On the computer screen, green letters announced: NOW TRACING.
And on the open line, a man said, “Hello?”
“Hello,” Jones said into the mike on his headset.
The caller’s number and his local Santa Barbara address appeared on the screen.
This system worked much like the 911 police emergency computer, providing
instant identification of the caller. But now, above the address on the screen,
a company’s rather than an individual’s name appeared: TELEPHONE SOLICITATIONS,
INC.
On the line, responding to Denny Jones, the caller said, “Sir, I’m pleased to
tell you that you have been selected to receive a free eight-by-ten photograph
and ten free pocket prints of any—”
Jones said, “Who is this?”
The computer was now searching data banks of Santa Barbara street addresses to
cross-check the ID of the caller.
The voice on the phone said, “Well, I’m calling in behalf of Olin Mills, sir,
the photography studio, where the finest quality—”
“Wait a sec,” Jones said.
The computer verified the identity of the telephone subscriber who placed the
call: Dilworth was getting a sales pitch, nothing more.
“I don’t want any!” Jones said sharply, and disconnected.
“Shit,” Olbier said.
“Pinochle?” Jones said.
In addition to the six men who had been at the harbor, Lem called in four more
from the temporary HQ at the courthouse.
He stationed five along the perimeter of the Oceanside park, a few hundred yards
apart. Their job was to watch the wide avenue that separated the park from a
business district, where there were a lot of motels but also restaurants, Yogurt
shops, gift shops, and other retail enterprises. All of the businesses had
phones, of course, and even some of the motels would have pay phones in their
front offices; using any of them, the attorney could alert Travis and Nora
Cornell. At this hour on a Saturday evening, some stores were closed, but some
of them—and all of the restaurants—were open. Dilworth must not be permitted to
cross the street.
The sea wind was stiffening and growing chillier. The men stood with their hands
in their jackets, heads tucked down, shivering.
Palm fronds were rattled by sudden gusts. Tree-roosting birds shrilled in alarm,
then resettled.
Lem sent another agent to the southwest corner of the park, out by the base of
the breakwater that separated the public beach from the harbor on the other
side. His job was to prevent Dilworth from returning to the breakwater, climbing
it, and sneaking back across the harbor to phones in another part of the city.
A seventh man was dispatched to the northwest corner of the park, down by the
water line, to be sure Dilworth did not proceed north onto private beaches and
into residential areas where he might persuade someone to allow him to use an
unmonitored phone.
Just Lem, Cliff, and Hank were left to comb through the park and adjoining beach
in search of the attorney. He knew he had too few men for the job, but these
ten—plus Olbier and Jones at the telephone company—were the only people he had
in town. He could see no point ordering in more agents from the Los Angeles
office; by the time they arrived, Dilworth would either have been found and
stopped—or would have succeeded in calling the Cornells.
The roofless all-terrain vehicle was equipped with a roll bar. It had two bucket
seats, behind which was a four-foot-long cargo area that could accommodate
additional passengers or a considerable amount of gear.
Garrison was flat on his stomach on the floor of the cargo hold, under a
blanket. Two teenage boys were in the bucket seats, and two more were in the
cargo hold on top of Garrison, sprawled as if they were sitting on nothing more
than a pile of blankets. They were trying to keep the worst of their weight off
Garrison, but he still felt half-crushed.
The engine sounded like angry wasps: a high, hard buzzing. It deafened Garrison
because his right ear was flat against the cargo bed, which transmitted and
amplified every vibration.
Fortunately, the soft beach provided a relatively smooth ride.
The vehicle stopped accelerating, slowed, and the engine noise dropped
dramatically.
“Shit,” one of the boys whispered to Garrison, “there’s a guy ahead with a