“What the hell, Mort!”
“Problem?”
“What’re you doing?”
“Room’s only got one bed.”
“And that’s a problem because . . . ?”
“I’m engaged, that’s—”
“Who said we were gonna like . . . do anything? Which, I can tell you, promise you, we’re not.”
Well, she had me there. Voluptuous mostly naked girl in the only bed in the room—who was I to infer anything from that? But in fact no one had said anything about how that was supposed to play out, so I said, gently, “Go to bed, Sarah. Sleep. I’ll be fine.”
Calling her “Sarah” softened her expression. “Dammit, Mort. You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes I do.”
She stared at me for a moment, then turned and went back to the room, closed the door. I breathed a sigh of relief as I pulled the car door shut. I am a pig, and therefore susceptible.
I shut my eyes, settled in.
Night sounds burbled around me, distant voices, a truck rolled by on the highway. A motel door opened and closed nearby.
Holiday-Sarah opened the driver’s-side door and got in fully dressed, blanket in hand.
“Hi,” she snapped.
“Hi yourself. Now get out.”
“It’s my car. I’ll stay if I want.”
She had me there again. “Okay, then. Night. Sleep tight.”
“Night . . . jerk.”
She settled in with the blanket. I settled in with my eyes wide open. Sonofabitch.
Five minutes later she said, “Mort?”
“What?”
“This is unbelievably stupid.”
“When you’re right, you’re right.”
“We’ve got a room. It has an actual, real bed. I promise I won’t touch you. I mean it.”
Goddamn Audis weren’t as roomy or as comfortable as their advertisements made out. Not when you’re well over six feet tall. I couldn’t stretch my legs out. By morning I wouldn’t be able to walk. By morning I was going to be homicidal and I had a gun under the car seat. Everyone in town was going to be at risk. But that room twenty feet away had a shower, which would feel mighty good. The door to the bathroom had a lock. Good solid lock. And the bed was a queen. Big enough for two, no touching. She’d promised.
You listening, Jeri?
I got out. Holiday-Sarah got out. I went to the room. Holiday-Sarah followed. I opened the door, let her go in ahead of me, closed it behind us, sleepwalked into the bathroom and locked the door, good solid lock like I thought, stripped, got in the shower, turned on the water, closed my eyes, let water drum on my neck and shoulders.
So much for logistics. So much for my Big Plan.
Sonofabitch.
Neon lighting seeped through a crack in the drapes as I came out in jeans and a shirt, no shoes, and crawled into bed.
“Mort?”
“Yeah?”
“You always sleep fully dressed?”
“Only on special occasions—and for the record, I took my shoes off so I’m not fully dressed.”
“Well, I’m glad to know this is a special occasion and you’re not wearing shoes, but I meant what I said, in case . . . you know . . . you can’t sleep in all those clothes.”
“Thanks. You’re a peach.”
“I couldn’t do it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I couldn’t sleep two minutes, dressed up like I was going to the mall. I’d be awake all night.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Just so you know.”
“I had that figured out twenty minutes ago.”
“Well, okay then. Just so you know. Night.”
“Night.”
Five minutes went by.
This entire debacle was all about finding Allie, Holiday’s sister. Twenty minutes ago in the bar I might’ve caught a glimpse of her through Deputy Roup’s eyes. It might’ve been her in that green SUV. Maybe Hank at the Texaco station would—
“Anyway,” Holiday broke in. “Here we are.”
“Yep. Here we sure as hell are. I thought if you weren’t wearing an excess of clothes you could get to sleep without all this ruckus.”
“What? This is a ruckus?”
“Feels like it.”
“Well, usually I can. Sleep, I mean.”
“Give it the old college try. Remember you’re a senior now, not a freshman. Night.”
“Yeah, night.”
Sonofabitch.
Thing is, it’s a big world. It could’ve been anyone in that SUV Roup had seen. But Allie had called a little before eight and said she was in Gerlach, and Roup said he’d seen that Mercedes right about then. But if it wasn’t Allie, then we were back to square—
“Mort?”
“What?”
“Can I tell you something?”
“Might’s well. I’m having a hell of a time gettin’ to sleep over here.”
“It’s kind of personal.”
“Due to an unused Ph.D. I got in psychology years ago I’ll let you know if I have to bill you for the time, but go ahead.”
“I . . . I really like it when you look at me.”
A rolling tremor went through me. “Well, I guess that’s the way it is with some people.” Incredibly lame response, Doc, but to get some sleep I thought I might have to knock her out. Wasn’t sure how to do it without incurring an assault charge, bringing the law into it. I’d have to give it some thought.
She sighed. “I just wanted you to know. You know, in case you thought I didn’t like you peeking at me or anything.”
“Peeking? Me?”
“You know, seeing me, maybe feeling guilty. I wouldn’t want you to feel like that ’cause, you know, I really don’t mind.”
“Got it. Night.”
“Night.” Sigh.
Sonofabitch.
Thoughts about this search for Allie were getting bulldozed off a cliff. I stared at the ceiling, trying to peer through estrogen fog filling the room like tear gas. The ceiling was a thousand pinpoints of light from that textured popcorn shit they spray on. It gave off glints that might’ve been from little bits of mica mixed in with the crud, something like that. I would have to ask someone, find out—
“Mort?”
“What?”
“If I accidentally touch you—’cause it would be an accident—I wouldn’t want you to think it was intentional. It’s just—sometimes I kinda toss in my sleep. Well, not just me. Lots of people do.”
“Mind if I ask you something, Sarah?”
“What?”
“How is it you’re almost twenty-five? Most college seniors are about twenty-one, maybe twenty-two.”
She turned toward me and propped her head up on an elbow. “I was in the Peace Corps for two years. In Peru.”
“Peace Corps? I thought that was only for college grads.”
“Mostly, but not always. I did it after my sophomore year, after I’d taken most of my math and some engineering courses. And I didn’t start college until I was nineteen. I spent the first year out of high school as an aide in a nursing home. It was where my grandma was staying when she broke a hip.”
The good girl. Miss Perfect. Studious Sarah, doing the right thing. Sarah, who’d come across Holiday hiding in a closet inside herself and turned her loose at night. A vamp, but not a vampire. At least I hoped so. I would never be able to explain puncture wounds and blood loss to Jeri.
“Peace Corps,” I said. “That’s good.”
“It was, yes. I enjoyed my time there. I met a lot of really nice, friendly people. I spent most of my time helping build a big earthen dam. I even ran a D6 Caterpillar tractor for almost half a year. It was huge, weighed about eighteen tons.”
“You did that?”
“Uh-huh. Wore a hard hat and an orange vest and everything. I must’ve pushed a hundred thousand cubic yards of dirt around.”
“Well, hell. I’m impressed.”
“Thanks. You seriously gonna sl
eep in all those clothes?”
“Yup.”
“I’m sorry. I feel bad about that.”
“Don’t.”
“Well, I promise I won’t touch you or anything. Just in case you get uncomfortable and can’t sleep like that.”
“Good to know. I’ll keep it in mind. Might write it on a Post-it and stick it on my forehead.”
“Hey! I mean it.”
“Uh-huh. Good night, Sarah.”
“Yeah, fine. Good night.”
Two minutes later:
“Mort?”
“Yeah?”
“A sword wound? You weren’t kidding?”
“A foil, actually. That’s a thin sword. In my chest, all the way through and out my back. It was that psycho girl, Winter.”
“Jeez. Real bitch, huh?”
“She was, yeah. I ended up killing her.”
Silence.
So I got about three hours’ half-assed sleep, which put me in a nice surly mood when daylight started to brighten the room. The girl beside me, Sarah or Holiday, not sure which, slept peacefully—of course, since she wasn’t twisted up in a bunch of clothes. But I’d made it through the night without irreversible damage, so I was going to be able to look myself in the mirror without having to snarl at a mangy cur staring back at me.
I got up without waking her, put on shoes, then slipped out the door into the new day. The sun was still behind the hills in the east, the sky over there turning a purple-blue color. Every vehicle outside was filmed with dust. A faint smell of coffee was in the air, wafting from the restaurant. It pulled me over through the morning chill and through the door, sat me at a table, and ordered a cup of itself while I tried to wake up, yawning, starting to feel amazed and pleased with myself that I’d slept three whole hours next to Holiday-Sarah who happened to be female and mostly or entirely naked, not sure which. I was a gumshoe with the self-control of a saint. I was a gumshoe like no other.
Sonofabitch.
Surly.
A cup of coffee and my eyes began to focus. I saw a clock. The time was 5:08. I hadn’t been up that early in months. Half-hidden in an alcove by the cash register I saw T-shirts hanging on a rack that I hadn’t noticed last night. I got up and ambled over, bought a white one with the words “Corti’s Casino, Gerlach, Nevada” on the front in blue letters, utterly generic—ten bucks. I marched it over to the motel room, opened the door, tossed it on the bed, then walked back to the casino.
Two more cups of coffee gave me time to glance at the first few pages of a day-old newspaper abandoned on a nearby table. There was more about the fire in Jayson Wexel’s house that had killed him—Wexel was Senator Reinhart’s chief of staff, which was the only reason he wasn’t buried on page eighteen. Nothing gets by those wunderkinds at the Gazette-Journal. The fire was either an accident or murder—apparently that was still up in the air. Then Sarah came in. The new T-shirt was tight as a drum across her chest and looked mighty full. No bra, but at least the shirt didn’t plunge. She looked about as normal as a girl with her figure can get in a shirt one size too small—a fact I was about to find out. She set yesterday’s FedEx package on the table in front of me and sat. “Thanks for the shirt, Mort. It’s a size too small. You eaten yet?”
Great. Another of my failings—I can’t figure women’s sizes in clothing. I set the newspaper aside. “Nope. Just coffee. And, hey, look, you brought in the mail.”
“I’m starving.” She slid the package an inch closer. “Open it. If it’s from your mom, it might be cookies.”
“From my mom it’ll either be a book or an RPG.”
“An RPG?”
“Rocket-propelled grenade. Mom’s a corker.”
She laughed.
I checked the label on the package. I didn’t recognize the return address, which was Abe Handy on Hacksaw Road, Reno.
I pulled out my cell phone and took a few photographs of the shipping label, got close-ups of both addresses.
“What’d you do that for?” Sarah asked.
“What you just observed was a month and a half of PI training poppin’ right out of the core of my soul. I can’t turn it off.” And the fact that the package was sent to me on Ralston Street without a street address, that popped out, too. Whoever sent it didn’t have my house number. Interesting. Guess it wasn’t mom, so it wouldn’t be an RPG, which would’ve been fun out there in the desert.
Sarah rolled her eyes.
I pulled the tab on the package and zipped it open, lifted the flap, took out something wrapped in bubble wrap. A piece of paper on top read: “Shake the hand of an honest politician.”
Right away, I didn’t like the looks of that.
I peeled the bubble wrap off, got down to something rolled in a few layers of clear Saran wrap.
Aw shit, no.
CHAPTER SIX
SARAH STARED AT it, eyes widening, then she jumped up with a yelp. “Omigod! What is that?”
Heads turned. Still early, but there were half a dozen people in the place and her voice was shrill. She backed away, bumped into a chair occupied by a guy in his fifties in a camo ball cap, camo shirt, boots, hunting knife on his belt.
By then I was on my feet, hoping the thing in plastic wasn’t real, wasn’t what it looked like. But I knew it was, because I’d been with the IRS long enough to have racked up karmic demerits by the truckload and this was what life had in store for me from now on.
“Sonofawhore,” I said, not really aware I’d said it.
The waitress who’d brought my coffee came over, frowned at the thing on the table, then said, “Aagggh,” and backed away, face white. A little pinkish slime was visible through the plastic, and a palm, thumb, fingers, fingernails, even a bit of dark hair between the knuckles.
But I’ve gotten used to this sort of thing—finding body parts, that is—so I recover faster than your basic civilian. I was the first to drag out my phone and dial 911.
About then time got distorted, events tumbled over one another, but it didn’t seem long before Deputy Roup came charging through the door with his gun on his hip, holster unsnapped.
I pointed at the thing in Saran wrap. He took a closer look, then stared at me. “What the hell, Mortimer?”
“Mort.”
“What—who—whose is it?”
“Mine, since it was sent to me.”
He stared at me. “I mean, whose hand was it?”
I indicated the note on the table. “Might be a clue there. You probably shouldn’t touch it though,” I added helpfully.
He glared at me, then squinted at the note, then at me. “What’s that mean?”
I nodded at the disgusting thing. “My guess—and this’s just a guess, mind you, so don’t get excited—that’s the shakin’ part of our missing senator, Harry J. Reinhart.” I let that gel for five seconds, then said, “Am I good, or what?”
I don’t think Roup cared for the comment, but he’d been a cop for thirty-plus years and he hadn’t eaten yet, so he called it in to the county mounties down in Reno, then we sat at an adjoining table and had breakfast. He and I did, anyway, the Hunter’s Special—three eggs any style, thick slab of ham, hash browns, buttered toast with jam, enough coffee to float a kayak. Sarah picked at a bowl of fruit with a greenish pallor on her face. Other than her shirt, she didn’t look much like the Holiday I’d come to know in the past . . . what? Ten hours? Jesus H. Christ, this gumshoe-dame thing was like riding a rocket sled.
Roup yawned. He caught my look.
“Long damn night,” he said. “Fire was reported in the hills up north, west of the highway. Travel trailer went up, eight or ten miles in from the road. Old rig, small, fourteen feet long. I was thinking it belonged to a hunter, but no truck was around, nothing to pull it, and it didn’t have plates, so now I don’t know. Thing’s probably cool enough now to go back, try to find a VIN number.” He yawned again.
Hank Waldo came in at 5:53 and had the waitress fill a thermos with coffee. Her hand shook, but she
got the job done. Deputy Roup waved Hank over and he took a chair, sixty-six years old, grizzled, oil and dirt on his boots, hair white, nose bulbous, teeth yellow with age and neglect, half a dozen of them missing in front, which made him look like a pumpkin I’d carved when I was ten.
“Remember that Mercedes yesterday?” Roup asked him, hands cupped around his coffee mug. “Green SUV?”
Texaco Hank nodded. “Sure. Third or fourth time it’s been by this month.”
That got my attention. Made it more likely I’d seen it last night when I left the casino.
“You see a girl inside?” Roup asked. “Passenger side.”
At that, Sarah perked up, started listening. A girl?
Hank shrugged. “Saw one, yeah.”
“Remember her hair color? How old she was? Anything?”
“Don’t pay much notice to girls these days, but she looked like jailbait. Thing is, I ain’t shit for ages anymore. Edie over there”—he nodded toward the waitress—“she looks like jailbait to me, an’ she’s thirty-five.” He sipped his coffee, then his eyes got sly. “If I went over there and honked one of her hooters, you’d arrest me, wouldn’t you?”
“Probably have to, Hank. If she yelled and filed charges. Which I’m thinkin’ she would.”
“There you go. Jailbait, like I said.”
Deputy Roup grinned. “How about the woman with that girl? She would’ve been the one outside, pumping gas.”
Hank looked up at the ceiling, gave that some thought. “Had a city look to ’er, but who else’d drive a car like that?”
“How old was she?”
“Who knows? Coulda been thirty, forty. Tall lady, but prissy lookin’, if you know what I mean. Had that look anyways.”
“Do you have video surveillance at the station?” I asked.
Hank looked at me, then shook his head. “Nope. Got no use for useless complicated shit. Don’t have the time. Never needed nothin’ like it, neither.”
“Which way’d they go when they left?”
“Down south.”
Back toward Fernley, Reno, Las Vegas, Mexico—at about eight p.m., and I might’ve seen it at about ten thirty, same night, also headed south. Which didn’t make sense. Maybe he was mistaken, or maybe there was more than one dark Mercedes SUV in the area. Didn’t seem likely, but stuff happens.
Gumshoe for Two Page 6