U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

He scanned the parking lot for Brent, who preferred picking him up there instead of out on the street. He’d taken to running errands while Walker was tied up, timing his return so he could swing through just as Walker came out. The girl had paused, apparently waiting for a lift. A turquoise MG pulled to a stop and she got in on the passenger side, where an enormous golden retriever had taken up residence. He watched her wrestle with the dog, which had a prior claim on the seat. The dog rearranged itself, settling in the girl’s lap with an attitude of entitlement.

Walker watched idly, smiling to himself. The car didn’t move and he realized the driver, a kid, was staring at him through the windshield. He caught only a quick glimpse, but in that instant, he knew who it was: Michael Sutton, whose face was indelibly imprinted on his mind’s eye. Incredible that all these years later, something as ephemeral as the slant of his cheek, the shape of his chin, could spark such a recollection. He’d last seen Michael when he was six and then only briefly. Walker had expected to run into him long before now, but it still came as a jolt.

He redirected his gaze and walked through the parking lot, feigning a casualness he didn’t feel. He knew he had to put distance between himself and the kid. He glanced back and saw that Michael had turned his head, his gaze still fixed on him. The girl had turned to stare at him as well, probably wondering what Michael found so fascinating. Looking to his left, Walker saw Brent pull into the lot. Relieved, he moved forward as the car slowed. He opened the left rear door and slid into the backseat. “Hey, how’s it going,” he said to Brent as he closed the door.

Brent made eye contact by way of the rearview mirror. “Fine. How are things with you?”

“Good.” Walker kept his face averted as Brent turned into the next aisle, passing Michael’s MG. He pictured Michael’s head doing a slow swivel as Brent’s Toyota made the right onto Santa Teresa Street. Walker half turned in his seat and watched the exit. The turquoise MG nosed into view at an unhurried pace and fell into line behind them. Shit.

Walker put a hand on the seat back in front of him. “I’m late for a meeting, so let’s get a move on. Take a right on Court and go the back way.”

“The freeway’s quicker.”

“The back way’s fine. Let’s just do it, okay?”

Walker saw the shift in Brent’s expression, one of those “You’re the boss” looks. He turned the corner as instructed. Two blocks farther on, Walker took another quick look to see if the MG was still there. No sign of it. Walker wondered if he’d been mistaken. Maybe the kid hadn’t recognized him after all. Maybe it was a situation where someone looks familiar and you can’t quite place them. Thus the long stare. As Brent slowed for a four-way stop, Walker spotted the MG approaching from the right.

Brent said, “What’s the deal? Do you know that guy?”

“He threatened me once.”

“What was that about?”

“Too complicated to go into. The guy’s a nut.”

“You want me to lose him?”

“If you can, but keep it low-key. I don’t want him to think I give a shit.”

Brent pushed the accelerator, increasing his speed by degrees, four miles an hour, then five. Unfortunately the surface streets presented a constant run of stoplights and stop signs, which allowed the MG to stay close.

Brent said, “The guy’s climbing up my tailpipe. If I spot a black-and-white, you want me to flag him down?”

“No, don’t do that. We get to the bank, drive on past and drop me around the corner on Center Road. I’ll walk back from there and maybe shake him that way.”

“Does he know where you work?”

“I doubt it, but I’d just as soon not tip him off.”

Brent cruised into Montebello and turned onto the main street. The MG was hung up briefly. Traffic at the intersection was regulated by a four-way stop sign and cars obligingly took turns. Brent sped up for the next three blocks and made a left turn onto Center, then pulled into the driveway of a small gym. Hastily Walker got out and waved Brent on. The Pelican was right there on the corner, one driveway down. He started to cross the motel parking lot, thinking to skirt the rear of the building, which at least shielded him from view. At the last minute, however, he changed his mind and took Redbird Road, an ancillary road that ran for one long block parallel to Old Coast.

Walker put his hands in his pockets and covered the distance as quickly as he could. The kid had nothing on him. A chance encounter twenty-one years before and what would that prove? Walker couldn’t imagine why the police had been digging in the woods. Kinsey Millhone had somehow drawn a bead on his dad, using god knows what reasoning, but there was no real link between Walker and the dead dog. Maybe she’d talked to a number of veterinarians who’d been in practice at the time, and his dad was simply one.