her. She fantasized knocking the box out of his grasp and seizing one
of his hands, and bending the index finger as far back as it would go,
thus straining the digital nerve of his hand while simultaneously
pinching the radial nerves on the back, forcing him to kneel. Then
driven a fist into the underside of his chin, a swift chop to the side
of his neck, a well-placed kick to his soft, protruding belly. Havalow
rummaged through the box and extracted a photograph of a man and a woman
sitting at a redwood table with a picnic on a sunny day.
“That’s George and Irene.”
Even in the yellowish light of the porch lamp, Julie could see that
George Farris had been a rangy man with a long rough face, the exact
physical opposite of Frank Pollard.
“Why would someone be claiming he’s George?” Havlow asked.
“We’re dealing with a possible criminal who uses multiple fake IDs,”
Julie said.
“George Farris is just one of his identities. No doubt your
brother-in-law’s name was probably selected at random by the document
forger this guy used. They sometimes use the names and addresses of the
deceased.
Havalow frowned.
“You think it’s possible this man George’s name is the same guy who
killed Irene, my brother-in-law and my two nieces?”
“No,” Julie said immediately.
“We’re not dealing with a killer here. Just a confidence man, a
swindler.”
“Besides,” Bobby said, “no killer would link himself to murders he’d
committed by getting ID in the name of his victim’s husband.”
Making eye contact with Julie, clearly trying to determine how much they
were snowing him, Havalow said, “This guy your client?”
“No,” Julie lied.
“He ripped off our client, and we’ve been hired to track him down, so he
can be forced to make restitution.”
Bobby said, “Can we borrow this photo, sir?”
Havalow hesitated. He was still making eye contact with Julie.
Bobby handed Havalow a Dakota & Dakota business card.
“We’ll get the picture back to you. There’s our address, phone number.
I understand your reluctance to part with a family photo, especially
since your sister and brother-in-law are no longer alive, but if-”
Apparently deciding that they were not lying, Havalow said, “Hell, take
it. I’m not sentimental about George. Never could stand him. Always
thought my sister was a fool for marrying him.”
“Thank you,” Bobby said.
“We-”
Havalow stepped back and closed the door.
Julie rang the bell.
Bobby said, “Please don’t kill him.”
Scowling with impatience, Havalow opened the door.
Stepping between Julie and Havalow, Bobby held out the forged driver’s
license bearing George Farris’s name and Frank’s picture.
“One more thing, sir, and we’ll get out of your hair.”
“I live to a very tight schedule,” Havalow said.
“Have you seen this man before?”
Irritated, Havalow took the driver’s license and inspected it.
“Doughy face, bland features. There’re a million like him within a
hundred miles of here-wouldn’t you say?”
“And you’ve never seen him?”
“Are you slow-witted? Do I have to put it in short, simple sentences?
No. I have never seen him.”
Retrieving the license, Bobby said, “Thanks for your time and-”
Havalow closed the door. Hard.
Julie reached for the bell.
Bobby stayed her hand.
“We’ve got everything we came for.”
“I want-”
“I know what you want,” Bobby said, “but torturing a man to death is
against the law in California.”
He hustled her away from the house, into the rain.
In the car again, she said, “That rude, self-important bastard!”
Bobby started the engine and switched on the windshield wipers.
“We’ll stop at the mall, buy you one of those GI teddy bears, paint
Havalow’s name on it, let you tear the guts out of it. Okay?”
“Who the hell does he think he is?”
While Julie glowered back at the house, Bobby drove off from it.
“He’s Walter Havalow, babe, and he’s got to be himself until he dies,
which is a worse punishment than anything you could do to him.” A few
minutes later, when they were out of Villa Park Bobby drove into the lot
at a Ralph’s supermarket and tuck the Toyota into a parking space. He