F Is for Fugitive

proceeded to the John, walking with the exaggerated nonchalance of a man who's drunk.
    I waited fifteen minutes, nursing my beer, with an occasional glance at the door to the unisex facility. The woman who'd been dancing with Shana Timber-lake was now playing pool with a kid who looked eighteen. It was nearly midnight by then, and Daisy started cleaning off the bar with a rag.
    "Where'd Tap go?" I said when she had worked her way down within range of me.
    "He got a phone call and took off."
    "Just now?"
    "Few minutes ago. He still owes a couple bucks on that tab."
    "I'll take care of it," I said. I laid a five on the bar and waved away any change.
    She was looking at me. "You know Tap's the biggest bullshitter ever lived." "I gathered as much."
    Her gaze was dark. "He might have been in trouble some years ago, but these days he's a decent family man. Nice wife and kids."
    "Why tell me? I'm not hustling his buns."
    "Why all the questions about the Fowler boy? You been pumping him all night."
    "I talked to Royce. I'm curious about this business with his son, that's all."
    "What's it to you?"
    "It's just something to jaw about. There's nothing else going on."
    She seemed to soften, apparently satisfied at the benevolence of my intent. "You here on vacation?"
    "Business," I replied. I thought she'd pursue it, but she let the subject drop.
    "We close about this time weeknights," she said. "You're welcome to stay while I lock up in back, but Pearl doesn't like anyone around when I close out the register."
    I realized then that I was the last person in the place. "I guess I better let you get on with it, then. – I've had enough anyway."
    The fog had curled right up to the road, obscuring the beach in a bunting of yellow mist. In the distance, a foghorn repeated its warning note. There were no cars passing and no sign of anyone on foot. Behind me, Daisy flipped the dead bolt and turned off the exterior lights, leaving me on my own. I walked briskly back to my motel room, wondering why Tap hadn't said good-bye.

Chapter 8
----
    Bailey's arraignment was scheduled for room B of the Municipal Court, on the lower level of the San Luis Obispo County Courthouse on Monterey Street. Royce rode with me. He didn't really seem well enough for the trip into town, but he was determined to have his way. Since Ann was taking her mother to the doctor that morning and couldn't accompany us, we tried to minimize the exertions he'd be subjected to. I dropped him out in front, watching as he made his way painfully up the wide concrete steps. We had arranged for him to wait for me in the airy lobby coffee shop with its skylights and potted ficus plants. I had already briefed him in the car coming over and he'd seemed satisfied with the state of my inquiries to that point. Now I wanted the opportunity to bring Jack Clemson up to speed.
    I left my car parked in a small private lot behind the attorney's office, a block away. Clemson and I walked over to the courthouse together, using the time to talk about Bailey's frame of mind, which he found worrisome. With me, Bailey had seemed to alternate between numbness and despair. By the time he and Clemson chatted later in the day, his mood had darkened considerably. He was convinced he was never going to beat the escape charge. He was certain he'd end up at the Men's Colony again and equally certain he'd never survive incarceration.
    "The guy's a basket case," Jack said. "I can't seem to talk any sense into him."
    "But what are his chances, realistically?"
    "Hey, I'm doing what I can. Bail's been set at half a million bucks, which is ridiculous. We're not talkin' Jack the Ripper here. I'll enter a motion to reduce. And maybe I can talk the prosecuting attorney into letting him plead to escape for the minimum. The time'll be added on, of course, but there's no way around that."
    "And if I come up with some convincing evidence that someone else killed Jean Timberlake?"
    "Then I'd move to set aside the original plea, or maybe file a coram nobis. Either way, we'd be set."
    "Don't count on it, but I'll do what I can."
    He flashed a smile at me, holding up crossed fingers.
    When we got to the courthouse, he left me in the lobby while he went down to meet with the prosecuting attorney and the judge in chambers. The coffee shop was really no more than a wide expanse of central lobby, jammed with people now, the press in evidence. Royce was seated at a small table near the stairs, his hands folded across the