BOBBY FOLLOWED Frank into the office, where Julie and Hal were examining
the money. Putting a sheet of paper on the desk, he said,
“Move over, Sherlock Holmes. The world now has a greater detective.”
Julie angled the page so she and Hal could read it together. It was a
laser-printed copy of the information that Frank had filed with the
California Department of Motor Vehicles when he had last applied for an
extension of his driver’s license.
“The physical statistics match,” she said.
“Is your first name really Francis and your middle name Ezekiel?”
Frank nodded.
“I didn’t remember until I saw it. But it is me, all right. Ezekiel.”
Tapping the printout, she said,
“This address in El Encanto Heights-does it ring a bell?”
“No. I can’t even tell you where El Encanto is.”
“It’s adjacent to Santa Barbara,” Julie said.
“So Bobby tells me. But I don’t remember being their Except…”
“What?” Frank went to the window and looked out toward the distant sea,
above which the sky was now entirely blue. A few early gulls swooped in
arcs so huge and smoothly that their exuberance was thrilling to watch.
Clearly, Frank was neither thrilled by the birds nor charmed by the
view.
Finally, still facing the window, he said, “I don’t recall being in El
Encanto Heights… except that every time I hear the name, my stomach
sort of sinks, you know, like I’m on a roller coaster that’s just taken
a plunge. And when I try to think about El Encanto, strain to remember
it, my heart pounds, and my mouth goes dry, and it’s a little harder to
get my breath So I think I must be repressing any memories I have of the
place, maybe because something happened to me there, some thing bad…
something I’m too scared to remember.”
Bobby said, “His driver’s license expired seven years ago and according
to the DMV’s records, he never tried to renew it. In fact, sometime
this year he’d have been weeded out even from their dead files, so we
were lucky to find this before they expunged it.” He laid two more
printouts on the desk.
“Move over, Holmes and Sam Spade.”
“What’re these?”
“Arrest reports. Frank was stopped for a traffic violation once in San
Francisco a little more than six years ago. The second time was on
Highway 101, north of Ventura, five years ago. He didn’t have a valid
driver’s license either time and, because of his odd behavior, he was
taken into custody.” The photographs that were a part of both arrest
reports showed a slightly younger, even pudgier man who was without a
doubt their current client.
Bobby pushed aside some of the money and sat on the edge of her desk.
“He escaped from jail both times, so they’re looking for him even after
all these years, though probably not too hard, since he wasn’t arrested
for a major crime.”
Frank said, “I draw a blank on that too.”
“Neither report indicates how he escaped,” Bobby said,
“but I suspect he didn’t saw his way through the bars or dig a tunnel or
whittle a gun out of a bar of soap or use any of the long accepted,
traditional methods of jailbreak. Oh, no, not our Frank.”
“He teleported,” Hal guessed.
“Vanished when no one was looking.”
“I’d bet on it,” Bobby agreed.
“And after that he began to carry false ID good enough to satisfy any
cop who pulled him over.” Looking at the papers before her, Julie said,
“Well, Frank, at least we know this is your real name, and we’ve nailed
down a real address for you up there in Santa Barbara County, not just
another motel room.”
“We’re beginning to make headway” Bobby said,
“Move over, Holmes, Spade, and Miss Marple.” Unable to embrace their
optimism, Frank returned to the chair in which he’d been sitting
earlier.
“Headway. But not enough. And not fast enough.” He leaned forward
with his arms on his thighs, hands clasped between his spread knees, and
stared morosely at the floor.
“Something unpleasant just occurred to me. What if I’m not only making
mistakes with my clothes when I reconstitute myself’.? What if I’ve