“What do you think?” she asked.
“Dunno. Anything’s possible.”
“Allie can’t be involved with Reinhart,” she said in a voice that lacked conviction.
“She was hooking.”
“I know.”
“And she was working casinos where there’s money and a different clientele than you’d find on Lakeside or Fourth Street, so there’s a possibility there.”
“I know.”
I didn’t know what else to say. Sarah got out a textbook and said, “I can’t think about that right now. I’m going to study.”
Which she did, all the way to Gerlach—God bless those nerd genes. She got in there and seriously wrestled with eigenstuff, which was more than I could’ve done even if I had the slightest idea what that stuff was. I’ve always found structural dynamics boring.
We arrived in Gerlach that afternoon at three twenty. I parked the Audi beside my Toyota and we sat there in silence for a moment.
“Got any reason to stay the night?” Sarah asked.
“Not that I can see.”
“Guess I’ll go back to Reno then. I need to keep studying, and I probably ought to give it a rest for a while—I mean, the way I’ve been around you. Although,” she added, “it’s been a blast.”
“Uh-huh,” said the master of repartee.
“Seriously, Mort. Allie couldn’t be involved.”
“Even so, I wouldn’t run any of it past anyone, like the police or the FBI. Especially the FBI.”
She gave me a look. “Like I was going to.”
Not sure why I told her that. It just came out. Putting the FBI on that trail might turn a whistle-stop carnival into a full-blown circus, with Sarah and me in the big tent, center ring. It might end up in the news. No telling how that would affect Allie, wherever she was, whatever was happening with her. It’s not like Sarah and I were withholding evidence in a murder investigation—for two reasons. One, that green SUV might be nothing at all, and two, no one knew if Reinhart was dead or alive. The lying sonofabitch might’ve shipped his own hand, he’s that fucking dishonest.
Sarah and I got out. She came around the car and got behind the wheel, then looked up at me. “See you back in Reno?”
“Yup. Especially now that you and Jeri have progressed to the telephone buddy stage.”
“Not just because of Jeri. And not only because of Allie, either. I’ll see you, too, I hope. You’re a good guy, Mort. You’re still going to try to find Allie, aren’t you?”
“Sure am.”
“I’ll be around. I want to help, if I can.” She hesitated. “Would a tiny little good-bye kiss be out of the question?”
“Probably not.”
I leaned in and got a lip press, a soft, warm peck that didn’t linger and didn’t have any discernable heat. Friends. Nice.
She backed the Audi out and sped away.
I watched her go, then went into the casino, sat at the bar, and ordered a sarsaparilla. Sweet and bitter, sort of medicinal, a hint of vanilla, hint of wintergreen. Dave wouldn’t be in for another two hours. The bartender on duty was a hefty gal in her midthirties in a Corti’s T-shirt, nice face, dark brown hair held back in a ponytail, smell of cigarettes around her whenever she got close.
“If you’re driving,” she said, pushing the sarsaparilla toward me, “I’ll have to cut you off at three of these.”
Smart-ass. Jeez, I hate smart-asses.
“Not to worry,” I smart-assed back. “Three of these and I’ll either be on the floor or swingin’ naked from the chandelier.”
She put her elbows on the bar and leaned closer. “I’m Cheryl. No one ever got fried on sas’prilla. But if you’ll do that chandelier thing, the next two’ll be on the house.”
“I’ll give it some thought.”
“You do that. Give me a little lead time if the urge strikes. My cell phone takes decent video. You could go viral.”
I was at the bar working on a second sarsaparilla when my cell phone rang. It was Jeri. She was the new national champion female powerlifter in her weight class.
She was almost giddy with happiness. “I did it! Omigod, Mort, I really did it! I mean, I thought maybe I could but I didn’t really know ’cause there’s this girl, Carla Neilson, who is really good, looks like a cement block, but I beat her by six pounds.”
“Wow! Super, Jeri! That’s great, terrific!”
She bounced all over the phone call for a few more minutes then settled down. “Where are you? Is Sarah there?”
“I’m in Gerlach. Sarah went back to Reno.”
“Oh. Well . . . why did she . . . ?”
“College, study. And she said something about giving it a rest.”
“Giving what . . . oh.”
“Yeah. That’s a bucket that can get pretty full.”
“You got, like, an eyeful, huh?”
“Plenty. So, you still getting back tomorrow? Southwest 1168 at nine thirty?”
“Yes. Oh, jeez, I can’t wait to see you. I’m still so high. First place was fifteen thousand dollars, and I got a big gold-plated belt buckle and a first-place ring and everything.”
“I can’t wait to see them. And you. Jeri?”
“Yeah?”
“How’s your engine?”
That stopped her for a few seconds, then: “It’s runnin’ hot.”
“Mine, too. Any chance of getting an earlier flight?”
“I don’t know. Want me to check?”
“Yes. If you can, do it. Spend some of that prize money. It’ll be worth it.”
“Okay. I’ll let you know. And, Mort?”
“Yup?”
“I love you.”
“Love you, too. Get that engine back here, huh? I’m about to throw a rod.”
“A rod, huh? That sounds serious. I’ll try.”
“Try hard.” I ended the call. Bartender Cheryl shoved another sarsaparilla at me and pointed at a deer-antler chandelier six feet above my head. “Got your trapeze ready,” she said. “I’ll hang onto your clothes.”
“Gotta give you a rain check on that. And I’ll take this sarsaparilla to go.”
“Well, shit.” She pouted. “Ain’t that just my luck.”
I arrived back in Reno at five forty-five. The day was still warm, sun a few hours above the Sierras. Jeri had called as I was near Fernley. She’d managed to get a red-eye flight out of Atlantic City that night at 9:15 Eastern. She was about to board the plane. With the change in time zones she would land in Reno at 12:35 a.m.
“Perfect time of night, kiddo,” I said.
“You’ll be still up?”
“I’m up now.”
“Well . . . keep it that way.”
We left it like that. Maybe this Holiday thing was working out. Maybe Jeri knew what the hell she was doing.
If I didn’t throw a rod in the process.
Coming out of the security barrier, Jeri slammed into me. Man, that felt good. And the kiss, and the supple, strong woman-stuff in my arms.
Really strong. During a hug she picked me up, all two hundred thirty pounds, which for her wasn’t hard but still felt weird. When she put me down I picked her up just to show off a little.
“Wow, Mort. You been workin’ out?” she said with her feet a foot off the ground, her face two inches from mine.
“Shows, does it?”
“Let’s go home and find out how strong you really are.”
“Your place or mine?”
She made a face. “Mine. Yours is probably infested.”
Media and cops. Back in July, early August, my house was a media-infested nest, which is what it was again, or had been the last time I saw it. When I finally caught up with the person who sent me that package, there was going to be one more homicide in Nevada.
Never say things like that, by the way. Something out there in the dark hears every word.
In fact, there was never any doubt that we would end up at her place, second floor, in a king-size bed le
ss than a month old. We’d bought it in anticipation of a lifetime of good hard use together. It had a memory-foam mattress that can be something of a trampoline, which memory-foam isn’t supposed to do. That took place after a water-saving shower during which we got reacquainted with what it means to get wet, slippery, and naked, not in that order.
When pulse rates eased below eighty and I managed to get her left nipple out of my mouth, I said, “Say there, you’re a pretty hot little number.”
Her legs were wrapped around my waist. “Put that back in your mouth and do what you were doing. That felt really good.”
“Actually, I have a better idea.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s a little aerobic. If you’re exhausted from your flight, you’ll have to okay it.”
“Why don’t you just show me? If I don’t like it, we’ll put that nipple back where it was.”
“Well, okay, then, here, check this out, sugar plum.”
Her eyes widened. “Omigod, yes, that’s a much better idea.”
I am a god.
CHAPTER TEN
STARVATION DROVE US out of bed at ten forty-five that morning. Blood-sugar levels were reaching critical lows. Jeri and I still had a few interesting ideas worth trying out, but those would have to wait to be implemented in a manner worthy of their inventiveness.
I got out of bed hunched over, feeling like I’d been run over by a Mack truck. She weighs only a hundred thirty pounds to my two thirty, so my being a god might’ve been a slight exaggeration.
Breakfast was a five-egg omelet for me, a three-egg omelet for her, both of them loaded with three kinds of cheese and—sautéed in coconut oil—red and orange sliced peppers, diced ham, mushrooms, spinach, and pine nuts.
We sat at her dining table with a view of grass, trumpet vines, lavender, and a good-sized maple tree in her backyard. On the table was a championship belt buckle and a first-prize check for fifteen thousand dollars, of which Uncle Sam would want roughly four thousand for having been such a big help with her training. If she forgot, the IRS would make sure the transfer of funds took place in a timely fashion because the IRS is such a helpful organization, pretty much like your favorite aunt.
I held her hand and said, “I can see you naked on a bike in the streets of San Fran,” which was a terrific opening line, designed to get me back upstairs within the hour.
She smiled, looked me in the eye. “Pretty weird, huh?”
“Sure, but I can still see you on that bike, having the time of your life. You and Holiday.”
“You mean Sarah?”
“Nope. Holiday. That’s her name when she’s feeling her oats.”
Jeri looked down at her orange juice then back up. “So what’s my name when I’m like that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen you like that. I mean, in public, which is where the difference lies.”
She looked out the window. “I’ll think about it. If you come up with something fun, let me know.”
“Will do. So, now that we’ve got two critical hungers out of the way—”
“For now.”
“For now, yes, though I might have to run you back upstairs as soon as this food settles—just, you know, to top things off. But there’s something I think you should know about Reinhart and Sarah’s sister, Allie.”
She stared at me. “The way you said Reinhart and Allie . . .”
Sharp.
“There might be a connection.”
She tilted her head, waiting for more. So I laid it out, the phone call from Allie when Holiday and I were in the Green Room, the Mercedes SUV at Gerlach with a young girl in the passenger seat and a thirty-something woman driving, the package shipped from Bend, old Fred Meyer checking out girls with binoculars and the SUV stopping at the drop box, a young, pretty girl that looked a lot like Allie getting out, putting a package in the same box Reinhart’s hand was left in, an older woman driving that SUV.
“Jesus, Mort.”
“Yeah. I oughta wear a cape.”
“Not that. What I mean is, what a pile of coincidences.”
“It’s a pile, all right.”
“The girl got out, put the package in that box, so it’s not like she was being held prisoner or anything.” Jeri stood up. “C’mon.”
“Where to?”
“Computer.”
I guessed our new bed was going to be put on hold for a few. Jeri had that PI look, the kind of focus I’d seen on Sarah’s face when she was studying and everything else was put on a back burner.
Jeri turned on her computer.
“What’re you lookin’ for, honey bun?” I asked, trying to show interest since I’m a PI in training as well as a love object.
The honey bun thing didn’t faze her, didn’t slow her down, so this was serious. “A green Mercedes SUV?” she said. “That deputy said it wasn’t a year old. A G550, right? He would know. There can’t be a lot of those around.”
She got into the DMV database, typed in the information, and sat there staring at the screen.
“How long does this usually take?” I asked.
“Depends.”
Which meant it was one of those experience things. This was what that ten thousand hours of training was supposed to hone to a razor edge. I sat on a hard wooden chair and stared at the screen with her, honing that razor.
A list appeared on the computer monitor. Jeri hit keys and the list reordered itself. “Registered owners,” she said, peering at it. She read off several names: “Eikelberger, Harris, Newcomb, Odermann, Quist, Roberts, Shaw, Szupello, Williams. Did you run across any of those names in Gerlach or Bend with Holiday? Any of them look familiar?”
“Nope.”
“Me either.” She sat there looking at the screen, lips pursed.
“Dead end?”
“You kiddin’? We’re just getting started.”
Well, hell, I didn’t have a thousand hours of training yet. This was going to take a while. My education, that is.
Jeri concentrated on the screen. “Whatcha doing?” I asked.
“Looking at addresses.”
She read them off. “Any of them mean anything to you?”
“Nope.” It was Nevada DMV, so the list was from all over the state. Over half were from Las Vegas, which figured.
Jeri pursed her lips. “Okay. Now, we have to dig deeper. Maybe none of these are that SUV, but we don’t know. If it was from out of state, especially California, then we’re probably screwed. Okay, next up are legal owners, lien holders, which, since that Mercedes was almost new, might mostly be banks, credit unions, Mercedes corporation financing.”
Which they were, with a few exceptions. But none of that felt like it was getting us any closer to who was driving that SUV.
Jeri leaned back, frowning.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Now . . . I guess I’ve got to pull out the big gun.”
“Now you’re talkin’.”
She smiled at me. “You don’t have any idea what the big gun is, do you?”
I looked down at myself. “Hell, yes. What do you think we were—?”
“Oh, jeez. Holiday really wound you up, didn’t she?”
“Not so you’d notice. Well, maybe a little.”
“Not just maybe. I’ll have to meet her in person. We can do something about your gun later, but right now, the big gun is Ma Clary.”
“Ma Clary?”
“Maude, but you’ll end up calling her Ma like everyone else. If you don’t, she’ll have your kidneys for breakfast.”
“You don’t sound like you’re kidding.”
“I’m not. You’ll see.”
It was Sunday, so Maude Clary was in a housecoat when we got there. She had a beer in one hand, cigarette in the other. She lived in a three-story house on Arlington, south of California Avenue, half a mile from downtown Reno. The third floor was all dormer windows so the rooms up there would have mostly sloped ceilings. Two other women about the same age liv
ed with her. One was a widowed sister, Agnes Villars, the other a tenured political science professor at the university, Colleen Pesarik.
Ma was a fireplug—five four, a hundred eighty-five pounds, with substantial low-slung breasts, a forty-two-inch waist, and a demeanor that suggested where Jeri had gotten hers—that pit bull attitude I’d experienced the day Jeri and I first met. Temperament like that is often transferred via a kind of osmosis. Maude was sixty-one, thirty-two years older than Jeri. She was Jeri’s mentor while Jeri was working on her PI license. Funny it had never occurred to me to ask Jeri who’d trained her. Guess we were having too much fun in that new bed after I’d convalesced. In fact, considering that naked bike ride thing that was in the works, Jeri and I still had quite a bit of that gettin’-to-know-you stuff to talk about.
Ma was the Big Gun. In the first minute I had her pegged as a .44 Magnum. Even a licensed PI needs professional help every once in a while. Ma was a PI with an office downtown, as I found out later—Clary Investigations. She’d been in the business thirty-five years and had contacts and sources in the community like the roots of a banyan tree. She’d done favors, made friends, and evidently had the goods on a few folks in the city’s and county’s law enforcement agencies and the DA’s office, not to mention down at the state legislature in Carson City. Later I discovered she had a few useful friends whose livelihoods weren’t strictly legal.
Ma looked me over. “Couldn’t see how tall he was on TV,” she said to Jeri. “From down here, he’s a big’n.”
“I’m even shorter. You should see him from here.”
“I’d like to see him from down there,” Ma said, “but you two’re engaged.”
“Hey, there’s another person in this room,” I said.
“Who happens to be the topic of conversation, doll,” Ma said. “Get used to it.” She took a pull on her beer, and it was only a few minutes past noon.
Pit bull.
Bare feet flapping in mules, Ma led us into a sitting room. It had a six-thousand-dollar chandelier and wickedly ornate cream and burgundy velveteen wallpaper, which, against all odds and logic, wasn’t hideous. The house was huge, five bedrooms, four baths, but it was home to three women, so I thought it had to be huge to avoid trouble. Suppositions like that are going to hang me up at the Pearly Gates, I just know it.
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