blazing, the air richly perfumed with the scent of frying meats, a heady blend of bacon, hamburger, pork chops, and sausage. Television news shows and booming country music competed for airspace. Curtis's windows were dark and there was no response to my knock. I tried the room next door. The guy who answered must have been in his forties, with bright blue eyes, a bowl-shaped haircut, and a beard like a tangle of hair pulled out of a brush.

"I'm looking for the guy next door. Have you seen him?"

"Curtis went out."

"Do you have any idea where?"

The guy shook his head. "Not my day to keep track of him."

I took out a business card and a pen. I scribbled a note asking Curtis to call me as soon as possible. "Could you give him this?"

The guy said, "I will if I see him." He shut the door again.

I took out another card and jotted down a duplicate message, which I slid in behind the metal 9 tacked to his door. The neon motel sign blinked on as I crossed the parking lot to the manager's office. Thrifty Motel was spelled out in sputtering green, the sound of flies buzzing against a window screen. The glass-paneled office door was open and a NO VACANCY sign, red letters on a white ground, had been propped against one of the jalousie windowpanes.

The registration counter was bare, the small area behind it unoccupied. A door in the rear was standing ajar and there were lights on in the apartment usually reserved for the manager on the premises. He was apparently watching the rerun of a sitcom, laugh track pummeling the air with recurrent surges of mirth. Every third laugh was a big one and it wasn't difficult to visualize the sound engineer sitting at the board pushing levers up and back, up and back, way up and back.

A small sign on the counter said "H. Stringfellow, mgr. Ring bell for service" with an old-fashioned punch bell. I dinged, which got a big laugh from the unseen audience. Mr. Stringfellow shuffled through the door, closing it behind him. He had snow-white hair and a gaunt cleanshaven face, his complexion very pink, his chin jutting forward as if he'd had it surgically augmented. He wore baggy brown pants and a drab brown polyester shirt with a thin yellow tie. "Full up," he said. "Try the place down the street."

"I'm not looking for a room. I'm looking for Curtis McIntyre. You have any idea what time he'll be back?"

"Nope. Some fellow came and picked him up. At least, I think it was a man. Car pulled in out there and off he went."

"You didn't see the driver?"

"Nope. Didn't see the car either. I was working in the back and I heard a honk. Few minutes later, I saw Curtis passing by the window. I just happened to glance out the door or I wouldn't have seen that. Pretty soon a door slammed and then the car pulled away."

"What time was this?"

"Just a little while ago. Maybe five, ten minutes."

"Do his calls come through the switchboard?"

"Isn't any switchboard. He's got a telephone in his room. That way his phone bill's his own business and I don't have to fool with it. I don't pretend I'm dealing with a classy type of tenant. Dirtbags, most of 'em, but it's nothing to me. Long as they pay the rent in advance as agreed."

"Is he pretty good about that?"

"He's better than most. You his parole officer?"

"Just a friend," I said. "If you see him, could you ask him to give me a call?" I took out another business card and circled my number.

I unlocked the car door, just about to let myself in, when my bad angel piped up, giving me a little nudge. Right there in front of me was Curtis McIntyre's door. The lock looked respectable, but the window right next to it was open. The gap was only three inches, but the wooden frame on the window screen was warped along the bottom and actually bulged out just about far enough for me to tuck my tiny fingers in. Pop the screen out and all I'd have to do is push the sash up, reach around on the inside, and turn the thumb-lock. There was no one in the parking lot and the noise from all the television sets would cover any sound. I'd been a model citizen all week and where had it gotten me? The case was never going to get as far as court anyway, so what difference would it make if I broke the law? Breaking and entering isn't that big a deal. I wasn't going to steal anything. I was just going to have a teeny, tiny, little peek. This is the kind of reasoning my bad angel gets into. Trashy thinking, but it's just so persuasive. I was ashamed of myself, but before I could even reconsider I was easing the screen out, slipping the naughty old digits through the opening. Next thing I knew I was in his room. I turned the light on. I just had to hope Curtis wouldn't walk in. I wasn't sure he'd care if I tossed his place. I was more worried that if he caught me there, he'd think I was hustling him.