Not wanting to possibly spook Childs/Gladden, Thorson engaged in no delay tactics on the second call. He also had no way of knowing that the call was coming from a different phone this time. For all he knew, agents were moving in on Gladden as he spoke to him.
But they weren’t. As Thorson was telling the caller that his digiShot 200 had arrived and was ready for pickup, Backus was learning from the AT&T operator that the new call was being placed from another pay phone at Hollywood Boulevard and Las Palmas Street.
“Shit,” Backus said after hanging up. “He’s in Hollywood. I just pulled everyone out of there.”
Was it by design or luck that Gladden had escaped? No one knew, of course, but it was eerie, sitting there in the car with Backus and Carter. The Poet had kept moving and so far had avoided the net. Backus went through the motions of sending the roving teams to the intersection in Hollywood but I could tell by his voice he knew there wasn’t much of a percentage in it. The caller would be gone. The only chance now would be to take him after he came for the camera. If he came.
On the phone in the store, Thorson was delicately attempting to pin the caller down on what time he would be by to pick up his camera but trying to act uninterested about it. Thorson was a good actor, it seemed to me. After a few moments he hung up.
He immediately looked toward the fish-eye lens of the camera and calmly said, “Talk to me people. What’s going on?”
Backus used the mobile phone to call the store and fill Thorson in on the near miss. I watched on the video as Thorson balled his hand into a fist and lightly bounced it once on the desk. I couldn’t tell if it was a sign of disappointment that the arrest had not gone down or maybe a sign of thanks that he would now get the chance to come face to face with the Poet.
Most of the next four hours was spent in the car with Backus and Carter. At least I had the backseat so I could stretch. The only break came when they sent me around the corner to a deli on Pico to pick up sandwiches and coffee. I went quickly and missed nothing.
It was a long day, even with the hourly drive-bys Carter made of the store and the arrival of several customers at different times, which always proved to be tense moments until they were identified as real customers, not Gladden.
By four, Backus was already talking over plans for the next day with Carter, not giving in to the thought that maybe Gladden wasn’t coming, that maybe he knew something was amiss and had outsmarted the bureau. He told Carter that he had decided he wanted to open a two-way mike so that he didn’t have to use one of the phone lines to communicate with Thorson in the store.
“I want that fixed by tomorrow,” he said.
“You got it,” Carter answered. “After we close this down, I’ll go in with technical and get it all fixed up.”
The car dropped into silence again. I could tell Backus and Carter, the veterans of too many stakeouts to recall, were used to long stretches of silent company. To me, though, it made the time pass all the more slowly. Occasionally I attempted conversation but they never carried it further than a few words.
Shortly after four a car pulled to the curb behind us. I turned around to look and saw it was Rachel. She got out and got into our car next to me.
“Well, well,” Backus said. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t stay away for long, Rachel. Are you sure you covered everything you needed to cover in Florida?”
He was being even but I sensed that he was annoyed that she had rushed back. I think he wanted her in Florida.
“Everything’s fine, Bob. Anything happening here?”
“Nope, it’s been slow.”
When Backus turned back around, she reached over and squeezed my hand on the seat and made a curious face at me. It took me a few moments to realize why.
“Did you check the mail drop, Rachel?”
She broke her look away from me and looked at the back of Backus’s head. He had not turned around and she was sitting directly behind him.
“Yes, Bob, I did,” she said in a voice slightly tinged with exasperation. “It was a dead end. There was nothing in the box. The owner said that he believed a woman, an older woman, came in every month or so and cleaned it out. He said the only mail that ever came looked like bank statements. I think it was Gladden’s mother. She’s probably living somewhere around there but I couldn’t find a listing and there was nothing from Florida DMV.”
“Maybe you should’ve stayed a little longer and looked a little harder.”
She was silent a moment. I knew she was still confused by the way Backus was now treating her.
“Maybe,” she said. “But I think that’s something the agents in Florida can handle. I’m the lead agent on this case. Remember, Bob?”
“Yes, I remember.”
The car was silent for a few minutes after that. I spent most of that time staring out my window. When I sensed the tension had dissipated a bit I looked over at Rachel and raised my eyebrows. She raised her hand to reach to my face but then thought better of it and put it down.
“You shaved.”
“Yeah.”
Backus turned around and looked at me, then returned to his normal position.
“I thought something was different,” he said.
“How come?” Rachel asked.
I hiked my shoulders.
“I don’t know.”
A voice crackled over the radio.
“Customer.”
Carter picked up the mike and said, “What’ve we got?”
“White male, twenties, blond hair, carrying a box. No vehicle observed. He’s either going in Data or next door for a haircut. He could use one.”
There was a hair salon directly west of Data Imaging Answers. On the east side was an out-of-business hardware store. The observation agents had been calling out the potential customers all day; most of them ended up going into the salon rather than DIA.
“He’s going in.”
I leaned over the seat to look at the monitor and saw the man enter the store with the box. The video frame was a black-and-white image that encompassed the whole showroom. The figure was too grainy and small to be identified as Gladden or not. I held my breath as I had each time a customer had entered. The man walked directly to the desk where Thorson sat. I saw Thorson move his right hand to his midsection, ready to go inside his coat for his weapon if needed.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yes, I have these great monthly planners here.” He started reaching into the box. Thorson started standing. “I’m selling them to a lot of your neighbors here.”
Thorson grabbed the man’s arm to stop him from reaching, then tilted the box down so he could see inside it.
“I’m not interested,” he said after inspecting the contents.
The salesman, slightly taken aback by Thorson grabbing him, recovered and completed the sales pitch.
“Are you sure? Just ten bucks. Something like this’ll run you thirty, thirty-five dollars in the office supply store. It’s genuine Naugahyde and it’s—”
“Not interested. Thank you.”
The salesman turned to Coombs sitting behind the other desk.
“How ’bout you, sir? Let me show you the deluxe mo—”
“We’re not interested,” Thorson barked. “Now if you would please leave the store, we’re busy here. There’s no soliciting here.”