Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [66]
My fingers were gripping the pencil I’d been doodling with; now it snapped in two. I threw the pieces into the wastebasket so hard that one bounced out again. I was angry, and not just with Salazar. I was angry at myself for not heeding what Abrego had said before we met with the man he quite rightfully described as slime.
“Part of it’ll be true, part’ll be lies. You keep what you can use, throw the rest away.” But I hadn’t done that. I’d kept it all, failed to listen critically. I’d allowed my emotions to overrule my professionalism.
Well, my emotions were stabilized now, and it was time to proceed. From here on out, I’d rely on logic. Another indulgence I wouldn’t permit myself was trying for a connection to Hy. My previous failures to achieve one meant absolutely nothing; sometimes, for whatever reasons, the best of connections aren’t in service.
So get started. Start with a name—no, two names. Brockowitz and Ann Navarro.
Not much to go on with either. Navarro was a fairly common surname. Brockowitz wasn’t, but the person to whom it belonged could be male or female. I dug out the phone directories for both city and county from the desk drawer and hunted through them. No Brockowitzes. One A. C. Navarro. I called the number; the man who answered said nobody named Ann lived there. I checked Information for new listings. None.
After eating a sandwich made from fixings I’d bought on the way back here, I drove back to the county center and spent several tedious hours exploring their various records. I found a birth certificate for an Edward Brockowitz, but a further check revealed a death certificate as well. An Analisa Navarro had been born at Balboa Naval Hospital in 1961, but the records contained no further trace of her. No one of either name had ever registered to vote, filed a fictitious business name statement, applied for a business license or other permit, or paid property taxes.
I left the center deeply discouraged. Navarro and Brockowitz didn’t have to be from San Diego County or even from California. Normally I would have carried my line of inquiry to other counties, state agencies, federal agencies, but not in this case. That process was slow, time-consuming, and guaranteed nothing.
I’d thought of one person who might be able to help me, but for safety’s sake I wanted to limit my contact with her to one call. Tired as I was, I might forget to ask something, overlook the obvious question. My reactions were slowing; if I went on this way, I’d be in danger of making a potentially fatal mistake. Even though it was only four in the afternoon, I decided to go back to my father’s house and sleep on the problem. Maybe my ever overactive subconscious would provide a solution.
* * *
An unidentifiable sound woke me. I sat upright on the family room sofa, saw it was full dark. The temperature had dropped markedly; a cold breeze rustled the draperies next to the patio door. I got up and went over there, looked out and saw nothing. Then I felt my way to the desk and peered at the clock. Nearly half past eleven. I’d slept over six hours.
The sound came again—somewhere out back. An animal creeping up from the canyon? Or a human creeping up on the house?
I moved to the door again and felt to make sure the screen was latched—not that it would present much of an obstacle for someone determined to get inside. Then I stood very still, scarcely breathing, and studied the patterns of light and shadow.
Another sound, and now I saw some motion—far to the right, opposite the kitchen. Just a dark ripple against the foliage, and then it went away. But not before I could tell it was a human figure. For five minutes more I waited there; then I slid the inner glass door shut and moved the security bar into place. I’d check the kitchen door next—
The phone shrilled.
Don’t answer it, I thought. But what if it was important? No,