They took the keys to their room and went down the court and into their room. Here they lay down on the twin beds and, after locking the door and pushing the bureau against it, slept for fifteen minutes. On awakening, they took a shower and put their sweaty clothes back on. Following the manager’s directions, they walked down to a shopping area and purchased some more clothes and necessary items.
“If we keep buying clothes and losing them the same day,” Kickaha said, “we’re going to go broke. And I’ll have to turn to robbery again.”
When they returned to the motel room, he eagerly opened the latest copy of the Los Angeles Times to the personals column. He read down and then, suddenly, said, “Yay!” and leaped into the air. Anana sat up from the bed and said, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter! This is the first good thing that’s happened since we got here! I didn’t really believe that it’d work! But he’s a crafty old fox, that Wolff! He thinks like me! Look, Anana!”
He shoved the paper at her. Blinking, she moved away so she could focus and then slowly read the words:
Hrowakas Kid. You came through. Stats. Wilshire and San Vicenie. 9 p.m. C sends love.
Kickaha pulled her up off the bed and danced her around the room. “We did it! We did it! Once we’re all together, nothing’ll stop us!”
Anana hugged and kissed him and said, “I’m very happy. Maybe you’re right, this is the turning point. My brother Jadawin! Once I would have tried to kill him. But no more. I can hardly wait.”
“Well, we won’t have long to wait,” he said. He forced himself to be-come sober. “I better find out what’s going on.”
He turned the TV on. The newscaster of one station apparently was not going to mention them, so Kickaha switched channels. A minute later, he was rewarded.
He and Anana were wanted for questioning about the kidnapping of Kleist. The manager of the motel in which Kleist had been tied up had described the two alleged kidnappers. Kleist himself had made no charges at first, but then Cambring’s body had been found. The police had made a connection between Cambring and Kickaha and Anana because of the ruckus at the La Brea Tar Pits. There was also an additional charge: the stealing of Cambring’s car.
Kickaha did not like the news but he could not help chuckling a little because of the frustration that Red Orc must feel. The Lord would have wanted some less serious charge, such as the car stealing only, so that he could pay the bail of the two and thus nab them when they walked out of the police station. But on charges such as kidnapping, he might not be able to get them released.
These charges were serious enough, though not enough to warrant their pictures and descriptions on TV newscasts. What made this case so interesting was that the fingerprints of the male in the case had checked out as those of Paul Janus Finnegan, an ex-serviceman who had disappeared in 1946 from his apartment in Bloomington, Indiana, where he had been attending the university.
Twenty-four years later, he had showed up in Van Nuys, California, in very mysterious, or questionable, circumstances. And this was the kicker according to the newscaster-Finnegan was described by witnesses as being about twenty-five, yet he was fifty-two years old!
Moreover, since the first showing of his picture over TV, he had been identified as one of the men in a very mysterious chase in MacArthur Park.
The newscaster ended with a comment supposed to be droll. Perhaps this Finnegan had returned from the Fountain of Youth. Or perhaps the witnesses may have been drinking from a slightly different fountain.
“With all this publicity,” Kickaha said, “we’re in a bad spot. I hope the motel manager didn’t watch this show.”
It was eight thirty. They were to meet Wolff at nine at Stats Restaurant on Wilshire and San Vicente. If they took a taxi, they could get there with plenty of time to spare. He decided they should walk. He did not trust the taxis. And while he would use them if he had to, he saw no reason to take one just to avoid a walk. Especially since they needed the exercise.