F is for Fugitive (Kinsey Millhone 6)

At 2:47 A.M. the phone rang and I jumped a foot, unaware that I'd been asleep. The jolt of adrenaline made my heart clatter in my chest like a slug of white-hot metal on a stone floor. Fear and the shrilling of the phone became one sensation. I snatched up the receiver. "Yes?"

His tone was low. "It's me."

Even in the dark, I squinted. "Bailey?"

"You alone?"

"Of course. Where are you?"

"Don't worry about that. I don't have much time. Bert knows it's me, and I don't want to take a chance on his calling the cops."

"Forget it. They can't get a trace on a call that fast," I said. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. How are things there, pretty bad?"

I gave him a brief rundown on what was happening. I didn't dwell on Royce's collapse because I didn't want to worry him, but I did mention that someone had broken in. "Was it you, by any chance?"

"Me? No way. This is the first time I've been out," he said. "I heard about Tap. God, poor bastard."

"I know," I said. "What a chump he was. It looks like he didn't even have a real load in the gun. He was firing rock salt."

"Salt?"

"You got it. I checked the residue at the scene. I don't know if he realized what it was or not."

"Jesus," Bailey breathed. "He never had a chance."

"Why did you take off? That was the worst move you could possibly have made. They probably have every cop in the state out. Were you the one who set it up?"

"Of course not! I didn't even know who it was at first, and then all I could think to do was get the hell out of there."

"Who could have put him up to it?"

"I have no idea, but somebody did."

"Joleen might know. I'll try to see her tomorrow. In the meantime, you can't stay on the loose. They've got you listed as armed and dangerous."

"I figured as much, but what am I supposed to do? The minute I show up, they're going to blow me off the face of the earth, same as Tap."

"Call Jack Clemson. Turn yourselt in to him.

"How do we know it wasn't him set me up?"

"Your own attorney?"

"Hey, if I die, it's over. Everybody's off the hook. Anyway, I gotta get myself out of here before-" I heard an intake of breath. "Hang on." There was a silence. His end of the conversation had reverberated with the hollow echo of a phone booth. Now I heard the metal bi-fold door squeak. "All right, I'm back. I thought there was somebody out there, but it doesn't look like it."

"Listen, Bailey. I'm doing what I can, but I could use some help."

"Like what?"

"Like what happened to the money from the bank job you did?"

A pause. "Who told you about that?"

"Tap, last night at the pool hall. He says you left it with Jean, but then the last he heard, the whole forty-two thousand had disappeared. Could she have taken it herself?"

"Not Jean. She wouldn't have done that to us."

"What was the story she told you? She must have said something."

"All I know is she went to lay hands on it and the whole stash was gone."

"Or so she said," I put in.

I could hear him shrug. "Even if she did take it, what was I going to do, turn her in to the cops?"

"Did she tell you where she'd hidden it?"

"No, but I got the impression it was somewhere up there at the hot springs where she worked."

"Oh, great. Place is huge. Who else knew about the money?"

"That's all as far as I know." He hissed into the phone.

I could feel my heart do a flip-flop. "What's wrong?"

Silence.

"Bailey?"

He severed the connection.

Almost immediately, the phone rang again. A sheriff's deputy advised me to remain where I was until a car could pick me up. Good old Bert. I spent the rest of the night at the county sheriff's department, being variously questioned, accused, abused, and threatened-quite politely, of course -by a homicide detective named Sal Quintana, who wasn't in a much better mood than I was at that point. A second detective stood against the wall, using a broken wooden match to clean the plaque off his teeth. I was certain his dental hygien-ist would applaud his efforts when he saw her next.

Quintana was in his mid-forties, with closely cropped black hair, big, dark eyes, and a face remarkable for its impassivity. Dwight Shales's face had the same deadpan look: obdurate, unresponsive, aggressively blank. This man was probably twenty pounds overweight, with a shirt size that hadn't quite conceded the point. The extra weight across his back had pulled his sleeves up an inch, and where his wrist extended, there were already a few gray hairs mingled with the black. He had good teeth, and my assessment of his looks might have been upgraded if he'd smiled. No such luck. He seemed to be operating on the theory that Bailey Fowler and I were in cahoots.