Augustine said, “I thought I saw a woman.”
“Yes.” Skink scratched thoughtfully at his beard.
Creedlow! Bonnie thinks. That’s the ex-landlord’s name. James Creedlow. His wife, the piano teacher, her name was Regina. Chicago wasn’t so long ago-Bonnie feels ditzy for not remembering. James and Regina Creedlow, of course.
Augustine said, “What now, captain?”
Skink settled his bristly chin on the windowsill. “We wait.”
Two hours later, the old man still hasn’t come out of the house at 15600 Calusa Drive. Bonnie’s worried.
Then another car pulls up.
TWENTY
Neria Torres had no desire to drive all the way to Brooklyn in search of a thieving husband.
“Then fly,” suggested Celeste, the graduate student who shared the Volkswagen van with Neria and Neria’s lover, the professor.
The professor’s name was Charles Gabler. His field of interest was parapsychology. “Neria won’t fly,” he said. “She’s afraid to death of airplanes.”
“Wow,” said Celeste, cooking on a portable stove in the back of the van. She was in charge of the macrobiotic menu.
Neria said, “It’s not just the flying, it’s Brooklyn. How would I find Tony in a place like that?”
“I know how,” Celeste piped. “Hire a psychic.”
“Great idea. We’ll call Kreskin.”
The professor said, “Neria, there’s no need to be snide.”
“Oh yes, there is.”
She and Dr Gabler had been sorely low of funds when he’d proposed that young Celeste join them a week earlier as they prepared to depart Eugene, Oregon, for Miami. Young Celeste had been blessed with a comfortable trust fund, a generous heart and handsome gravity-defying breasts. Neria was under no illusions about the professor’s motives, but she tried to put aside her concerns. They needed gas money, and young Celeste kept a world of credit cards in her purse. Somewhere near Salina, Kansas, Neria felt the need to inform Dr Gabler that he was paying too much attention to their travel companion, that his behavior was not only rude but disrespectful, and that the Great Plains in the heat of summer was no place to relearn the basics of hitchhiking. The professor seemed to take the warning to heart.
In truth, Neria was growing bored with Dr Gabler and his absurd blue and red crystals. Mystic healing, my ass-a box of Milk Duds starts to look pretty mystical, you smoke enough dope. Which was how the professor spent most of his waking hours, sluggishly bequeathing the driving duties to Neria and Celeste.
“I’d rather go to Miami anyway,” Celeste said, measuring out two cups of brown rice. “I’d like to work in one of those tent cities. Cook for the homeless, if they need me.”
The professor regarded Neria Torres through bloodshot hound-dog eyes. “Darling, it’s entirely up to you. We’ll go wherever you wish.”
“Wow,” said Neria. The mockery was lost on Celeste, who was immersed in a complex recipe. Neria declared she was going for a walk, and exited the van.
They had parked at a public campground off Interstate 20, outside Atlanta, to discuss which way to go- New York or Miami, north or south. Neria Torres replayed in her mind the upsetting conversation with the stranger who’d answered Tony’s telephone. The more Neria thought about it, the more doubts she had. Not that her piggy husband wasn’t capable of falling for a twenty-four-year-old blonde; rather, it was highly
implausible that one would fall for him. And Brooklyn? Hardly a boomtown for the mobile-home trade. The stranger’s story didn’t add up.
Neria Torres had tried to confirm the lurid details with Varga, the nosy next-door neighbor, but his telephone was out of order. Neria was certain about two things: She was entitled to half the hurricane money for the house in Miami. And her estranged husband was dodging her.
New York was an astronomic long shot. At least in Florida there’d be a trail. Neria decided they should head for Miami, as originally planned.
She thought of a way to widen the net: Why not let the cops search for Tony, too? They were the pros, after all. Neria backtracked through the campground to a phone booth, where she used her husband’s PIN number to call the Metro-Dade police and make a missing-person report.