The Competition - [84]

“Even another high school is possible,” Jenny said. “They’re staying pretty close to home so far, choosing targets where they know the lay of the land. I expect they’ll continue to do so.”

“Then you agree it’s unlikely they were in Boulder to mail the letter?”

“Highly unlikely,” Michael said. “As you mentioned, there’s a lot of risk involved in that much movement. It’s much more likely someone is helping them.” He poured himself another cup of coffee. “I assume you’re concentrating on the Valley.”

“We are. We’re even covering community colleges in case they decide that’s a close enough match to Virginia Tech.”

“Good,” Jenny said. “In the meantime, we’ve been digging into Shane’s military records. We’re trying to construct a profile-”

Bailey stepped back inside, radiating nervous energy. “I’m sorry. We have to go.” Her voice was tense and urgent. She tapped her cell phone against her thigh as I gathered my coat and purse. We said hurried good-byes and headed for the elevator. Bailey punched the down button. A few seconds later, she punched it again. “Damn. Screw it.” She flew down the hall toward the stairs, and I ran to catch up.

I waited until we were in the car and headed for the freeway to ask. “What the hell is going on?”

“They’ve found Shane Dolan.”

“Is he in custody?”

“No. We got a tip that he’s holed up at someone’s house. An Army buddy of his.”

“And our tipster knows that guy…how?”

“It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody.” Bailey headed north on the 101 freeway.

“And we’re sure this is a righteous tip because…?”

“Our tipster is a cop.”

Doesn’t get much more righteous than that. I closed my eyes and prayed that we were finally about to get a real break.

It felt long overdue.

55

Bailey continued north on the freeway.

“But he didn’t see Logan?” I asked.

“No. They might’ve split up to lay low until the next hit.”

“I thought you had Harrellson working the Shane angle up here,” I said.

“I pulled him off to head up the detail at Platt.”

We passed through the Valley and Camarillo. When we kept heading north after Ventura, I seriously started to wonder exactly where this small town was. “Mind telling me where we’re going?”

“No, but it won’t help. We’re going to La Conchita.”

Actually, it did help. Graden and I liked to take day trips up to Santa Barbara, and La Conchita was on the way. It was a town tailor-made for a sitcom-a bohemian, beachcomberish kind of place. Nestled into a hill on the east side of the Pacific Coast Highway-the only thing separating the town from the ocean-La Conchita was a tiny burg filled with individually built houses, trailers, and a random assortment of small apartment buildings. The mom-and-pop liquor store just off the highway was the town’s main attraction for travelers. Graden and I had stopped there once or twice to get water and sandwiches.

And it was a tight-knit community. When torrential rains caused a major mudslide that buried four houses, the government had proposed evacuating the town-possibly for good. The residents had refused to go. They’d dug their way out, helped one another rebuild, and rescued their little city from oblivion. It made perfect sense that everyone in town would know if a stranger was hiding out there.

Bailey pulled up to a small cottage that had a front walk lined with crushed seashells and a large conch on the front porch. The doorbell was a literal bell that sat on an upside-down barrel near the door, and the hammock suspended from the overhang swung gently in the sea breeze. Something about the decor reminded me of Gilligan’s Island. I picked up the bell and rang it, because…I just couldn’t resist.

A smallish man with a woolly thatch of dark hair, dressed in a faded Hawaiian shirt and jeans, answered the door. He looked from Bailey to me. “Detectives?”

Bailey pulled out her badge and introduced us. “Officer Santos?”

“That’s me. Todd.” He held out his hand as he gestured to his clothes. “Sorry for the civvies, but Sunday’s my day off. Come on in.”

Bailey and I settled on a blue denim sofa that had seen better days sometime before the Korean War. Todd welcomed us and set bottles of water on the electrical cable spool that served as a coffee table. It came as no surprise that he didn’t wear a wedding ring. It was a rare woman who’d embrace Todd’s choice of decor. But Todd himself was charming. Maybe it was his open face and eager smile. Or the way he leaned forward, hands clasped together, with a look that said whatever we needed, he’d be up for it. Plus, he smelled good. His cologne-possibly aftershave-was light, citrusy, and a little like the ocean. The ocean part might’ve just been the air. Whatever it was, I liked him.

Bailey pulled out her cell and showed Todd the photo of Shane. “This is the man you called about, right?”

Todd took one look. “Yep, that’s him. Must have just got in last night because I only saw him this morning. Spotted him out on the balcony of Max’s apartment.” He tapped his forehead. “I never forget a face. Especially when it’s attached to a criminal. You think he’s one of your shooters?”