change, and the taxpayer was going to take it on the chin.
So far, Klein and his “consortium,” as he liked to call them, had made offers on twelve cabins and had actually picked up
six of them. It was Pomeroy’s job to hunt for more, and then, when he found a possible sale, Klein passed the name on to someone
willing to front for the consortium for a flat fee. You were prohibited by law from holding more than one lease, and that’s
why he needed the fronts— there were only a handful of investors altogether, looking to pick up something like twenty properties.
Anyway, the consortium would ante up the money to buy each cabin and pay the front a flat fee to hold the lease.
Most of the longtime canyon residents had picked the places up years ago for six or eight or ten thousand bucks. If you offered
them twice that they crumpled. Once you transferred the leases and picked up bills of sale, you sold the places back and forth
among yourselves and drove theprices through the roof. In the end you’d divvy up, with a brokerage fee for Klein on top of his share.
If you were quick and clean and smart, you’d all walk away happy when the government bought you out. If you weren’t, then
the government would smell something— fraud, to be exact.
11
I T WAS NEARLY NOON WHEN P ETER PARKED THE S UBURBAN in the lot behind the city of Orange civic center buildings. Wishing he was anyplace else than where he was, he walked
around to the front sidewalk, past a tile-and-concrete fountain that had four painted steel egrets standing on top of it,
spitting water into the air. The water blew away in the wind, out onto the lawn and walkway. A half dozen sycamore leaves
floated like boats on the fountain pool.
He had seen the fountain a thousand times, driving and walking along Chapman Avenue, but it looked strangely alien to him
now. Abruptly he felt the urge to run—not in order to hide, but just to run, for the sheer sake of running, to make his legs
work, to justify his heart. He found himself at the door of the police station without having run anywhere. His reflection
in the glass looked back at him like a windblown ghost.
There was no one visible inside, no activity at all. A line of empty chairs sat along the windows to his left. Straight ahead
was a long, silent hallway, and to his right lay a glassed-in reception office containing three cluttered desksempty of people. Maybe nobody got into trouble on Saturday morning. He ran a pocket comb through his hair and straightened
his collar. There was no use looking the way he felt.
A woman appeared from a back room just then, carrying a cup of coffee into the reception office. He stepped to the window
and said hello. She smiled at him, looking efficient and friendly, but her face changed when he explained what he wanted,
as if she could read something in his voice and eyes. “If you could have a seat for a moment, Mr. Travers,” she said, nodding
toward the chairs by the window. At that, she turned around and went out again.
He sat down, although he didn’t want to. Full of nervous energy, he was nearly compelled to get up again, to walk up and down
the hallway or back and forth across the carpet, as if any movement at all would hasten him toward an answer. Eventually a
man in a gray sport coat stepped into the reception cubicle. He patted his coat pocket and then paused for a moment to pull
a pen out of a desktop penholder, looking out at Peter as if sizing him up before stepping out through the door. He carried
a clipboard with several sheets of paper attached to it.
“Detective Slater,” he said, introducing himself. “Ray Slater.”
“Peter Travers,” Peter said back to him.
“What seems to be the problem, then, Mr. Travers? How do you spell that? T-R-A-V-E-R-S?” the detective asked. The pen scratched
across the paper on the clipboard. He sounded a little tired.
“That’s right. My wife and child are missing. My ex-wife. We’re
So far, Klein and his “consortium,” as he liked to call them, had made offers on twelve cabins and had actually picked up
six of them. It was Pomeroy’s job to hunt for more, and then, when he found a possible sale, Klein passed the name on to someone
willing to front for the consortium for a flat fee. You were prohibited by law from holding more than one lease, and that’s
why he needed the fronts— there were only a handful of investors altogether, looking to pick up something like twenty properties.
Anyway, the consortium would ante up the money to buy each cabin and pay the front a flat fee to hold the lease.
Most of the longtime canyon residents had picked the places up years ago for six or eight or ten thousand bucks. If you offered
them twice that they crumpled. Once you transferred the leases and picked up bills of sale, you sold the places back and forth
among yourselves and drove theprices through the roof. In the end you’d divvy up, with a brokerage fee for Klein on top of his share.
If you were quick and clean and smart, you’d all walk away happy when the government bought you out. If you weren’t, then
the government would smell something— fraud, to be exact.
11
I T WAS NEARLY NOON WHEN P ETER PARKED THE S UBURBAN in the lot behind the city of Orange civic center buildings. Wishing he was anyplace else than where he was, he walked
around to the front sidewalk, past a tile-and-concrete fountain that had four painted steel egrets standing on top of it,
spitting water into the air. The water blew away in the wind, out onto the lawn and walkway. A half dozen sycamore leaves
floated like boats on the fountain pool.
He had seen the fountain a thousand times, driving and walking along Chapman Avenue, but it looked strangely alien to him
now. Abruptly he felt the urge to run—not in order to hide, but just to run, for the sheer sake of running, to make his legs
work, to justify his heart. He found himself at the door of the police station without having run anywhere. His reflection
in the glass looked back at him like a windblown ghost.
There was no one visible inside, no activity at all. A line of empty chairs sat along the windows to his left. Straight ahead
was a long, silent hallway, and to his right lay a glassed-in reception office containing three cluttered desksempty of people. Maybe nobody got into trouble on Saturday morning. He ran a pocket comb through his hair and straightened
his collar. There was no use looking the way he felt.
A woman appeared from a back room just then, carrying a cup of coffee into the reception office. He stepped to the window
and said hello. She smiled at him, looking efficient and friendly, but her face changed when he explained what he wanted,
as if she could read something in his voice and eyes. “If you could have a seat for a moment, Mr. Travers,” she said, nodding
toward the chairs by the window. At that, she turned around and went out again.
He sat down, although he didn’t want to. Full of nervous energy, he was nearly compelled to get up again, to walk up and down
the hallway or back and forth across the carpet, as if any movement at all would hasten him toward an answer. Eventually a
man in a gray sport coat stepped into the reception cubicle. He patted his coat pocket and then paused for a moment to pull
a pen out of a desktop penholder, looking out at Peter as if sizing him up before stepping out through the door. He carried
a clipboard with several sheets of paper attached to it.
“Detective Slater,” he said, introducing himself. “Ray Slater.”
“Peter Travers,” Peter said back to him.
“What seems to be the problem, then, Mr. Travers? How do you spell that? T-R-A-V-E-R-S?” the detective asked. The pen scratched
across the paper on the clipboard. He sounded a little tired.
“That’s right. My wife and child are missing. My ex-wife. We’re
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