IT WAS, BERNHARDT KNEW, a predictable phenomenon of the trade: whatever the target, whether it was a middle-aged, overweight, red-haired woman, or a child with a missing front tooth, or a man with a limp carrying a black-leather attaché case—or a Toyota registered to Betty Giles—the world was suddenly filled with people or vehicles who seemed to fit the description.
And Nissan, and Mitsubishi, and, yes, even Chevrolet, all of them were manufacturing Toyota look-alikes.
He’d already spent six hours in Santa Rosa, driving from motel to motel, hotel to hotel, vainly looking for a 1985 Toyota, color unspecified, license plate PVH 264 J.
He’d give the surveillance until Friday noon, he’d decided. Then he’d call Dancer, tell him he was coming in. He’d scheduled the second act read-through of The Buried Child for Friday night. They were counting on that read-through. Pamela and the rest of them, they were counting on it. He could see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices. Vividly, he could remember how it had felt, the ache of memory, echoing and re-echoing out of his own past, evoking the years of tryouts and casting calls. You couldn’t admit it, even to yourself, how desperately you wanted the part, needed the part, to keep the fragile dream intact. Because, whatever the price, it was always necessary to protect that dream, somehow keep it whole, even when the director smiled sadly, shook his head, said he was sorry.
So he’d give the surveillance until Friday noon, he’d decided—two full days. Then he would—
A white Japanese sedan—a Toyota?—was stopped ahead, in the lane to his left. The Toyota was signaling for a left turn. He slowed, glanced in the mirror, saw there was no chance of easing into the left-turn lane. But, despite the angry horn-bleating from behind, he could slow enough to see the license plate as he passed. A man was driving the Toyota…A man, not a woman. So it was unlikely that—
PVH 264 J—
Why—for God’s sake why—did it always happen that his first thought was of Dancer: how pleased Dancer would be that he’d scored? He didn’t need Dancer’s approval, didn’t want Dancer’s debit-credit approval. But it always happened like this. Always.
Looking straight ahead, he passed the Toyota on the right, moved into the center lane while he watched the Toyota in the mirror. He saw the driver make his left turn, then disappear. Ahead, a pickup truck was stopped, signaling for a left turn at the next intersection. The oncoming traffic was light. But the driver of the pickup was hesitating, dawdling. Bernhardt touched his horn, saw the driver start, look sharply back over his shoulder. And, yes, there was the stiffened middle finger. About to angrily respond, Bernhardt caught himself, suffered through the other driver’s insolent moment of motionlessness before he turned left. Following, Bernhardt turned left at the next intersection, then right. He was behind the Toyota, with two cars between them, all four proceeding at a sedate rate along a four-lane highway leading to the southern fringe of Santa Rosa. On the right, a large green sign announced an entrance to the Route 101 freeway, south to San Francisco, north to Red Bluff. But instead of moving right, into the freeway-bound lane, the driver of the Toyota was signaling for another left turn, which he made immediately, clear of oncoming traffic. The two cars between them continued straight ahead, so that Bernhardt’s Ford and the Toyota were alone, traveling east on a two-lane feeder road.
If he were a policeman, a detective, Bernhardt would have called for backup by now. He could have fallen back, let another car take up the rolling surveillance. Or, better, he could have passed the Toyota, ostentatiously turned off in another direction while he listened to his radio, heard his fellow officers closing the electronic net.
Electronic networking—forensics—fingerprint technology—firepower—computer printouts—these were the basic tools of law enforcement, all of them beyond the P.I.’s reach. Leaving him doing now what he’d done so often before, vainly trying to make himself invisible while he kept a suspect vehicle in sight.
He let the Ford slow as, ahead, the Toyota turned into a briskly traveled four-lane highway, keeping to the right. Cautiously following, Bernhardt saw the Toyota suddenly turn again, this time driving beneath a large arched sign that proclaimed the Starlight Motel. Beneath the sign, red neon letters spelled out “vacancy.”
Smiling to himself, eyes front, Bernhardt drove past the motel entrance. He would circle the block, return, register at the Starlight Motel. Then he’d give Dancer the good news.
Sitting on the edge of the bed facing the room’s single window, phone cradled to his ear, Bernhardt shook his head. “No, I haven’t actually seen her, seen her face. And I didn’t want to ask the clerk about them, for fear they’d hear about it. But it’s almost six, so they’ll probably be going out to dinner.” He broke off, listened, then nodded. “Right. They’re directly across the court. Unit number twelve. I can see their door, so there’s no way they can leave without my seeing them. And I’ve seen a woman inside, moving around.” He paused again, listened again. Then: “So what’d you think? Maybe you should send someone up. I mean, I can’t stay awake all the time, and they could leave in the middle of the night.”
The line went silent as Dancer considered. Finally: “I’ll get back to you in an hour or two,” Dancer said. “Do you have food?”
“No. But there’s a grocery store right across the street. So I’m—” As he spoke, the door to number twelve swung open. A woman was coming out—a brunette, medium build. Unmistakably, Betty Giles.
“What is it?” Dancer was asking.
“It’s her,” Bernhardt answered, instinctively drawing back from the window as he watched the man lock the door to number twelve and follow Betty Giles along a brick walk toward the motel’s coffee shop. “It’s her,” he repeated. “And they’re going to the coffee shop, not even leaving in the car. So everything’s cool.” As he said it, he was aware of the small, secret rush he’d always felt, on first sighting. It was a primitive pleasure, he realized: an elemental huntsman’s thrill, catching his first clear glimpse of an elusive prey.
“Good,” Dancer was saying. “Good.”