Free Nightlife by Thomas Perry Page B

Doesn’t it sound like a women’s clothing store? Anyway, less than a month later, the bank account was closed and they had both moved on.”
    “That’s the part we need to know,” said Hobbes. “Where did they move to?”
    “We’ve got nothing on that yet,” said Crowley. “Neither of them left a forwarding address at the post office or with their landlady. Before they left, they closed their account at Regal Bank, so there’s nothing there, either. They might easily have found a good location somewhere nearby, like San Mateo or Richmond, and moved. By now they could also be in China.”
    “Either way, Tanya Starling doesn’t seem to be in any danger, and she certainly isn’t dead,” said Hobbes. “But she’s still our only potential witness on why Dennis Poole is.”
    Pitt said, “Did Tanya buy another car before she left?”
    “No. Rachel Sturbridge has one, and maybe they drove off in that.” He handed a piece of paper to Pitt. “Here’s the DMV printout on it. A six-year-old Nissan Maxima, black. License plate and VIN are supplied. It’s registered to the address they rented here. So until she gets wherever she’s going and reregisters it with a good address, we won’t know where she is. If she’s in-state, she probably won’t get around to it until next year.”
    “Keep us in mind, will you, Doug?”
    “Sure,” said Crowley. “When we get anything more, you’ll have it.”
    Catherine Hobbes said, “Thank you very much, Detective Crowley. Here’s my card. There are numbers for my direct line, the homicide office, my cell, and my home. It doesn’t matter what time of day it comes in, I would appreciate it if you’ll call.”
    “Of course,” said Crowley.
    She and Pitt walked out of the police station, and Pitt drove the rental car to the house where Tanya Starling and Rachel Sturbridge had lived. As soon as Pitt found a parking space at the foot of the long, inclining street, Catherine Hobbes got out and began to walk. Pitt locked the car and trotted to catch up. By the time he’d succeeded, he was winded.
    “What’s bothering you?” asked Pitt.
    Catherine Hobbes walked along the street, her quick strides keeping her a half pace ahead of him so she wouldn’t have to look at his fake concerned expression. “Nothing.”
    “Come on,” he said. “You’re going to give me a heart attack walking up this hill at this speed. Something’s bothering you.”
    She stopped and looked at him. “We’re not in some boy-and-girl relationship that requires your helping when something’s bothering me. I’m a police officer working a homicide case. Your role is not to delve into my female sensitivities so you can talk me out of them. You’re here with me only because my captain thought you might be able to contribute to the progress of the investigation. That was not an opinion I shared.”
    “It’s Crowley, isn’t it?”
    “Do
not
tell me I’m imagining things.”
    “I won’t. But—”
    “I’m also not interested in being told it’s not his fault because you knew each other twenty years ago, or because he’s too old to get used to women in homicide, or because you two are from California and I’m not.”
    “Okay,” he said. “It’s just that it’s a waste of time to get mad at me.”
    “I’m not.”
    “Or even at him.”
    “I’m not mad. I’m a woman cop. I’m used to being ignored, and to much, much worse. I’m looking for the house number.”
    “Okay,” said Pitt. He followed her along the street for another half block, until they came to a narrow one-story house.
    They walked up to the steps and Hobbes rang the bell, then listened for a moment to the door being unbolted and unlatched. It swung open to reveal a woman around sixty years old with dyed red hair wearing a pair of jeans with knee pads over them.
    “Mrs. Halloran?”
    “I’ve been waiting for you,” the woman said. “I was just finishing up on the trim. Come on in, but don’t touch any