by Rex Bolt
Sure enough, no surprise, Finch and Holly are out in front of the place, Finch talking to her about something and Holly all ears like she’s in the presence of greatness.
It was the type of MB place Chris favored -- side street, half dozen blocks off the beach, the place struggling a bit in recent months which meant you could get right in and the service was good, since they were trying hard to stay in business.
Holly and Kay hit it off well and afterwards Chris suggested the Crow’s Nest for a little nightcap, unless anyone had to be somewhere . . . and he thought Finch might drop out at this point but he was okay and the four of them trekked over there.
By now Kay was intrigued by Finch herself, letting on at dinner when she found out Finch was a writer that she’d gotten her AA in English at Great Basin College in Elko, before doing her nursing stuff at UNR.
It was crowded in the Nest, a Saturday night after all, and there were two small tables open, different sides of the room, and Kay was happy to continue on with Finch and Chris sat with Holly.
“Good way for an old guy to get women,” he said. “Just be a mysterious writer. Fake it, even.”
Holly smiled and said, “I’ve seen it work with puppies.” Chris had seen that too, some guy on a park bench with a puppy, getting inundated by women of all persuasions.
He said, “Speaking of which . . . you’ve got this yacht broker dude. But you’re always available.”
“That’s the way we both like it,” she said, no clarification, and that was fine.
“I know I cut you off on this before,” Chris said, “but I’m still interested in your investigative reporting, the Finch’s motel incident . . . Don’t get all long-winded, I’m not saying, but how ‘bout the condensed version.”
“Well,” Holly said, “it turned out the couple-in-question’s car might have been somewhere else, when the assault occurred.”
“No I got all that. And there was a name Finch said he overheard them using the night before, when they were arguing in the lobby.”
“Yes. Roland.”
“So let’s not go backwards,” Chris said. “Start with the part where you uncovered something a little bit disturbing, as you put it.”
“Ah. Well, I don’t know what I have. And frankly my investigation -- such as it was -- it seems to have stalled. The disturbing part was simply . . . I did find a Roland Villanueva, long story short. He seemed willing to talk, that he had an axe to grind, possibly in relation to the event . . . So I met him in South Central, which made me nervous, even during the day, so I brought a photographer with me, not to take pictures but for security.”
“Hmm.”
“Exactly . . . And Roland was a creepy individual, tattoos all over his neck and head that looked homemade. He didn’t give me anything I could use for the case, but told me to come back any time, that he wanted to fuck me . . . Again, I don’t speak this way, I’m just repeating it for accuracy’s sake.”
“That’s not good,” Chris said.
“No. When we got back, a senior reporter suggested I go to the police, which I did. Roland is a known felon it turns out, though currently not in violation of anything.”
“Cripes . . . and that was the extent you got out of Law Enforcement?”
“Initially. They simply suggested not to contact him further . . . Then the phone calls started, unfortunately.”
“Oh no.”
“Not quite that bad -- not on my cell or anything -- but during normal business hours at the office. The paper.”
“You’re gonna tell me you talked to the cops again then.”
“Yes. A female officer, very pleasant, she took on my case, so to speak. She recommended a restraining order.”
“I have to tell you,” Chris said, “you’re not giving me a lot of confidence here.”
“Sorry about that. I felt there were pros and cons of a restraining order, plus the hassle, and maybe making a bigger deal out of this than necessary.”
“Or maybe not,” Chris said, not remotely having a good feeling about this -- and now . . . not about the poor guitar gal up north’s situation either.
“So my boyfriend and I -- and yes, we do speak -- we decided to keep it simple. If Roland called me three more times, even leaving messages, I’d go for the restraining order . . . and involve an outside private investigator as well, was my boyfriend’s suggestion.”
“Good idea, the outside guy. Do that anyway.”
“He called twice more.”
“That’s it? . . . So no . . . response triggered?”
“No.”
“When was the last one?”
Holly said, “You ask an awful lot of questions, actually. At least a month ago. I’ve moved on. As I say, I may be nowhere on the story.”
“Fuck the story,” Chris said. “Stay out of the way of dangerous idiots.”
“That’s kind of what my editor suggested. To let the LA Times -- and the police -- figure out what happened at Finch’s motel. That I don’t have to be a hero.”
“You don’t,” Chris said.
And they got onto other subjects, Chris inquiring about her novel again and if Finch was helping, and Holly said oh yes very much so, and she’s trying to talk Finch into starting an informal writing class.
“How’d he react to that?” Chris said.
“He pretended he wasn’t interested, but I think a lightbulb may have sparked.”
“He should . . . I might take that even.”
“Oh you absolutely should,” she said.
“I’m joking. Jeez.”
“I’m totally serious,” Holly said. “You have a ton of stories in you, I can tell. You may not know how to express yourself, but that’s what a teacher is for . . . Look at this, for instance.”
And you had Kay and Finch on the other side of the joint, Finch holding court and talking the whole time and using his hands, and Kay looking like she was hanging on every word, which Holly’d been doing earlier.
“I’ll be honest,” Chris said after a minute. “I thought I might get somewhere with her -- we had a past connection that showed promise -- but I’m outclassed big-time.”
“You have your good points,” Holly said.
“Well . . . if the marriage or boyfriendship, or whatever you got going with the yacht broker from Armonk, ever goes south . . . let me know.”
“Something tells me,” she said, “you’ve used that line more than once.”
“Oh yeah,” Chris said.
Eventually everyone wrapped it up, no Ned or Rosie in here tonight, so far, so you didn’t have to over-socialize, and Chris got Kay home safely and when he got back to the apartment it was half past midnight . . . not too late maybe, and he called Chandler.
Chapter 14
“Did I wake you?” Chris said.
“What do you think,” came the mumble from Chandler.
“Listen . . . I’m not going to waste time apologizing . . . this, or the other ways you’ve been helping me out.”
“But?” Chandler said.
“Okay. Something happened tonight. Not an event, but a discussion . . . and nothing to do with my phone call earlier, that Lucchesi guy stopping by.”
“Lucchessian,” Chandler said, “and I assumed as much. Spit your new thing out.”
“Welp . . . there’s someone up north, I think she’s in trouble. At the very least, on the edge of it. And may not be coming to grips . . . Some incarcerated SOB is contacting her. Or was.”
“Randomly?”
“Yeah. She’s like a crafts person. There’s shit online unfortunately . . . It didn’t seem as big a deal, until I ran across someone tonight, something similar happening to them . . . Got me thinking I downplayed the first issue.”
“You . . . being the key person who downplayed it.”
“That’s it.”
“Hmm.”
“It sounds goofy, I know,” Chris said. “What I’m asking you, what I’m hoping . . . you can provide the name and b
asics on the individual . . . as well as the incarceration status.”
“How should I know?” Chandler said.
“You’re playing with me, and I know it’s not the most pleasant task -- but if you can look into, I’ll really appreciate it.”
Chris gave him Gilda Spinnaker, and that she said she filed a police report 6 months ago . . . and that this likely would have been in Marin County.
You could hear Chandler taking a note. “That do anything?” he said.
“She said it stopped it. Nothing since .”
A slight pause. “I wouldn’t take that to the bank,” Chandler said.
“No,” Chris said.
***
Chris met Kay for breakfast on Sunday and they kept it local, downtown Long Beach, and she brought along Alvin, Chris figuring this was the ‘girlfriend’ she was staying with, but it turned out Alvin was the girlfriend’s roommate, and a flaming gay guy, very candid, who said he was crucified growing up in Fallon, Nevada, and got a new lease on life moving out here in the ‘90s.
The guy was decent company, plenty of enthusiasm and when he asked you a question he listened attentively, unlike most doofuses these days with the electronic withdrawal symptoms kicking in at about the 30 second mark of your answer.
Kay on the other hand didn’t look great. Chris hadn’t been privy to what she may have consumed last night in the Crow’s Nest, but he asked her how that went.
“I love that man Finch,” she said. “He encouraged me to start writing. And to email him my work. Can you believe it? . . . Except he couldn’t remember his email address, but he said to ask you.”
“There’s a pattern there,” Chris said, and his phone buzzed and he excused himself for a moment.
“Okay what we have,” Chandler said, “white male, 32 years old, repeat offender, sentenced to 6 years at Lovelock, Nevada. Aggravated assault . . . You know where that is?”
“Yeah. A little shy of Winnemucca. Isn’t the where your friend ended up?” This was getting off topic quick, but Chandler had once consulted for the defense during the OJ Simpson trial, and that a-hole, for some other infraction in Las Vegas later, spent a bunch of years there.
“So you know it. But it’s irrelevant, he was released last July. Not Simpson, your guy.”
“Fuck.”
“He did 4 1/2 of the 6 . . . what can I tell you.”
“So . . . where is he now?” Chris said. “And who is he?”
“My contact didn’t know for sure, but the guy’s hometown is Cook Creek, Montana. Even though he transgressed in Nevada.”
“Thanks . . . and a name on the guy?”
“William White, is who your friend reported on.”
“Holy Smokes.” Bill White. Could the guy have a more vanilla name.
“Is that it?” Chandler said.
“Hey, man,” Chris said, trying to add the right measure of appreciation without sounding sappy . . . but Chandler had hung up.
***
Chris said to Kay, as he slowed down for the exit. “I typically like to stop in Colfax. Distance seems about right, before you have to start up Donner Summit. How about you?’
“I’d never thought about it,” she said.
“One time,” Chris said, “now mind you this is beginning in the Bay Area, not LA, but still -- I rented a car, a compact to save a few bucks, but I thought it would be a reasonable size. When the rental guy produces it, it’s one of those micro jobs, with the tiny wheels? I mean a couple gym guys who pump iron could pick it up and move it.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Kay said.
“The point being, I drove it, Petaluma where I used to live, straight shot to right here, Colfax, and I topped it off and it cost me 5 dollars and change. That was like 3 and a half hours of highway driving.”
“That’s impressive,” she said.
“You’re moody,” he said. “It’s been fun though, for the most part.”
“I guess it has. What’s your story anyway? I never asked.”
“Now you’re going weird on me.”
“I’m serious. Why you ran out of the hospital in the middle of the night and such. It didn’t seem appropriate to follow up.”
“So you answered your own question . . . Let’s stay in touch, you never know.”
And they gassed it up and Chris grabbed a couple slim jims from the mini mart and Kay thanked him and ate hers, but conversation was minimal the rest of the way to Reno.
And whoa . . . dropping her off, her neighborhood, this felt uncannily close to where the guy clocked him with the fireplace log.
A couple of you take cares, and Chris continued east toward Wells, three quarters of the way across the state actually . . . and from there you’d cut off onto old US 93, one of those two-lanes he never liked . . . and then at Twin Falls you had 86 to Blackfoot, and finally I-15 north into Montana, and luckily Cook’s Creek wasn’t that far in, situated on the edge of the Beaverhead National Forest in the southwest quadrant of the state.
You had to tell Kay something of course, why you had to leave bright and early Monday morning -- and that you could give her a lift if she wanted -- and it was you had an old friend in Pocatello you were paying a visit to -- and Chris hated to lie, but maybe you could stretch the truth, stop in Pokey on the way back, since he did like it there.
Google maps showed 10 hours and 28 minutes from Reno to Cook’s Creek, and if the mutant wasn’t there, that wouldn’t be fun . . . but you did what you had to do. That meant an overnight somewhere unfortunately and it was after 4 when he dropped Kay, but hey, try to go halfway at least, and he pushed it a little better than that, 7 hours to Burley, getting in around midnight, and he woke up at 4 for some unknown reason, and that was it . . . the good thing being you might as well get in the car . . . and he rolled into Cook’s Creek around 8.
It was a working town, things were buzzing, you had the impression people went to bed early and got up early and handled their business.
You might as well start simple, and the breakfast place had an old fashioned pay phone booth, the wooden one you went in and accordioned the door closed and a light came on and you had your privacy. And hanging in the bracket below was a paper phone directory, Loggerhead County, and everything was in good shape . . . and this was why Chris admired towns like this, they didn’t need to be replacing stuff left and right, because people didn’t mess stuff up.
You had a Trevor White in Dustin, a Angus F. White in Melrose, a Potter and Ethyl White in Parango . . . and a Werner White right here in Cook’s Creek.
This wasn’t the greatest sign right now, no specific William, but you might as well call and find out . . . and of course Chris caught himself, even from a pay phone you were taking a risk, such as the guy might have caller ID for starters . . . but the lack of sleep and the dragging his ass out here period didn’t have him in the greatest mood, and he figured you could dance around a few of these rules he’d imposed on himself the last year, couldn’t you? As long as you exercised reasonable judgment.
So he dropped in the fifty cents and a woman answered and Chris said was Bill there, and she said no, he was at work and could she help him . . . and he made a snap decision, that yes please, it was Ike Randall from the Lovelock Correctional Parole Board conducting a welfare check.
The woman hesitated, and said he’d be home at 5:30 and she’ll be sure to inform him, and Chris said thanks, nothing urgent, just routine, and please have a nice day.
So you established that -- what do you know -- and now you had the day to figure out what exactly to do about this prick.
People were super-friendly in Cook’s Creek, he had to admit, and one old guy he met in the town square was telling him fishing stories, throwing in some Grizzly scares for good measure, and it was all interesting. Both the stories and the guy -- who you’d label a throwback to simpler times, except Chris suspected all the old guys were like that around here.
There were three motels in town and he’d checke
d into one and parked way in the back, for whatever it was worth, since no point flashing the California plates in the face of everyone who passed by. From the motel you could almost walk everywhere, and he put it together that the White people’s house was 14 blocks from where he was talking to the old guy -- so not a stroll in the park exactly but you might as well mosey on over there in a while . . . see what’s going on, get your bearings . . . at least size this one up.
The thing being, they were all different. There was no best approach, best timing, best method -- none of that. You’d assume you’d learn, one to the next, but it didn’t work like that.
Chris had the Czechpoint in the right pocket of his jacket just in case, and around 5 he had to cut the old guy off in the middle of another story -- except it was pretty clear you didn’t do that around here -- not that anyone was going to hold it against you, but the point being everyone had time for everyone else, and this guy would have certainly have let you complete your story, and then some -- so you give the man his due and hear him out.
Making it about 5:20 when Chris left the square, and you didn’t want to run exactly but you wanted to move it -- so he shuffle-walked his way over there, and he could see he wasn’t going to make it by 5:30 but that might not matter, the main thing is you follow through . . . and at 3rd Street and Ravine, 2 and a half blocks from the White residence, the phone rings and it’s Chandler.
“You sound nervous,” Chris said. “Agitated at the very least. Slow down.”
It was out of character for Chandler to be anxious, unless he was on the tennis court. The guy prided himself on keeping things smooth and organized and being in control.
“Where are you?” Chandler said.
Chris thought around the corner from the guy might be too descriptive so he said, “I’m in the ballpark. Loggerhead County. Why do you ask?”
“Okay stop,” Chandler said. “Whatever you’re doing, halt right in your tracks . . . . Thank God.”
“What?”
“I heard from my guy again. A revision on your guy, it turns out.”
“Huh?”
“We had the wrong William White. The correct mope was hassling your friend from Folsom, not Lovelock . . . That facility. Up the delta.”