Distant Memory (9 page)

“I’m fine, really.” Lisa felt off balance. “I just … just wanted to get some fresh air.”

“In here?” Nick said, his voice softening. He smiled. “It seems a little musty, but then most sermons I’ve heard are old and dusty, so I guess it makes sense.”

Lisa didn’t find the joke funny. “I don’t know why I came in here, I just—”

Nick cut her off with the wave of his hand. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Lisa. You’re a big girl, and I have no claim on you. I was just afraid for you. I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

“That’s all right. I shouldn’t have run off. It wasn’t fair to you.”

“Well, let’s get out of here,” Nick said. “This place is condemned. The floor may be rotted away for all we know. Not only that, we’re trespassing, and I don’t want to spend another night in jail.”

“What?” Lisa said with surprise.

Nick’s face parted into a wide smile. “I’m joking, Lisa. I’ve never spent a minute in jail. My life is pretty dull.”

“That’s good news,” she said as she started for the door. “I don’t
think I could drive the truck myself.” It was a vain attempt at humor, but it was the best she could do.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you could,” he said lightly. “Now let’s get out of here before my allergies kick in.”

“Used to be a nice car,” Bill Hobbs said flatly as he studied the crippled remains of the gold Lexus. As an investigator for the Kern County Sheriff’s Department and a twenty-year veteran of police work, he had seen many mutilated cars.

“Not anymore,” CHP officer Jay Tanner said. “It’s nothing but twisted metal. I’m amazed that anyone lived through this.”

“That’s the way it is, isn’t it?” Hobbs said, walking around the car. “I don’t know how many wrecks I’ve seen where the occupants should be nothing more than grease stains on the seats, yet they’re walking around waiting for the police to arrive. Then there are the little fender benders that send people to the hospital. It never makes sense to me.”

The CHP officer raised an eyebrow. “You were a traffic investigator? I thought you were missing persons.”

“I spent time in traffic,” Hobbs said. “I’ve spent the last five years doing criminal investigation. I assume you’ve run the plates and VIN number.”

“Yeah,” Tanner said. “But something’s wrong.”

Bending over, Hobbs peered into the car. He wanted to open the door, but the caved-in ceiling and the jammed-shut doors prevented him. The windshield was broken out, as were all the other windows. Hobbs was thankful the CHP had left the car in situ. Seeing the vehicle where it had come to rest would help him to understand the chain of events.

“Wrong? What do you mean wrong?”

Tanner seemed uneasy. “There is no owner assigned to the plates or to the vehicle identification number.”

“How can that be? Are the plates bogus?”

The patrolman just shrugged. “They look genuine, but even if they’re fakes, that wouldn’t explain the VIN being unassigned. The car doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“Stolen from a car lot?”

“If it was, no one reported it. But even that wouldn’t explain the plates. New cars don’t leave the lot with license plates.”

“Used ones do,” Hobbs said. Then he rethought his words. “Of course, that would mean that a record of the previous owner would be on file. You’re saying that there’s no record at all? Do I have that right?”

“That’s the sum total of it,” Tanner said.

“How can that be?” Hobbs was puzzled. Every car had some owner on the record, even if was just the manufacturer.

“It can’t,” Tanner replied. “I double-checked the numbers too. I thought maybe someone messed up and transposed a number or something, but it all checks out. You can run them yourself if you want.”

“No need,” Hobbs said with a polite smile. “I believe you.” He paused, his smile melting into a frown. “Someone wanted the car to be invisible. I’ve seen lots of cars with plates stolen from other vehicles, but never one with counterfeit plates, not to mention a counterfeit VIN number.”

“Not something one whips up in the garage, is it?”

Hobbs shook his head. “Hardly. It makes this a little more interesting: no witnesses, no identification, no registration, no proof of insurance, and now no valid, traceable numbers. Not to mention, no driver. Didn’t you say that there had been another accident around here?”

“Yeah. A truck went off the road a quarter-mile south of here. The driver was taken to a hospital in Bakersfield. Says he fell asleep at the wheel. We had an officer interview him. Record is clean. I doubt they’re related.”

“Why?” Hobbs asked.

“This is a heavily traveled road. Not a week goes by without some kind of auto accident. During the three years I’ve worked out here, I’ve seen several accidents happen within minutes of each other and none of them be related. Too many cars going too fast result in accident after accident.”

“Get me the info on the other wreck anyway. You’re probably right, but I might as well take whatever information I can get. I’d rather check it out now than be asked later by my superiors why I didn’t.”

“Will do,” Officer Tanner said. “Anything else?”

“I’ll have some lab techs go over the car for any forensic evidence. I see a few spots of blood on the airbag. It may not tell us who was at the wheel, but it may provide some clues. In the meantime, we start searching for the driver.”

“Where?”

“Hospitals, doctors’ offices, motels, restaurants. I’ll have a few officers assigned to work those places. Someone, somewhere has seen something. We just have to find the right person.”

“Yeah, that’s her all right,” the red-headed desk clerk said. He was holding a photo in his hand.

“You’re sure?” Carson McCullers said, taking the picture back. It was his only copy, given to him at the beginning of the assignment.

“Oh yeah, man. Who could forget a face like that? She’s a fox.” He paused. “She was also a little weird, man.”

“How so?” McCullers asked. He was standing in the tiny, dingy lobby of the Pretty Penny Motel. Massey stood next to him.

“I dunno,” the clerk replied with a shrug. “She seemed lost, confused, like she didn’t know where she was. And she looked kinda busted up. Like she had been in a fight or something. Her lower lip was split,
and she had a big bruise on the side of her head. Looked like someone might have worked her over pretty good.”

“Where is she now?” McCullers asked.

For a moment, the clerk became suspicious. “Are you sure you’re cops?”

What an idiot
, McCullers thought.
Are you sure you’re human?
“I showed you my badge, didn’t I? I can take you down to the station for a few hours if you need more convincing.” His words rumbled heavily with threat.

“Okay, okay, don’t get shook up. I’m just trying to be careful. You know, do my job and all that.”

“Right now, your job is answering my questions. You can understand that, can’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. What more do you want to know?”

“You said she left. How long ago?” McCullers snapped.

The clerk turned to the clock. “Three, maybe four hours ago.”

“Where did she go?”

“How should I know?” the clerk said irritably. “I check people in and out. That’s it. People don’t file travel plans with me. They just come in, settle up their bill, and then bail.”

McCullers closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, willing his temper to step down. He had spent the last hour asking the same questions of waitresses and other motel clerks. His feet hurt, and the rest of his body reminded him that he had been in a bone-rattling accident the night before. What he really wanted was to find a stiff drink and a soft bed, neither of which he would see until he found the woman. “Was she alone?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

“Was she alone?” McCullers shouted, letting his temper slip.

The clerk’s eyes widened. “She came into the lobby alone,” he said rapidly, his words oozing fear. “A man came in, a truck driver, and introduced himself. He was the one that paid for her room.”

“They shared a room?”

“No. He paid for a room of his own. I thought that was strange. I mean, I didn’t check them in, the night manager did, but if it was me, and she looked as good as she does—”

“No one asked you that,” McCullers said, cutting him off. “You say he was a truck driver? Can you tell me the make, model, and license number of the truck?”

The clerk shook his head. “Just the license number. He put that on his registration. Do you want to see it?”

Of course, I want to see it
, McCullers thought, but he said only, “Please,” in forced tones of courtesy. The clerk disappeared for a moment then returned with a copy of the registration.

“Can you describe the man?” McCullers inquired.

“Tall, maybe six-one, older guy, maybe forty-five.”

Older? Forty-five?
That was McCullers’s age, and he considered himself anything but old. “Go on.”

“He looked like he was in pretty good shape.”

“What about his hair?”

“Brown with some gray. I didn’t look at his eyes. I don’t usually look at another man’s eyes.”

McCullers looked down at the registration in his hand. Nick Blanchard had been penned on the line marked “Name.” Everything else but the license plate number was blank. Apparently the motel didn’t care who stayed there—any name, any number would do as long as you had cash or a credit card.

Nick Blanchard. He let the name percolate in his mind, committing it to memory. A passerby? A good Samaritan? McCullers doubted it. He didn’t believe in fate, and he was willing to wager a large sum of money that this Blanchard fellow was more than he seemed. If that was true, then McCullers’s job had just got harder.

The image of burning bright headlights bearing down on him and the sensation of being rammed from behind came back to him. He was
certain that it had been a big rig that plowed into him, pushing him off the road and into the gritty desert. Coincidence that this Nick Blanchard had a truck? No such thing, McCullers decided. Blanchard had to be the one who had run him off the road. There was a score to settle.

“You got any more questions?” the clerk asked with a cracked facade of arrogance.

“Yeah. Lots of them.”

“Not much on civility are you, Mr. McCullers?” Raymond Massey stated. The two men were parked on the motel lot, sitting in the rental car.

“I got what I was after,” McCullers snapped.

“And made both of us as memorable as possible in that young man’s eyes. There’s no way he’s going to forget us now.”

“So?”

“So if the real police come by later—and they are certain to do that—he’ll be able to give a full description of us.”

“He would have done that anyway.”

“Perhaps, but by bullying him as you did, you fixed the event more deeply in his mind. He will be very motivated to tell everything he knows.”

“So what do you want me to do? Go back in there and apologize?”

“You can’t unscramble an egg, Mr. McCullers. I suggest a more evenhanded approach in the future.”

“Why don’t you just let me do my job?”

“Because your job is now my job. I don’t like it any better than you do, but that’s the hand that’s been dealt us.”