I called Corti’s Motel from Jeri’s place, told ’em I’d keep that reservation, then I got on the freeway, headed east.
North of Nixon the road was devoid of traffic. I scattered a few crows picking at roadkill on the way up, got to Empire at four p.m., reached the Texaco station in Gerlach seven minutes later. I pulled in and filled the tank, gave Hank Waldo forty bucks and got change.
“You see that Mercedes SUV again, Hank?” I asked.
“Nope.” He spat on the ground.
Good enough. Sometimes gumshoe work is quick and easy. I parked in front of the motel and walked over to the casino. Cheryl was tending bar and handling motel registration. She was still hefty, still pretty, still mid-thirties, still smelling of cigarettes.
“Sarsaparilla?” she said as I sat at the bar.
“What a memory. I’ll take the sarsaparilla, and you’re holding a room for me.”
She got the ’rilla first, pointed out the chandelier in case I’d forgotten, then pushed a motel registration form toward me. “Got you in fourteen,” she said. “I’ll be over later, about ten.”
My jaw dropped.
“Kidding,” she said. “I’m married. To Dave, who you might’ve met. The other bartender? He’ll be in in a couple of hours.”
“Yep. We’ve bumped knuckles.”
“Then you two’ve bumped more than he an’ I have this week.”
Jesus. I would have to quit talking to women.
I walked over to the motel with a room key and my drink, went inside, hauled a chair outside and sat, tilted back against the wall, and started to watch the highway.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HUNGER DROVE ME over to the restaurant at eight forty-five. The sun had been down for an hour and the night was quiet.
No green SUV. In fact, maybe one vehicle had gone by every ten or fifteen minutes, so it wasn’t like a Macy’s Parade. I hadn’t gotten anywhere, but I’d made an effort, I had been diligent, hadn’t fallen asleep, and all of that felt good.
Dave was at the bar when I went in. Cheryl was there, too, so I was careful since there was a grenade in the room and I didn’t know if anyone had pulled the pin.
Evidently not. Dave sent a dark draft my way, and I ordered up a medium-rare sirloin with a baked potato and a salad. I ate at the bar where I could keep an eye on the TV and keep the beer current and cold.
“Where’s the little lady?” Dave asked, wiping a glass.
“Reno.”
“Long way from here.”
“About nine minutes in that rocket car Andy Green drove in the Black Rock up here in ’97. Seven hundred sixty-three miles an hour.”
“Fast, yeah, but that thing doesn’t corner worth a shit.”
“Good point.”
“Still looking for that girl? What’s her name?”
“Allie. And, yes.”
“No one like that’s been in here lately.”
“Not sure I’d expect her to. She might’ve been in a Mercedes SUV, here in Gerlach and around.” I didn’t want to give away that Bend sighting. “I’ve been watching the highway from outside my motel room.”
“Yeah? I’d rather watch granite decompose.”
“Gettin’ that way myself,” I said as I downed the last bite of steak and pushed my plate away.
Another clip of Reinhart was on the TV. When a presidential candidate’s shaking hand turns up without the candidate, it makes for a real fine story, one with legs. Reinhart was still missing so it was looking like he was out of the race, although if he showed up he could count on the sympathy vote. I got another glimpse of Julia Reinhart, dodging cameras, dodging questions. Jayson Wexel got a solid thirty-second mention. The FBI was calling his death a murder now, and yellow-journalistic speculation sells beer and cars. Reinhart and Wexel had probably stabbed five hundred people in the back over the years, so the FBI ought to be hip-deep in suspects by now. I wondered if it was smart for Jeri, Ma, me, and now Sarah, to keep that green SUV away from them. Ma might have a point about it being our tree to cut down, but that slippery Mercedes was getting to be damned annoying.
Cheryl shoved a sarsaparilla in front of me and nodded at the chandelier.
“Rain check,” I said. “Pulled a muscle in my shoulder.”
“Well, shit.”
I got another draft and headed off to my room. I took a shower and dried while watching the television, then sat in bed for an hour reading my Lescroart novel, found out Lescroart is pronounced Les-kwah, then hit the lights and passed out.
The next morning I was halfway through a stack of pancakes with sausages and scrambled eggs when Deputy Roup came in, sat at my table, and ordered up another Hunter’s Special.
“Back again?” he said.
“Yep. Real nice place you got here, Deputy.”
“You’ve been a hell of a boon to the local economy, Angel.”
“Always glad to help out.”
“City council’s thinkin’ of hiring you to stick around and find more body parts. Turn folks here into millionaires.”
“This place is a city, huh?”
“We might be shy a few people, but we can call it any doggone thing we want. Still looking for that SUV?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t know if this’ll help, but a white Mercedes G550 went through here four or five days ago.”
I paused with a load of pancake on my fork. “White?”
“Unless my eyes’re goin’.”
“Which direction?”
“South. Toward Reno.”
“Right on through? Didn’t stop for gas?”
“I asked Hank. He would’ve seen it if it had.”
“Did you see who was driving?”
“A woman. Not old, not young. In her thirties, I’d say. Brown hair, shoulder-length or longer, dark glasses. That’s about it. All I’m getting are two-second looks. I still don’t see myself pulling folks over without some sort of a reason.”
White, not green.
“Same year as the green, huh?” I said.
“Uh-huh. We don’t get a lot of 550s through here, but now you got me looking.”
Another Mercedes SUV. It came from somewhere up north. I checked my watch. 8:40 a.m. Bend was a long way off, over three hundred miles, but if I pushed it I could be up there by one thirty. I could have phoned around, tried to find a car painter or body shop in Alturas or Bend that had recently painted a green SUV white, which might be a stretch, but I thought it was worth looking into. A lot better than watching granite decompose. I gave Jeri a call, told her about the white SUV, told her what I wanted to do.
“Wait a few minutes, Mort. Stay there. I’ll call you right back.”
“What’s up?”
“Just wait.” Then she was gone.
I got myself another cup of coffee and stared at the TV above the bar. Terrorists had blown up more stuff in France. Animals. I don’t think they’re politically motivated at all. That’s just an excuse. They’re delinquents—ninth-century bad boys who get off humping camels and blowing stuff up. If they finally got what they say they want, they’d still hump camels, blow stuff up, and use Allah as an excuse. Low-life barbarians, but dangerous with twentieth-century technology.
My cell phone rang just as Ma Clary came in the door. I stared at her thinking sonofabitch, then said into the phone, “Hey, guess what, Jeri, Ma just walked in.”
“Really? Now there’s a coincidence for you.”
“Tell me about it.”
Ma pulled out a chair and sat at the table, gave Deputy Roup a smile. “Tell you about what?” she asked me.
“Nothin’, Ma. I am a leaf in the wind.”
Ma turned away from me. “Deppity Roup. How’re you doin’, doll?”
“Jest fine, Ma. How ’bout yourself?”
“What’s going on?” Jeri said in my ear.
“Not sure. It might be old home week. You sent Ma up?”
“She wanted to get out. She thought she’d help you ask aroun
d Gerlach, but now it looks like you two oughta go up to Bend, check around, see about that white SUV. She’ll be really good at that.”
Ma ordered a beer from a waitress about nineteen years old then lit up a cigarette, blew smoke skyward.
“Gotta go, Jer,” I said. “Ma’s on fire here.” Ma looked at me, then cackled.
“Talk to you later,” Jeri said. “Learn from her, Mort. She’s a hell of an investigator. Bye.”
“Bye.”
“What was that about old home week?” Ma asked. “If it’s what I think it was, you’re in big trouble, boyo.”
“No comment.”
Ma turned to Roup and pointed a finger at his plate. “What’ve you got there, Mike?”
“Hunter’s Special.”
“Looks good. I’ll have me one of those.” She turned and called halfway across the room. “Hunter’s Special with that beer, hon.”
“Want to make it to go?” I said, ears ringing.
Ma stared at me. “Why would I want to do that?”
“’Cause we’re headed to Bend in about five minutes.”
She continued her stare. “Not without my Special, we’re not.” She called out again, “Put a rush on that food, hon. And make it to go.” Then she turned to Roup. “So, doll, what’s the story? You don’t call, you don’t write—”
“Got myself hitched, Ma. Two years ago.”
“Well, shit. That puts a damper on things. Guess that means you an’ me aren’t gettin’ together till you get divorced again, that about right?”
“Lookin’ like it, yeah.”
Ma turned to me. “So, boyo, what’s this nonsense about you and me goin’ all the way to Bend, huh?”
The brown Caddy Eldorado floated over the highway as if on a cushion of air, which was a combination of good shocks and soft springs, circa 1963. It also made travel iffy at more than fifty miles an hour so the scenery wasn’t exactly whipping by.
I drove. Ma ate.
“Goddamn Mike,” she said. “Gettin’ himself hitched like that. He sure knows how to take the fun out of things.”
“Yep. Goddamn Mike.”
She stared at me, then laughed, took another bite of ham. “Think that SUV might’ve been painted white, huh?”
“I think we better try to find out.”
“Good instincts. And it’s good you made contacts in Gerlach, got eyes on the street like that.”
“I appreciate that, Ma. Thanks.”
We drove in silence for a while. Ma finished her breakfast, stuffed the remains in a plastic bag, put it on the floor behind her seat. She looked out the window at the desert. The day was overcast with a hint of fall in the air. That wouldn’t last. It was late September. We had a month or so of Indian Summer coming up, but the weather was starting to bounce around.
A car passed us doing seventy-five or eighty. Made us look like we were parked in the middle of the road. Nice.
“I’m glad Jeri finally found someone,” Ma said. “Been a while. Too long. She needed someone. She told you what happened when she was twenty-one, didn’t she?”
“You mean Beau?” Beau was a guy who’d gotten Jeri pregnant, took off as soon as she told him, which had soured her worldview for the next six or seven years. She’d miscarried at two months, which had been a mixed blessing.
“Yeah, Beau. That little shitbird—may he roast in Hades.”
“She told me.”
“Now there’s a guy who needed cutting off at the knees, except it turns out he did her a favor, splitting like that. No telling what her life would be like if she’d married him. He was good-looking and charming and turned out to be a sleazebag anyway. There are times when a person is better off alone. A lot better.” She looked at me. “But you. You’re just what she needs.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, mostly because I didn’t know where Holiday fit into what Jeri wanted or needed.
Ma said, “Jeri saved my butt two years ago. She tell you?”
“No details. Just that whatever it was, you wouldn’t charge her for your time on this thing with Reinhart and Allie.”
“Damn straight I won’t.” She leaned the passenger seat back a few notches. “Been a long time since I rode over here in this seat. It’s more comfortable than I remembered. If I fall asleep, wake me up when we get to Bend.”
“I’ll do that. I saw an air horn in the trunk.”
“Touch it and you’re a dead duck.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head back. “Guy came into the office eighteen years ago. Name was Isaac Biggs. He wanted me to find his ex-wife, said he wanted to reconcile with her. Ex-wives, ex-husbands, those are always red-flag deals. You get a lot of lies, people saying they want one thing when they really want another. Biggs was a red flag as soon as he walked in the door. A walking, talking red flag, twenty-eight, scruffy, trouble on the hoof. I listened to him, didn’t take him on as a client so confidentiality wasn’t an issue. But I had his ex-wife’s name and some other stuff, so I found her myself after he left, told the police in Salt Lake they better keep an eye on her for a while. Which they did, farmed it out. Biggs went and hired another PI who found the ex-wife. Biggs showed up one day later, actually got off a shot with a gun from outside the house, missed the girl by six feet. He was drunk, dumb as a post, got hit with a bean-bag round by a pretty good rent-a-cop and was sent up for attempted murder.”
“Sounds like a fun guy.”
“A real sweetheart. He had sixteen years to figure out how he got caught, why some guy was right there at the ex-wife’s place waiting for him, finally figured it was me that ratted him out, and he showed up at my office when he got out of prison. Jeri and I were there trying to locate some lady’s son who’d taken off with a bunch of her jewelry and her car. Biggs came storming through the building, which was his big mistake, but that scumbag was and always will be as dumb as a pound and a half of chickenshit. Jeri isn’t one to wait around and see what’s what before she acts. She got beside the door—Lord, that girl is quick on her feet!—and when Biggs came through she saw the gun and broke his leg with one kick. Broke his knee, actually. Kicked it from the side and shattered it. She put him down so fast he didn’t get to use the gun, but his finger jerked on the trigger and he put a hole in that sideboard you might’ve seen, which reminds me every day that that bullet was meant for me. I probably ought to mention that she didn’t stop with the knee. She’s an alley cat. She picked him up like a sack of grain and hauled him across the office, slammed his head through a window, didn’t send him on through though, then she hauled him back inside and broke his nose, jaw, bunch of teeth. When the police came, they had to take him out on a gurney. He’s in the Nevada state prison in Carson doing twenty-five without parole. One thing I owe Jeri for is the pleasure of watching her kick Biggs’ ass so hard he’s probably still bouncing. That and my life, so, yeah, no charge for anything she needs, ever. If not for her, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Remind me never to piss her off, Ma.”
“Not sure you need reminding. You saw what she did to that psycho Victoria, didn’tcha?”
“Yep.” In fact, that was a memory I still treasured. Victoria had come through a door thinking murder, and Jeri kicked her under the chin so hard it ripped her esophagus loose internally, broke her neck, and shattered her jaw. I remember seeing a piece of tongue fly across the room. Victoria was dead before she hit the floor.
“She is some kinda bobcat, that girl,” Ma said. “Told me about this thing with Holiday that has you tied up in knots.”
Aw, jeez.
“I’ve been around the block a time or two, in case you hadn’t guessed,” Ma said.
“Really? All the way around at least twice?”
“That’s right, boyo. So here’s a little something you might not know. A lot of us gals don’t want to be jail keepers.”
“Jail keepers?”
“Wardens, prison guards. Take some poor schmuck and tell him what he can and can’t see and think, can and can�
�t enjoy. If I was with some guy, I wouldn’t want to tell him he couldn’t at least look at women—half-clothed, naked, whatever—just like I wouldn’t want him to tell me I couldn’t look at naked men, if that’s what I wanted to do. I’ve been to Thunder Down Under at the Grand Sierra Resort—with Jeri, in case you didn’t know. The last thing I need is some uptight warden micromanaging my life, telling me what I can and can’t do like that. So here you got maybe eighty million adult women in the country, and I’d guess eighty or ninety percent of ’em are wardens, mind police, whether or not they know it or care to admit it. But that leaves ten or twenty percent who aren’t, and Jeri is one of those. Umpteen million women out there are smart enough to know you can’t reach into a guy’s head and throw that eunuch switch. Guys are what they are. We gals are, too, but that’s a secret we don’t let out. Get a warden who thinks she can change what turns a guy’s head, she’s an idiot, fooling herself. She thinks by guilt tripping and snarling loud and long if he so much as glances at another woman that she’s changed him, but all she’s done is driven him underground and made him realize he’s married to a jail keeper and he’d better keep his head down. All jail keepers get is surface behavior and resentment. That includes mind wardens who are male, too, so it works both ways.”
“This is a hell of a discussion, Ma.”
“Let me know if I’m boring you.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Anyway, Jeri’s worried that you don’t get it, so I’m putting in my two cents, that’s all.”
“Lately I’ve felt like I’m on loan.”
She stared at me. “You’re somethin’ else. I can see why Jeri’s worried about you. She isn’t loaning you to Sarah. Not sharing you, either—not in any usual sense of the word. If you want another two cents on top of the two I just gave you, here’s a concept: Jeri is sort of gifting you—to each other.”
“Gifting.”
“Both you and Sarah, in case you don’t get it. Letting you do what you want. That’s a gift. Think about it, boyo. That’s all I got for you. Except Jeri isn’t a jail keeper and she isn’t worried about you two, so unless you and Sarah are in deeper than you’re telling, you oughta just settle down and enjoy the ride. And if you want another penny—if I looked half as good as that girl I’d dress up and turn a few male heads, lemme tell you. Life never gave me that, but if it had, I would’ve been all over it in a heartbeat.”
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