As I passed through the main lobby toward the commuter wing, I spotted the Stetson, black felt with a broad brim and a high soft crown. The guy was in the gift shop, paying for a couple of magazines. I was catching him in profile, but the light was excellent. As if obliging me, he took off his hat and ruffled his hair before he readjusted the angle of the hat on his head. I studied him with care so that I could identify him again if it ever came to that. I put him in his late fifties, with small dark eyes in a lean, hawkish face. He had a bushy salt-and-pepper mustache. What by streetlight had appeared to be dark curly hair I could now see was heavily interwoven with strands of silver. He wore cowboy boots, jeans, and a heavy dark wool jacket. I pegged him at six feet, though the boots might have added inches, maybe 160 to 175 pounds. He tucked the magazines under his arm and crammed the change in his pocket. I backed away from the door as he turned in my direction.
Behind me was a bank of public telephones. In part as cover and in part out of desperation, I turned to the first phone and hauled up the phone book that was chained to the metal shelf below. I busied myself looking up Bucky's number while the guy came out of the gift shop behind me. Obliquely, I watched as he crossed the lobby, joining the woman, who was now standing at the ticket counter with her back to me, the duffel at her feet. Where had she come from? Probably the ladies' room. The line she was standing in was designated for the purchasing of tickets. She'd taken off her raincoat, which was now folded across one arm. The passenger in front of her finished his business and she moved to the counter, placing a big soft-sided suitcase on the weighing apparatus. She reached back with one foot, shifting the duffel forward until it rested against the counter beside her.
The ticket agent greeted her, and the two exchanged a few words. While the agent tapped on her computer keyboard, the woman reached over and picked up a cardboard identification strip from a container on the counter. She filled in the details and then gave the tag to the ticket agent, who was just in the process of assembling the ticket. The woman laid out a sheaf of bills, which the ticket agent counted and then put away. She secured the woman's identification to the suitcase, along with a claim tag, and then placed the suitcase on the conveyor belt. The moving bag was spirited through a small opening like a coffin on its way to the flames. The two finished their transaction, and the agent passed the woman's ticket envelope across the counter to her.
When the woman turned to her companion, I could see that she was six or seven months pregnant. Was this his daughter? She was much younger than the fellow who accompanied her: early to mid-thirties, gaudy auburn hair piled in a tangled knot on top. Her complexion had the pasty look of too much foundation, overlaid with a shade of powder that made her face seem faintly dirty. Her maternity outfit was one of those oversize pale blue denim dresses with short sleeves and a dropped waist, against which her belly bulged. Under the dress she wore an oversize white T-shirt with long sleeves. She also wore red-and-white-striped tights and high-topped red tennis shoes. The dress itself I'd seen in a gardening catalog, a style favored by former hippies who'd given up dope and communal sex for organic vegetables and all-natural fiber clothes.
The guy picked up the duffel and the two moved aside as the next passenger in line moved up to the counter. He put the duffel down again and they stood to one side, engaged in desultory conversation. These people were about to get on a plane, and what was I supposed to do? A citizen's arrest seemed like dicey business at best. I couldn't even swear that a crime had been committed. On the other hand, what else was this guy doing up in Johnny Lee's apartment? I'd been a cop just long enough to have a nose for these things. To all appearances, the duffel bag was about to be transported out of state. I had no idea if the pair intended to return to Santa Teresa or were engaged in unlawful flight.
I turned back to the phone book and flipped through the pages with agitation, talking to myself. Come on, come on. Lawrence. Laymon. I ran a finger down the columns. Leason. Leatherman. Leber. Ah. Fifteen listings under Lee, but only one on Bay. Bucyrus Lee. Bucky's name was Bucyrus? I found a quarter in my blazer pocket, dropped it in the slot, and dialed the number. The receiver was picked up on the second ring. "Hello, Bucky?"
"This is Chester. Who's this?"
"Kinsey…"
"Shit. You better get over here. All hell's broken loose."
"What's going on?"
"We came home from Rosie's to find Ray Raw-son crawling down the drive. Face all bloody, hand swoll up the size of a baseball mitt. He's got two fingers snapped sideways and God knows what else. Somebody busted in again and ripped into the space under the kitchen cabinet…"