Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [69]
To a shopper, a department store’s layout may seem straight-forward enough, although the rest rooms are usually in a baffling and barely accessible location. But an employee—particularly one who’s worked security—knows dozens of hidey-holes, indirect routes, and alternative exits that aren’t necessarily off limits to the general public. I made use of all of them, thanking God that Huston’s hadn’t done any renovations in the years since my tenure there; when I stepped onto a side street some ten minutes later, my tail was no longer with me. I then merged into the crowd of early shoppers and walked several blocks before boarding the first of three buses that took me on a circuitous route to Imperial Beach.
On Wednesday morning I’d noticed an establishment on Palm Avenue called Clunkers ’n’ Junkers Rent-All. The sign spoke the truth. The blue Buick Skylark that I rented for a nominal daily fee wasn’t all that old but had been ill-used: there was a dent in the driver’s side; the upholstery was torn; the windshield had a jagged crack; rust showed in the seams of the metal. The clerk hastened to assure me that everything worked mechanically and none of the car’s more obvious defects would get me stopped by the Highway Patrol, so I left the remainder of the money John had advanced me as a deposit, then drove to Coronado and withdrew most of RKI’s advance from my checking account at Bank of America. On my way to La Jolla, I stopped by the Horton Plaza parking garage and picked up my suitcase from the Scout.
Now I located a rumpled envelope in the desk drawer, smiling when I saw it wasn’t printed with the motel’s name— La Encantadora—but apparently had been pilfered from the Hotel del Coronado. I sealed my room key from the Bali Kai and the key and claim check for the Scout into it. Three stamps from the compartment in my wallet where I keep extra postage, and it was ready to go.
I felt a fiendish pleasure as I envisioned the flurry of activity that particular envelope might set in motion. If RKI’s operatives decided to intercept John’s mail in their attempt to trace me—an easy enough task, since the box was at the foot of his long, steep driveway—they probably wouldn’t believe I was stupid enough to use an envelope from a place where I was actually staying, but as a matter of routine they’d have to check it out. Especially if they had a contact who could monitor my account at B of A or had somehow managed to tap into the bank’s computer network. Then my transaction at the Coronado branch would send them scurrying to Hotel Del. Still smiling, I stuffed the stamped envelope into my purse and sat down cross-legged on the bed with the phone in front of me. Then I sobered; time to get to work.
The answering machine at Anne-Marie Altman’s flat in San Francisco said she could be reached at the Sacramento office of the California Coalition for Environmental Preservation. I didn’t leave a message. Anne-Marie and Hank are a couple who can’t live together but love each other enough to want to remain married; they occupy separate flats in a building they own in Noe Valley, but when Anne-Marie’s away, Hank’s in and out of her place to water plants and monitor faxes and the answering machine. For his safety, I didn’t want him to have a clue to my whereabouts or what I was involved in. I would tell Anne-Marie as little as possible.
When I phoned Sacramento, though, I learned she was in a meeting. I asked when it would be over, said I’d call back then. What to do now? I wondered. Well, I knew one thing that needed attending to, but I wasn’t sure I could face it just yet.
Finally I got off the bed and looked myself over critically in the mirror above the bureau. I was wearing Karen’s jeans—a baggy loose-fitting type that she favored—and a pink blouse that I definitely wouldn’t have bought. The differences in our personal styles were to my advantage, however: Gage Renshaw had seen me