into the filing cabinet, he looks back at the tellers so often that he looks like he's stealing from the till. He's probably never peeked inside a single file he wasn't required to see.
He walks back to the desk, periodically looking over his shoulder the whole way. He's carrying a big book.
"Is that their account book?"
"Well, no. It's July's transaction ledger. That's what you wanted to see, right?"
"Yeah, I wanted to see the week starting from Monday, the twenty-third, to Thursday, the twenty-sixth."
Robert takes a smaller book out of his desk and starts scanning through the pages.
"What are you doing?"
"Finding their account number," he says, moving his finger down a page of names and numbers. "Ah, there it is."
Robert then opens the transaction ledger and starts scanning slowly over each line. "It looks like there was a two hundred dollar withdrawal on Monday, the twenty-third."
"Brett sign for that?"
"Yep," Robert says, still scanning through each line of the ledger, flipping the pages. "Here's another two hundred on Wednesday, the twenty-fifth."
"Brett again?"
Kevin nods, and starts scanning again. He turns the page, and his finger stops almost immediately. "Here's something," he says, looking up at Clay, and turning the ledger toward Clay, putting his finger on a specific line in the ledger.
"What exactly am I looking at here? Is that a fifty-five hundred dollar withdrawal?"
"Sure is."
"That's a lot of money."
"That's a big transaction for us to make for a business account, but it's a very large transaction for us to see for an individual account."
"So, that's out of the ordinary?"
"You kidding? I'll bet we only see cash transactions that high from an individual account a couple times a year."
"That's Emma's signature."
"Sure is," Robert says. "And I actually remember this. It was strange to see Emma come in. I knew her from the ball park, of course, but she'd never been here before."
"Never?"
"Not that I can remember, and I'm here every day."
"Robert," Clay says, standing up. "You've been a big help. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you putting yourself out for me like this."
"Don't mention it," Robert says, standing.
They shake hands.
"You'd tell me if there was something funny going on, wouldn't you?"
"About Brett?"
"Yeah, and… You know, the accident."
"Too early to say. Don't jump to any conclusions, though," Clay says. "Oh, and it's important that you not tell anyone I was here. At least not for a couple days."
"Are you kidding? Who could I tell? I'd be in a heap of trouble if anyone found out that I showed you the ledger. I just hope the tellers don't get any ideas," he says, and looks nervously over at the three tellers.
"Don't worry about it, Robert. They trust you," Clay says, looking over at the tellers. He makes eye contact with one young girl and winks at her. She smiles and looks back down at what she was doing. "And, let me tell you, trust is a valuable commodity these days."
Clay pulls into the driveway of the Caldwell's house, Crystal Lake's parents' house. Kevin did a good job of explaining where they lived, but he wasn't sure of the family name. Luckily, their surname is painted on their mailbox in fancy calligraphy.
It's a beautiful house on the north edge of Milpitas. It looks like a relatively new house, probably one of the many house built after the war. And it's a large house for the area. They obviously have some money, which makes him wonder why Crystal was slumming it at one of Ramsey's joints.
Clay gets out of the car, a baseball in his hand. He tucks the baseball into his pants pocket with his hand still wrapped tightly around the seams.
As he walks up to the door, he still doesn't quite know what he's going to say. He's not even entirely sure why he's here, other than to try and understand why a wealthy young girl who's been missing for two weeks hasn't had her photo plastered all over the local papers.
He has absolutely no intention of telling Crystal's parents that she's dead. And, other than his interview with Kevin, Clay doesn't even have any proof that she was the one in the car, yet. But he feels the need to put them on notice that something isn't right, and he hopes he can give them a push toward finding the truth.
He knocks on the door and waits. He squeezes the baseball in his pocket again, takes a deep breath.
A woman answers the door—a young, beautiful woman not much older than Clay. She'd be even more beautiful if she didn't look so damn tired.
"Can I help you?" she asks.
"Sorry to bother you," Clay says. "I'm looking for Crystal."
"She's not here," the woman says, and a sadness falls over her face. Maybe the sadness had been there all along, and only now had became apparent at the sound of Crystal's name.
"Could you tell me where I might reach her?"
"May I ask what this is about?"
Clay was prepared for the question just a minute ago, but now, staring into this woman's sad, tired face, he feels struck dumb.
"Sorry," he says, gathering his bearings. "I'm a private investigator. I have some questions for her about her former employer."
"Employer?"
"Yeah, the man she worked for in Fremont."
"What on Earth are you talking about? Crystal never worked a day in her life."
"Ma'am, if you don't mind me asking, when's the last time you saw your daughter?"
"Thursday, July twenty-sixth."
"And you haven't heard anything from her since then?"
"No, not a word," the woman says.
He can hear the panic starting to rise in her voice. He wonders if she's about to start crying.
"Why? What is this about? Do you know something about my daughter? Do you know where she is?"
"Have you called the police? Filed a missing person's report?"
"Of course we have."
"With the city?"
"We called the city, but since we're technically outside the city limits, we were sent to the sheriff's department."
"What've they told you?"
"Just that they're looking for her," she says, and then she pauses. "We think she could be in Los Angeles."
"Los Angeles?"
"She's starting UCLA in the fall, and, since graduation, she's been threatening to move there early to try and break into the movie business. We've tried to talk some sense into her, but you know how kids are."
"I'm not too old to remember how I was as a kid," he says, smiling that crooked smile of his, trying hard to be sympathetic to her fears. And it's not difficult to be sympathetic as he looks at this beautiful woman who is about to have her whole world pulled out from under her.
"What were you saying about Fremont?" she asks.
"What do you mean?"
"This job you asked about. I know Crystal keeps secrets from us. She's been pretty wild these past few months, but I would've never guessed she had a job."
"It's not important," Clay says. "I may have been mistaken."
"I don't think you are. I think you know something about Crystal that you're not telling me," she says, taking her hand off the door and crossing her arms. "Who are you, exactly?"
"I told you, I'm a private investigator."
"Who are you working for? Are you with those guys?" she asks, looking over Clay's shoulder.
A couple of Ramsey's San Francisco goons are parked across the street. And they're not making any attempts to be discreet about it, either. They're staring right at him, and he's pretty sure it's the same two guys from the bar this morning. And Clay, who was already off his game, is knocked further off by the sight of them. If they were parked there when he pulled in, he didn't see them.
"Nope. I'm not with them," Clay says, staring at them. "How long have they been there?"
"They've been out there for a couple of hours now. They've been
driving back and forth all afternoon. And it's not the first time. They've been out there off and on for the last several weeks."
"Have you called the police?"
"No, but I'm going to if you don't tell me what this is about."
"I would if I were you, and if you feel like the sheriff is stalling on finding your daughter, go over his head," Clay says, turning toward Maggie's car.
"Hey, what's your name?"
"Clay Hart. I'm from San Jose. If you call the police, tell them I was here, and that there were some strange men watching your house. Tell them that I'm on my way back to San Jose, and that I might need some help," he says.
"I'm going to call," she says in a threatening tone.
"For my sake, lady, I hope you do," Clay says as he climbs back into the car.
He backs out of the driveway, looking back once more at Crystal's mom. She's still standing in the doorway looking as confused as she is angry. And he knows, if he does his job right, that, by this time tomorrow, her life will probably never be the same.
Once he's out of the driveway, and is parallel with the goons' car, he stops. They're facing north toward Fremont. Clay's facing south toward the Milpitas' city limits. There's about ten feet of asphalt between Maggie's car and their car. And he just stares at the goon who's in the driver's seat. It's the same guy that put the mark on his mouth, the same guy that planted a fist in his ribs. He stares at him for a long moment. The guy never blinks. His expression never changes. Then Clay playfully waves at them and hits the gas on Maggie's car.
"Let's see what you've got," he says, looking at the speedometer.
After a couple hundred feet, he looks in the rearview mirror. They're completing a u-turn by the Crawford house and coming his way. Clay contorts his body to try and feel for the bat in the back seat, careful to keep his eyes on the road. He