little discouraged, and the real estate man would give you another hard-sell pitch. He’d admit that maybe the market was a little soft right now, things were pretty tough, but houses were being sold and he knew he could scare up a buyer—maybe if you’d shave the price down to a more realistic figure. Perhaps you’d give him an argument on that, but after all he still had a ninety-day exclusive listing, and half of that time had gone by, so you’d have to hold still and wait for him to dig up more prospects.
“Then he’d let you sweat for a few more weeks. If you called him, he’d tell you to cool it, he was doing the best he could. And finally he’d show up again with another couple. A young couple, driving a microbus, long hair, the whole bit. And they’d tell you your pad was beautiful, man, only they didn’t have the bread, and how’s about a deal where they moved in and looked after the place until you found a buyer?
“After they got lost, you’d sit and wait. And wait. And wait. And when you called the real estate office, your man would always be out and he wouldn’t return your call. Until one day he’d come rolling up with a sharp-looking executive type and his wife and they’d go through the house. Just go through it, no comments. Finally the man would ask the price and you’d tell him, maybe even coming down a few thou on it. He wouldn’t say a word—just look at his wife. And then they’d turn and walk out.
“After that, you’d wait again. Maybe another month would go by and not even a word. Until finally you’d get a phone call from the husband of the first couple who looked at the house, the nice couple with the new car. He and his wife had been thinking about your place, and if it was still for sale he was still ready to offer you the price he’d quoted—cash on the line.
“Chances are, if you really needed to sell your house, that this time you’d say yes. And sure enough, the real estate man would bring them over again, the papers would be drawn up, the deal would go through escrow, and your house would be sold at that ridiculously low figure.
“What you’d never know is that you’d sold your house to this real estate man. Because the nice couple were his employees. And the others—the seedy couple, the black couple, the young kids, the executive type—were actors.”
“Actors?”
“That’s right. Professional actors, hired on a per diem basis, to play the roles of prospects. The whole thing was an act he used to buy up properties at a fraction of the market price—so he could resell them on his own at a nice fat profit.” Rita shook her head. “How about that? No wonder he got rich.”
“Who?”
“Lynch.”
Galpert glanced at her quickly. “That’s his name—you’re sure?”
Rita shook her head. “No, not Lynch. It’s—Lorch. His name is Jack Lorch.”
Galpert smiled at her. Then he took his bone and went out.
Rita stood in the doorway and watched him drive away. After a moment she turned and went back into the office.
Very quietly, very cautiously, Bruce Raymond emerged from his hiding-place in the cockpit of a plane tied down outside the hangar.
Then he started off into the night.
CHAPTER 11
J ack Lorch walked down the street. Walked slowly, because his feet hurt and because it wasn’t safe to run.
It seemed as if he’d been walking forever. Hard to realize that less than twenty-four hours had passed since—
But he didn’t want to think about that.
He didn’t want to think about leaving the sanatorium, or the ride into town in Griswold’s car, or about what happened after that car parked on the darkened dead-end street in Sherman Oaks.
Dead end. He didn’t want to think about that, either.
The important thing was to remember he’d gotten away—running at first, then slowing his pace once he realized he was free.
Free?
Lorch grimaced. What freedom is there for a fugitive from justice? A fugitive from injustice, really. The whole
“Then he’d let you sweat for a few more weeks. If you called him, he’d tell you to cool it, he was doing the best he could. And finally he’d show up again with another couple. A young couple, driving a microbus, long hair, the whole bit. And they’d tell you your pad was beautiful, man, only they didn’t have the bread, and how’s about a deal where they moved in and looked after the place until you found a buyer?
“After they got lost, you’d sit and wait. And wait. And wait. And when you called the real estate office, your man would always be out and he wouldn’t return your call. Until one day he’d come rolling up with a sharp-looking executive type and his wife and they’d go through the house. Just go through it, no comments. Finally the man would ask the price and you’d tell him, maybe even coming down a few thou on it. He wouldn’t say a word—just look at his wife. And then they’d turn and walk out.
“After that, you’d wait again. Maybe another month would go by and not even a word. Until finally you’d get a phone call from the husband of the first couple who looked at the house, the nice couple with the new car. He and his wife had been thinking about your place, and if it was still for sale he was still ready to offer you the price he’d quoted—cash on the line.
“Chances are, if you really needed to sell your house, that this time you’d say yes. And sure enough, the real estate man would bring them over again, the papers would be drawn up, the deal would go through escrow, and your house would be sold at that ridiculously low figure.
“What you’d never know is that you’d sold your house to this real estate man. Because the nice couple were his employees. And the others—the seedy couple, the black couple, the young kids, the executive type—were actors.”
“Actors?”
“That’s right. Professional actors, hired on a per diem basis, to play the roles of prospects. The whole thing was an act he used to buy up properties at a fraction of the market price—so he could resell them on his own at a nice fat profit.” Rita shook her head. “How about that? No wonder he got rich.”
“Who?”
“Lynch.”
Galpert glanced at her quickly. “That’s his name—you’re sure?”
Rita shook her head. “No, not Lynch. It’s—Lorch. His name is Jack Lorch.”
Galpert smiled at her. Then he took his bone and went out.
Rita stood in the doorway and watched him drive away. After a moment she turned and went back into the office.
Very quietly, very cautiously, Bruce Raymond emerged from his hiding-place in the cockpit of a plane tied down outside the hangar.
Then he started off into the night.
CHAPTER 11
J ack Lorch walked down the street. Walked slowly, because his feet hurt and because it wasn’t safe to run.
It seemed as if he’d been walking forever. Hard to realize that less than twenty-four hours had passed since—
But he didn’t want to think about that.
He didn’t want to think about leaving the sanatorium, or the ride into town in Griswold’s car, or about what happened after that car parked on the darkened dead-end street in Sherman Oaks.
Dead end. He didn’t want to think about that, either.
The important thing was to remember he’d gotten away—running at first, then slowing his pace once he realized he was free.
Free?
Lorch grimaced. What freedom is there for a fugitive from justice? A fugitive from injustice, really. The whole
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