Twice Dead - Catherine Coulter [229]
Nor was he at his big bay-windowed apartment on Oak Street. He hadn’t cleaned out his stuff, had apparently taken off without a word to anyone.
Hoyt said to Simon when he opened his hotel room door, “He’s gone. I stood in the middle of that empty living room with its fine paintings by Jason Argot on the white walls, with its own specialized lighting, and I tell you, Russo, I wanted to kick myself. I knew we should have covered his place, but I didn’t. I’m an idiot. Kick me. There’s got to be a clue somewhere in there about where his bolt-hole is. Or maybe not, but I haven’t found a bloody thing. Really, Russo, kick my ribs in.”
“Nah,” Simon said as he zipped the fly on his new jeans and threaded his new belt. He waved Hoyt into his deluxe room with its king-size bed that took up nearly three-quarters of the space. Lily was right through the adjoining door. They were staying at the Warm Creek Lodge, both with an ocean view from one window and an Old Town view from the other. “I appreciate your checking him out for us first thing, since Lily and I didn’t have any clothes at all. Though I wouldn’t have minded paying the jerk a visit myself. Good thing I left my wallet in my jeans pocket last night or we’d be in really deep trouble. Actually, if the credit card companies hadn’t sent me replacement credit cards after my wallet was stolen in New York, we’d still be in deep trouble. We’re all outfitted now, real spiffy. What about Monk’s car? Any sign of it?”
“We’ve got an APB out on it—a Jeep Grand Cherokee, ’ninety-eight, dark green. And we’re covering the Arcata airport. We’ve sent out alerts as far down as SFO, though I don’t think he could have gotten that far.”
“Problem is, we don’t know when he bolted. Don’t you think it would be better if you issued a tri-state airport alert?”
“Yeah, good idea. I’m thinking he probably got scared. I doubt he has a fake ID or a passport. If he tries to take a flight, we’ll nail him.”
Simon nodded. “Would you like a cup of coffee? Room service just sent some up with croissants.”
Clark Hoyt looked like he would cry. He didn’t say another word until he’d downed two cups of coffee and eaten a croissant, smeared with a real butter pat and sugarless apricot jam.
When Lily came in a few minutes later, Simon smiled at the sight. She looked even better than he’d imagined. She was wearing black stretch jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and black boots. She looked like a fairy princess who was also a cat burglar on her nights off. Clark Hoyt, when he rose to greet her, said, “Quite a change from how you looked early this morning. I like all the black.”
Lily thanked him, poured herself a cup of coffee, and watched him eat a second croissant. He filled Lily in on what they hadn’t found so far.
Hoyt said, “I called Savich back at Disneyland East and filled him in. He made me swear on the head of my schnauzer, Gilda, that you guys didn’t have a single singed hair on your heads. It was arson, all right, but no idea yet who the perps were or who hired them.”
“Disneyland East?” Lily asked, an eyebrow up.
“Yep, just another loving name for FBI headquarters. Hey, thanks for breakfast. You guys still smell like smoke. It’s really tough to get it all out. I should know, I was overenthusiastic with my barbeque last summer and lost my eyebrows, although my face was so black you couldn’t tell. Lay low; keep out of sight until I get some news for you, okay?”
IT was early afternoon when Hoyt came to get them from the lodge. Mr. Monk hadn’t tried to fly out of harm’s way. Actually, he hadn’t flown anywhere. He was quite dead, head pressed against the steering wheel, three bullets through his back. The Jeep was in a sparse stand of redwood trees, and some hikers, poking around, had found him.
Lieutenant Larry Dobbs of the Eureka Police Department knew the situation was dicey, that it involved