Boobytrap Read online

  “Something to do with what happened to Nils?”

  “Marian, please don’t ask me. I’ll explain it to you when I can. Okay?”

  “This receipt. Does Callie know what Nils did with it?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Meaning she has an idea where it might be?”

  “Yes. She said for you to look in the toolbox in Nils’s pickup. He kept things in there that he didn’t want to bring into the house for one reason or another—private things. She doesn’t know where the pickup is now.”

  “Where he left it last night,” I said, “or else it’s been moved over to Judson’s.” Then, because I’d never seen him driving it, “What make and color?”

  “A Ford, I think. At least fifteen years old. White with one of those covered shells on the back.”

  “Will I need a key to get into the toolbox?”

  “Callie didn’t say anything about a key.”

  “Probably not, then. While we’re on the subject of keys ... did Nils have one to your cabin?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “To this one, too?”

  She nodded. “He had spare keys to several of the cottages in case of emergency.”

  “Where’d he keep them? At home, on his person?”

  “He carried them on a big ring.”

  “Each one marked?”

  “Yes, a piece of tape with the owner’s name.”

  “Thanks, Marian. Forgive me for being mysterious. It’s just that I don’t want to say anything until I have more information.”

  She said, “I understand,” and let it go. Most people wouldn’t have; she was a special person, all right. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  I watched her out of sight, thinking: So somebody could’ve taken the Zaleski key off Nils’s body and used it to get in here both times. Taken it after he was murdered, if he was murdered, or this morning after the body was found. His entire key ring could’ve been lifted, for that matter.

  Why? Why would anybody go to the trouble to steal Ostergaard’s keys and then risk not one but two covert visits to this cabin?

  Why would anybody steal padlocks off boathouse and storeroom doors?

  Why would anybody pretend to be someone he isn’t at a remote mountain lake? And then maybe commit murder to protect his real identity?

  Erratic, apparently purposeless behavior. The stuff of paranoia and psychosis ...

  I got into the car again, not bothering to lock the cabin, and drove down to Judson’s. The pickup Marian had described had been moved there; it was parked at the western edge of the lot. I pulled in close next to it. There was activity inside the cafe but nobody outside in the vicinity. I went to the Ford, tried the lift-up door on the shell. It wasn’t locked. The sky was darkening, with most of the sun gone behind the peaks to the west, but there was still enough daylight for me to see inside and to find the toolbox among a welter of fishing gear, spare parts, and miscellany. I flipped its catches, sifted through the contents.

  At the bottom, tucked inside a plastic freezer bag, were a few personal papers and a small envelope. The envelope yielded a strip of paper about four inches long, rumpled and food stained and folded in half—a cash register receipt. I shoved it into my pocket, closed the toolbox and the shell door, and drove straight back to the cabin.

  In the privacy of the kitchen I examined the cash register receipt. It was from a Safeway store and carried a list of fourteen items ranging from Hormel chili with beans to Elmer’s Glue to a six-pack of Beck’s. Dated twelve days ago. None of that was particularly interesting; the only thing about the receipt that pushed any buttons was the location of the Safeway branch.

  Half Moon Bay.

  Why would Ostergaard keep a Safeway receipt that, judging from the food stains, he’d found in somebody’s garbage? Why would he poke around in garbage in the first place? And why would the receipt puzzle him, make him suspicious?

  Hal Cantrell, I thought. He lived and worked in Pacifica, which was only about fifteen miles up the coast from Half Moon Bay. And he’d been drinking a bottle of Beck’s this afternoon. Coincidence or connection? Maybe—

  The telephone went off.

  The sudden noise made me jump. Getting nervy. Hell, who wouldn’t under the circumstances? I went over and answered the thing.

  Tamara. She said, “Yo, finally,” with a slight prickly edge in her voice. “This the fourth time I done called you, boss man. I even tried your car phone.”

  “I’ve been in and out and I didn’t expect you to get back to me tonight. Something already?”

  “Yep. Fast worker you got here. Fast and underpaid, you know what I’m saying?”

  I ignored that. “Talk to me. What’ve you got?”

  “Nothing on Fred Dyce or Hal Cantrell. Mr. John Strayhorn, now, he’s something else. Gotta be your man.”

  “Strayhorn? Why?”

  “Looking for a man’s not who he says he is, right?”

  “And Strayhorn’s not?”

  “Well, he doesn’t live in Stockton or anywhere else down that way. And there isn’t any company that manufactures sewer pipe in the Valley, either. No Jacob Strayhorn anywhere in Norcal, only three J. Strayhorns and none of ’em owns a Chrysler LeBaron. Two of the three were home, not off on a fishing trip in the mountains. I couldn’t get hold of the third, but since her first name’s Jolene I don’t think she’s your man.”

  “Criminal record on anyone named Strayhorn?”

  “Nope. Not in California and not with the feds, either. Phony name, probably.”

  “Why pick a name like Jacob Strayhorn for an alias?”

  “Hey, you can answer that better’n me.”

  “I don’t have any answers right now,” I said. “Were you able to trace the license plate number I gave you?”

  “Yup. Belongs to a ten-year-old Chrysler LeBaron, all right, but the registered owner’s name is Ed Farlow.”

  “Located where?”

  “South San Francisco. But he’s not Strayhorn.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “Yup. He sold the car about six weeks ago, through an ad in the Chronicle. Guess the name of the dude that bought it.”

  “Jacob Strayhorn.”

  “You got it. Paid eight hundred cash.”

  “And never bothered to reregister. Did you ask Farlow to describe the buyer?”

  “Said he couldn’t remember much about the man. Said he was white, middle-aged, average—”

  “—and had pale eyes.”

  “Right. Fits your man, huh?”

  “To a T. I don’t supposed he volunteered any information to Farlow?”

  “Nope, and Mr. F. didn’t ask.”

  “How’d he get to Farlow’s home? Somebody drive him?”

  “Mr. F. doesn’t know. Had a call asking if the car was still for sale, couple of hours later Strayhorn showed up on his doorstep. That’s all he remembers.”

  I sat down and muttered, “What the hell.”

  “Say what?”

  “Talking to myself.”

  “So what’s this dude up to? What’s happening up there?”

  “Tamara, I don’t have any damn idea.”

  “But you’re gonna find out, am I right?”

  “If I can.”

  “Anything more you want me to do?”

  “Not tonight. I’ll let you know.”

  “Well, stay cool. Hang loose.”

  “Hang and rattle, more likely.”

  “Huh?”

  “Old expression. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Who says I’m worried?”

  “I can hear it in your voice.”

  “Maybe I am,” she said. “You still owe me ten days’ pay,” and there was a gentle click as she broke the connection.

  I opened a bottle of Bud, then decided I didn’t want it after all and forced the cap back on and put the bottle away in the fridge. I wandered into the front room, then out onto the deck. Dark now. Runni
ng clouds obscured some of the stars, giving the lake a black, oily sheen. I stared down at the water, trying to make at least some of what I knew add up.

  Fat chance. I was more confused now than before Tamara’s call.

  Strayhorn wasn’t Strayhorn, evidently, but I still had no clue as to who or what he really was. Maybe he’d murdered Nils Ostergaard and maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he was the one who’d trespassed here twice today and maybe he wasn’t. Maybe there was a link between him and Half Moon Bay that explained why Ostergaard had kept the Safeway receipt—and maybe there wasn’t. The whole business was a maze of half-formed possibilities and deadends. And I was like the laboratory rat running around banging into walls and corners, looking for a way through to the cheese.

  Mon., July 1—11:00 P.M.

  Bomb signature. Bomb signature!

  What’s the matter with me? I know how advanced forensics have become, I should’ve foreseen the danger, yet it never even occurred to me until the kid bragged about it this afternoon. Careless. Stupid. Each of the devices for Cotter and the judge was different, I made sure of that, but I used pretty much the same types of materials for both—same types I used five years ago for Kathryn and Lover Boy. Cops haven’t got a computer match yet, nothing on the radio and there would be if they had an ID, but they could come up with one any time and if they do they’ll know right away that Dixon’s my next target, and that I’ll be going after Kathryn, too.

  I shouldn’t have been so wedded to the Plan. That’s where I made my mistake, and damn lucky it wasn’t a fatal one. Have to change it now, no choice. Can’t wait any longer, it’s past time for the mountain to go to Mohammed. Do Dixon, then get to Kathryn before she’s warned and goes into hiding somewhere.

  Wish I could take Dixon’s Subdivision (c) boobytrap along with me, it really is perfect, but I’d be a fool to transport it armed the way it is and I don’t have time to disassemble and rewire it. I wouldn’t even risk bringing it over here now that it’s been moved. Too much chance of it blowing up in my face. Have to whip up a new bomb, destructive device, boobytrap for Mr. Prosecutor and I know just what kind, just how to fix him. New plan, and it’s a good one. Not quite as fitting but the end result is what matters. And this way the son of a bitch hurts before he dies, too, hurts bad. Might turn out to be even better this way, even sweeter. Fix him good and proper.

  Fix that bastard private cop, too. He’s sniffing close, but I’ll be long gone before he gets close enough to do anything except die. Surprise package for him, surprise package for Dixon, then a fast trip to Indiana to give Kathryn her big send-off.

  Boom!

  BOOM!

  B

  O

  O

  M

  !

  TWELVE

  LONG, RESTLESS NIGHT. I WOKE UP HALF a dozen times, the last one at six-twenty. Tuesday A.M. was cloudy, windy, the lake choppy and the color of slate; it matched my mood.

  As I stood under the shower I tried again to figure a reasonable plan of action. None of my options looked any better in the daylight than they had during the night. I did not have enough facts to sic the local law on Jacob Strayhorn, whoever the hell he really was; if I even hinted that he might be guilty of a homicide, and it turned out he was an innocent party and had more or less legitimate reasons for using an alias, I was wide open for all sorts of legal ramifications. So the thing to do was to gather more information. Which meant another talk with him, and if I could work it, a look around his rented cottage when he wasn’t there. I didn’t much care for that last, but if it became necessary I’d have to risk it. Quid pro quo.

  I toweled off, put on a clean shirt, decided a clean pair of trousers was in order as well, and opened the closet door—something I had stupidly neglected to do last night. And then stood flat-footed with my chest going tight.

  The Mossberg .410 shotgun was missing.

  The gun cabinet’s lock had been forced; the glass door wobbled open when I tugged on it. A box of Magnum shells lay on a shelf at the bottom. Just one box—and I was pretty sure there’d been two.

  Now I knew part of the reason he’d come here twice yesterday. The first time to look around, and he’d spotted the weapons when he opened the closet door. The second time had been to swipe the Mossberg.

  Why? And why hadn’t he taken the shotgun on the first pass through?

  Strayhorn, dammit, I thought. Has to be.

  I was mad as hell by the time I finished dressing. And not all the anger was directed outwardly. I was thinking now, much later than I should’ve considered it, that Chuck had gone off fishing with Strayhorn this morning. I should have put a stop to that idea last night, after Tamara’s call. No reason to believe then or now that Strayhorn had any harmful intentions toward the boy, but that missing shotgun added menace to an already tense situation.

  The Colt Bodyguard was on the nightstand where I’d laid it as a nighttime precaution. I zipped it into the pocket of my windbreaker. Next to an assault rifle, a shotgun is the deadliest of small arms, but only at close to medium range; in very tight quarters your self-defense survival rate is a hell of a lot higher with a handgun. The thing to do first of all—

  —was to answer the phone. The bell shrilled, slicing through the early-morning quiet, as I came out of the bedroom.

  I got it on the second ring, with my eyes on my watch. Seven-ten. A call this early, here, couldn’t be anything good.

  It wasn’t. Pat Dixon’s voice said my name interrogatively, then his name without waiting for a reply. There was a quality in it, a kind of suppressed urgency, that screwed the tension in me down another couple of notches.

  “Listen,” he said, “I need you to do something for me.”

  “Name it.”

  “Go get Marian and Chuck and drive them back to the city. Right away.”

  “What—”

  “Don’t bring them here—our house. I’ll give you another address, friends of ours.”

  “Okay, but tell me why first.”

  “Precaution. I don’t think... I don’t want to think they’re in any danger up there, but we can’t afford to take chances.”

  “Pat, what’s got you so spooked?”

  He drew a heavy breath; I heard it hiss like steam when he released it. “We’ve got a probable ID on the bomber finally. Ninety-five percent probability match. Dave Maccerone just called from the Hall. It looks... chances are there’s at least a third person and probably more on his hit list. Third one is me.”

  “... Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. His name is Latimer, Donald Michael Latimer. Former financial consultant here in the city, fairly successful at one time. Ex-Marine with explosives training. Went over the edge five years ago when he found out his wife was having an affair and put a boobytrap bomb in the trunk of the boyfriend’s car, hooked up to the trunk release. It didn’t go off because of a bad solder joint, but a second bomb under the back porch of the man’s house did go off—cut him up with flying glass and debris. Latimer claimed he didn’t intend bodily harm, the bombs were just messages to leave his wife alone.”

  “You prosecuted the case, is that it?”

  “That’s it. Doug Cotter and me—Doug was on the D.A.’s staff then. Judge Turnbull was on the bench.” Dixon blew out another ragged breath. “We went after Latimer pretty hard. Mainly because he had a classic profile—intelligent but egocentric, with sociopathic tendencies and a paramilitary attitude. Collected guns, including a couple of semiautomatic weapons. Even had a subscription to Soldier of Fortune. Workaholic, too, totally driven. Add all of that together and you had a ticking bomb in human form, capable of much greater violence than he’d shown toward his wife and her lover. We’d have let his lawyers plead him down if he’d been willing to accept psychiatric help, but Latimer refused and insisted on pleading innocent. We felt putting him away for the maximum was our best option. Tried to get him on attempted homicide, but the jury felt there was reasonable doubt on that issue. They convicted on two oth
er counts—explosion of a destructive device and setting boobytraps. Turnbull gave him five years on each count.”

  “How long was he in prison?”

  “Five years total. Paroled seven weeks ago. Maccerone rousted his parole officer out of bed before he called me. Last contact the PO had with Latimer was three weeks ago. He tried to get in touch with him last week, when a job offer came up, couldn’t find him, and violated him right away. No indication of Latimer’s whereabouts since. There’s an APB out on him now.”

  My stomach had begun to cramp; I sat at the kitchen table, leaning forward to ease the ache. A measure of fear had mixed with the anger in me. I could see the rest of it coming now, like a storm roiling wild and black on a near horizon.

  “Maybe he’s left the state, maybe he hasn’t,” Dixon said. “Maccerone thinks there’s a chance of it, that’s why I’m still ... why nothing’s happened to me yet. But I don’t buy it. Best I can figure is that Latimer set a boobytrap for me somewhere and I’ve been blind lucky enough so far not to trigger it. Charley Seltzer’s bringing his bomb techs out here to the house—”

  “What was Latimer’s last known address?”

  “... What?”

  “Latimer. Where was he living the last time his PO saw him?”

  “Daly City. He took an apartment there when he was released. But he only stayed a month. The PO should’ve checked to make sure the address remained current, but he’s got a heavy caseload and he screwed up.”

  “What does Latimer look like?”

  “Why? What’re you—”

  “Come on, Pat. Describe him.”

  “Midforties, average height, average weight. Brown hair, light-blue eyes ...”

  “Does the name Strayhorn mean anything to you?”

  “What name was that?”

  “Strayhorn. Jacob Strayhorn.”

  “How did—Yes, that’s the man Latimer’s wife was having the affair with. A pharmacist on West Portal. She’s married to Strayhorn now, they live in his home state, Indiana, and they’re the other possibles on Latimer’s hit list. Why the hell are you asking all these questions? You know something, don’t you?”