L Is for Lawless

the immediate area, but there was no sign of airport security.
    "Desert Castle. How may I direct your call?"
    "Could you ring Laura Hudson's room? She's in 1236," I said.
    Laura's line was busy. I kept waiting for the operator to cut back in, but she had apparently quit her job and gone to work for someone in another state. I depressed the plunger and started over, using my last precious quarter to try the hotel again.
    "Desert Castle. How may I direct your call?"
    "Hi, I'm trying to reach Laura Hudson in 1236, but her line is busy. Can you tell me if Ray Rawson is still registered there?"
    "Just a moment, please." She clicked out. Dead silence. She clicked back in. "Yes, ma'am. Would you like me to ring his room?"
    "Yes, but if he doesn't answer, would you come back on the line for me?"
    "Certainly."
    The number rang in Ray's room fifteen times, before she cut back in. "Mr. Rawson doesn't answer. Would you care to leave a message?"
    "Is there any way to page him instead?"
    "No, ma'am. I'm sorry. Was there anything else I could help you with?"
    "I don't think so. Oh yes, wait a minute. Could you connect me with the manager?"
    She'd hung up before I'd even finished the sentence.
    By now, I had so much adrenaline pumping through me, I could hardly breathe. Gilbert Hays was standing at the Avis counter, filling out the paperwork. He seemed to be consulting one of those multicolored one-sheet maps of the vicinity, the desk clerk leaning over helpfully, pointing out his route. I took the escalator to the street.
    Outside, lights had come on, only partially dispelling the gloom of the pickup area. A limousine pulled to the curb in front of me, the uniformed white driver coming around to the door on the passenger side to assist a silver-haired couple as they emerged. The woman wore the fur of some beast I'd never seen. She looked around uneasily, as though she were accustomed to warding off insults. The driver removed their luggage from the trunk. I searched the area, looking for airport police. Light and shadow played across the concrete in patterns as repetitious as a stencil. A wind tunnel had been created by the building's construction, and a diesel-scented gale blew through, generated by the constant rush of passing traffic. I didn't see any of the vans from the hotel. I didn't see a cab stand or any passing taxis. Gilbert had probably already been given the keys to his rental car. He'd be coming out the door behind me, searching out the waiting area for the shuttle that would take him to the slot where his vehicle was waiting. Or perhaps, far worse, the rental car had been left in the parking garage just across the way, in which case he only had to cross the street.
    My gaze settled on the limousine. The driver had received his tip, touched his cap, closed the limo door on the rear passenger side. He circled the back end of the vehicle, heading for the driver's side, where he opened the door and slid behind the wheel. I began to rap frantically on the front passenger side window. The glass was tinted so darkly, I couldn't see in at all. The window was lowered with a whir. The driver looked across at me, his expression neutral. He was in his thirties, with a round face, sparsely growing red hair, combed straight back from the crown. Along the edges of his ears, I could see where his hat had rested.
    I leaned in slightly, handing him my wallet, with my California driver's license and my private investigator's license showing. I said, "Please listen very carefully. I need help. I'm a private investigator from Santa Teresa, California. Somewhere behind me, there's a guy with a gun who's here in Dallas to kill a couple of friends of mine. I need to get to the Desert Castle. Do you know where that is?"
    He took my wallet gingerly, like a cat who deigns to accept a treat from an unfamiliar hand. "I know the Desert Castle." He looked at the picture on my driver's license. I could see him take in the information on my private investigator's license. He began to leaf through some of my other identification cards. He handed my wallet back and then simply sat and stared at me. He popped the lock up and then reached for the keys in the ignition.
    I opened the passenger door and got in.
    The limo pulled away from the curb as silently as a train easing out of a station. The seats were gray leather and the dashboard was a burled walnut so shiny it looked like plastic. Just at my left knee was the handset for the car phone. "Mind if I