Chapter Thirty-five

Friday, October 27, 3:04 p.m.

Don’s private line rang, startling him. He hadn’t been asleep, just somewhere else, resting his head in his hands, his eyes closed. The Caller ID display read Private Caller. He was sure it was a reminder from the syndicate. His hand, he was glad to see, was steady as he reached for the phone.

“Hello?”

“May I speak to Don Cannon?” A woman’s voice. Hesitant. He allowed himself to relax a fraction.

“Speaking.”

“This is Darlene Sherman. From the Stay-A-While? Are you still looking for your sister?”

Don didn’t have to fake his eagerness. “Oh, yes, we definitely are.”

“Well, Darlene has your sister’s address, at least part of it. Your sister must have addressed it with a felt-tip pen, and then the whole package looks like it got wet, so Darlene’s address was smeared too. It took them a while to track me down.”

Don did not let his tone betray his impatience. “Well, what can you make out?”

“She’s definitely still in Portland. And the zip code is 9720 ... 7? No, it’s a 1.”

Somewhere near downtown then. “How about the street address?”

“It’s on something called Southwest Arnold,” Darlene’s words were infuriatingly slow. “The first two numbers in the address are definitely a 1 and a 3. But I can’t make out the last two at all.”

“But that’s wonderful, Darlene. That means it narrows it down to just a block. We’ll be able to find her and get her to a doctor right away. Our mother will be so happy to hear this.” Don had a quick flash of his mother, dead at forty-four when her liver gave out. “You don’t know how much I appreciate your calling me.” He briefly considered offering to pay Darlene, but discarded the idea as being out of character with his original story.

“Can you just let Darlene know how she is? Darlene’s been worrying about her, what with that amnesia and all. But she must not have forgotten everything, right? Because she remembered to return the dress to old Darlene. That was sure sweet of her.”

“Yes, it certainly was,” he agreed. “And I’ll let you know how it turns out. You’ve given me the first real hope of finding her.” And the first real hope of finding the missing money. And once he did that, well, any loose ends would have to be taken care of. As Don exchanged a few more pleasantries, not betraying his eagerness to get this woman off the line, he wondered what Darlene would think if she knew she had more than likely just marked Free Meeker for death.

Don drove to the Central Library in downtown Portland. The grand old building had been recently restored, although the gray granite walls were still an irresistible target for the city’s graffiti artists. Faint ghosts of tags still glowed on the walls, sunk down into the pores where even the highest-powered steam cleaner couldn’t reach without wearing away the rock.

At the reference section, Don requested the city directory for Portland. A city directory had nothing to do with the telephone company. The city directory was organized into two sections. One was alphabetical by name and the other was indexed according to street location. It was the second one that had brought Don here. This was the kind of search he could do cheaper, quicker and better on his own. He saw that there were four houses on SW Arnold Street that began with a 13. No apartment buildings, which made his search infinitely easier. Each listing showed the full name of the person who lived at each address, and if it was rented or owned. A code detailed how long the person had lived there , the person’s marital status and the name of the spouse, as well as the names of the other people occupying the dwelling. Sometimes even the person’s job title and employer was listed.

The four houses, according to the city directory, were occupied by a married couple in their twenties with a Hmong last name and three children, a retired couple in their late seventies, a married couple in their late twenties, and a single man in his fifties who lived with a male roommate, also in his fifties. Nothing obvious jumped out at Don, but still, he was knew he was closing in on Free Meeker. He would find her, take back his money, and then do whatever he needed to do.

Don left the library, unaware that Free Meeker had been just one floor above him, humming to herself as she chose books about various careers that she could now check out with her brand new library card identifying her as Lydia Watkins.