Chief Charles Greenwood was studying the colorful plastic-topped push pins scattered across a large map of California that hung on a wall of the Las Pumas police station. Each pin pierced a small flag of paper that had a date and time scribbled on it. A hand-lettered sign was tacked above the map: LORRAINE SIGHTINGS.
“Another call for you, Charlie,” Marion said from behind her glass-walled dispatcher’s office. “Newspaper.”
“I’m not talking to any more of those people. We’re trying to get some work done here.”
Jerry Kosnowski was seated at his desk, talking on the telephone to someone who reported seeing Lorraine. “Thanks for calling. Bye-bye.” He hung up the phone. “This one’s in Chula Vista, Charlie. Way down by the Mexican border.”
“The last one was up in Humboldt County. Now, how the hell could she get from the Oregon border to the Mexican border in half an hour?” He looked at Kosnowski accusingly.
Kosnowski raised his hands. “I don’t know, Charlie. I’m just taking the calls.”
Greenwood grimaced. “I’ll mark it down. Notify the Chula Vista authorities.”
They heard the back door screen open and slam closed. Heavy footsteps started down the hallway, then veered left into the kitchen. The refrigerator door opened and slammed closed.
“Coleman!” Greenwood bellowed. “You break that GD door and you’re going to be buying the department a new refrigerator.”
The heavy footsteps approached the front of the station. Officer Coleman loomed in the doorway. His pug nose had grown even more sunburned during the week of bright sunny weather they’d had since the storm. He dropped heavily into the Naugahyde and chrome chair, which squealed in protest, took a long drag on his can of Coke, half emptying it, then held the can in his big paw against the chair arm. “You’ve got a bug up your butt today.”
Greenwood shot a glance at Coleman over his shoulder. “Where’ve you been? What’ve you been doing?”
“Following up on that purse-snatching down on the Embarcadero.”
“That’s all?”
“C’mon, Greenwood, get off my case. Someone has to be the law in this town. Alvarez and I are the only ones out there. You two are spending all your time trying to catch Looney Lorraine. By the way, Mayor Fox wants to know what’s taking so long. He gave me an earful when I cruised by the golf course this morning.”
“His Mayorship can go F himself. It hasn’t even been a week yet.”
“GD this and F that,” Kosnowski said. “That’s more profanity than I’ve heard you use in eleven years, Charlie.”
“It’s going to get worse before it gets better,” Greenwood said.
The front door of the station opened, and Mayor Luther Fox came in carrying the latest edition of the Las Pumas Star. He waved it at Greenwood.
“We saw it, Lou.”
Mayor Fox read the headline anyway. “‘Hunt Still On for Purple Negligee Murderer.’”
Officer Coleman stood and took the paper from the mayor. “Check out this picture of Lorraine. She’s a babe. That artist rendering they had before made her look like a douche bag.”
“They quoted Iris Thorne in there,” Kosnowski said. “Did you see it, Charlie?”
“I haven’t had time to read the whole GD paper! What does it say?”
Coleman read aloud, “‘Investment Counselor, Iris Thorne, Barbie Stringfellow’s money manager, had met Lorraine Boyce socially on several occasions. Thorne described Boyce’s behavior as nervous and erratic. When asked whether she thought Boyce could have murdered Stringfellow, Ms. Thorne had no comment.’”
“Lorraine’s our murderer, all right,” Mayor Fox said. “And the public wants to know when she’ll be apprehended.”
Greenwood held a push pin above the map. He turned to look at the Mayor. “Lou, it’s only a matter of time. Furthermore, Lorraine is only a suspect. We just want to question her.”
“If she didn’t do it, why is she on the run?”
“Maybe she’s afraid.”
“She’s afraid, all right. Afraid she’ll go to the gas chamber. Keep me posted.” Lou Fox walked out of the station. The door closed by itself behind him, then suddenly swung open again when he poked his head back inside. “Did you hear? The verdicts are in.”
“Verdicts?” Greenwood said.
“The four LAPD cops. The Rodney King beating.”
The room fell silent as everyone looked at Mayor Fox.
“What happened?” Kosnowski finally asked.
“Four acquittals.”
“Oh, shit,” Greenwood said.
Lorraine stood in the women’s restroom of the San Jose bus station and examined herself in the mirror. Her image doubled and looped back over itself. She ran blood-caked fingers through her uncombed and greasy hair as she studied herself with trancelike detachment. The elegant, antique sapphire and diamond ring looked out of place on her battered and dirty hand.
Other women were using the restroom. They hurried to finish their business when they spotted Lorraine.
She unzipped her purse, dug her hand around the many prescription containers, and located a penknife. She pulled the blade from its casing and held it near her face. She lifted a hunk of hair and sawed the knife through it, dropping the hair on the floor. She cut off another hunk and another until she’d hacked all her hair off and the stubble jutted irregularly from her head.
She kneeled on the dirty hexagonal white floor tiles, opened her suitcase, and took out the slinky black cocktail dress. She pierced it with the knife, then pulled the opening with her fingers, the fabric singing as she tore it in two. She couldn’t tear the black leather miniskirt, but she was able to stab holes in it and in the mock turtleneck sweater. She gashed the patent leather of the strappy sandals. She pulled a long, purple satin sash from her jeans pocket and smoothed it from end to end between her hands, savoring the cool, luxurious fabric. She put her foot on one end of it, held it tight with her hand, positioned the knife over it, then changed her mind and released her grip. She rubbed the satin against her face and nose, inhaling deeply.
She dropped the sash and took out Iris’s cobalt blue suit. She pulled off her jeans and pulled on the skirt, tucking her sweater into it, put on the jacket, picked up the purple sash and shoved it into a pocket.
She gathered the ruined clothing, unsteadily straightened up, and shuffled to a large trash can. She lifted the bundle and positioned her arms over the top, then abruptly dropped the clothing. Some of it landed in the bin, but mostly it fell around her feet. She reached into the bin and grabbed an image of her own face. She opened the newspaper.
“Nervous! Erratic!” Lorraine smashed the newspaper, crumpling it into a ball, covering her already bloody hands with newsprint. She slammed it into the trash can.
Greenwood and Kosnowski made the half-hour drive to the San Luis Obispo bus station just before the bus that Lorraine was suspected to be riding pulled in for its scheduled stop. Many city and county law enforcement personnel, many more than were necessary to apprehend the presumably unarmed Lorraine, were already in place, hiding behind parked buses and cars and in the station so as not to make Lorraine or the other passengers suspicious.
The ticket agent at the San Jose bus station, about a three-hour drive north of San Luis Obispo, reported that a disheveled and disoriented woman matching Lorraine’s description had bought a one-way ticket to Santa Monica. When the torn clothing and hunks of hair were found, Greenwood grew confident that he had his woman.
The bus driver had already made one scheduled stop before the police radioed their information. However, the driver always kept count and knew that all the passengers who were continuing through had returned to the bus. He insisted that there was no one on the bus who matched Lorraine’s description. The police assured him he was mistaken and to be certain to get off the bus with the other passengers in San Luis Obispo.
Mayor Luther Fox had illegally parked his late-model Cadillac in the bus loading area. The car’s silver color was flattering to his remaining silver hair. He briskly approached Greenwood and Kosnowski.
Greenwood dully greeted him. “Hi, Lou.”
Mayor Fox rubbed his hands together and surveyed the scene. “Looks like we got our murderer, huh? Good news for the citizens of Las Pumas.”
“It ain’t over till it’s over,” Greenwood said.
“But she’s on the bus.”
“We suspect she’s on the bus.”
Kosnowski nudged Greenwood’s thick waist. “Here it comes.”
The bus rolled in, emitting diesel fumes. The manual transmission gears thudded dully. The hydraulic brakes gasped. The bus let out a final shudder and sigh before it stopped. The front door accordioned open. The bus driver was the first one off. The other passengers slowly filed out and were quickly ushered into the bus station.
Greenwood kneaded the fleshy skin on his face and strained his eyes, peering into the face of each passenger. After the last one had disembarked, he looked at Kosnowski, and Kosnowski looked back.
“Where the hell is she?” Mayor Fox walked in double time toward the bus. A San Luis Obispo police officer restrained him before he could board it.
Several officers were already on board, checking the restroom and looking under the seats. One of them came out and stood in the open doorway. “Empty,” he said.