CHAPTER EIGHTEENThe 757 settled onto a runway at Oakland International and Lindsey stood up to retrieve his flight luggage from the overhead bin. He’d given up on checking bags, he was sick of having luggage go to Auckland when he was going to Oakland, or disappear altogether. He took a cab home and let himself into the house on Laurel Drive.
He checked his watch against the clock on the mantel. It was too late to do anything more, and he was weary to the bone. Mother was out, probably spending the night at Gordon Sloane’s condo. He showered to rid himself of the staleness of travel, climbed into his pajamas and made a cup of cocoa.
He pulled back the covers and climbed into bed. He felt lime a six-year-old. He wanted to phone Marvia Plum, but he was barely able to finish his cocoa and p
