He drove them over into Arizona, through Bullhead City and out past Davis Dam and Lake Mohave, into the badlands toward the stark hills surrounding the old gold-mining town of Oatman. Fallon wondered if the renewable energy boom that had begun in the southern California deserts in recent years would extend out here one day—geothermal power plants that ran on hot water pumped from deep underground. Probably. Someday there might well be vast solar energy farms in all of the western deserts, supplying enough electricity for millions of homes and businesses. He had no objection to open space being used in this way, in the better-late-than-never battle to overcome the effects of global warming; the geothermal plants were designed to be eco-friendly, to take up the least possible amount of space in remote areas. Man finally taking positive steps to confine the crawling creatures, control the greed and waste that helped to feed them.
Casey showed no interest in the scenery or in the ghost buildings and mining works that dated back to the area’s first gold strike more than a century ago. She sat stiff and silent the whole way, and when he stopped in Oatman and suggested that they have a beer, she let him lead her inside a tavern like an animal on an invisible leash. She had the same tightly wound inner focus on the way back.
It was nearly five when they reached the motel. She stirred then to look at the clock on the dashboard. “Is that clock right? Five o’clock?”
“It’s right.”
“God, the time just crawls. I feel like I’m living in a vacuum. I don’t know how I’m going to get through another eight or nine hours.”
He said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“What time are you going over there? To the casino?”
“Before six. I’ll be there when Spicer starts playing.”
“You’re not going to talk to him?”
“Of course not. Don’t worry, he’s not going to know me from any other customer. I just want to get a look at him, watch him for a while. Then I’ll come back here and we’ll have dinner—”
She made a face. “No more food. I feel like puking right now.”
“Dinner, and then we’ll wait together until it’s time for me to shadow him.”
“I want to go with you.”
“No. I thought we settled that.”
“If he leads you to Kevin—”
“Then I’ll call you first thing. It won’t do either of us any good if you’re there when I brace Spicer. You have to let me handle this my way, Casey.”
“Your way. Your way.” But she didn’t argue anymore.
He said, “We’ll play cards.”
“What?”
“Cards. Gin rummy. You know the game?”
“Yes, I know the damn game.”
“It’ll help keep your mind off the clock.”
“All right, gin rummy. Anything to make the time go faster. I’ll even let you fuck me if you want.”
The last words shocked him a little. Until he realized that that was all they were, just words. Meaningless, driven out of her by the yearning for her son and an abstract need for tension release and a calming of her inner turmoil. If he tried to take advantage of them, something he’d never do, she would either fight him off or submit like a rag doll.
He’d been sorry for her all along. Now what he felt was a kind of tender pity.
THREE
AT SIX O’CLOCK, THE Sunset Lounge was moderately crowded with cocktail-hour and predinner drinkers and sunset watchers. The fading sunlight that streamed in through the tinted windows had a mellow golden tone. Fallon sat in what the management would consider the least desirable location, a stool chair at the inner end of the bar. From there he couldn’t see much of the flaming western sky, but he had a clear view of the piano on the raised dais.
The only problem was, the piano bench was empty. Spicer hadn’t put in an appearance yet.
Fallon sipped a draft beer, waiting. There was a closed door in the wall near where he sat that would lead to dressing rooms and offices; the public restrooms were off the lobby outside. When Spicer finally showed, he would probably make his entrance through that door.
Only he didn’t show.
6:15.
6:30.
No Spicer.
Fallon finished his beer, motioned to the redheaded woman bartender for another. When she served it, he asked, “Where’s the King of the Ivories tonight?”
She didn’t seem to know how to answer the question. Finally she said, “He should be here any minute.”
“How come he’s late?”
“Well, you know,” she said vaguely, “delays.”
“Sure. Delays.”
6:45.
The door in the inner wall opened, but the man who came through wasn’t Spicer. Young, plump, wearing a Western-style suit and tie. An agitated frown wrinkled his smooth features when he saw the empty dais. He caught the redheaded bartender’s eye, gestured for her to come down, then leaned up close to the bar behind Fallon. The two of them spoke in low tones, but his hearing was acute and he could make out what they were saying.
“Why isn’t Courtney here?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Haskell. I thought maybe he called in sick.”
“He didn’t call in at all.”
“He’s never missed a night or been late before. Maybe he’s got the flu or something.”
“Too sick to use the telephone? Too drunk is more likely.”
“Well, he does like single malt Scotch. But I’ve never seen him drunk.”
Haskell said, “Why do hassles like this always happen on my shift? All right, Tracy, let me know if he comes in,” and disappeared through the door.
7:00.
The last of the sunset colors were gone and darkness had begun its descent. The evening star grew bright to the east in the clear purple-black sky. People came into the lounge, people went out. None of them was Court Spicer.
Fallon was on edge now. If Spicer wasn’t sick or drunk, if he had spooked and gone on the run again, finding Kevin would be a hell of a lot more difficult, if not impossible. He didn’t want to think what Casey might do if that happened.
7:15.
The inner door opened. Haskell again, looking flustered and angry now. He motioned Tracy down and leaned toward her over the bar, once more within Fallon’s hearing.
“Still a no-show,” she said.
“Damn these musicians. You can’t depend on any of them. I called his cell number and it went straight to voice mail.”
“Should we make an announcement? Some of the customers have been asking about him.”
“Not just yet,” Haskell said. “Give him another fifteen or twenty minutes. And give me a Wild Turkey on the rocks.”
Haskell stayed put at the bar with his drink, glancing at his watch every three or four minutes and scowling. Just past 7:30, he went back through the door—to make another call to Spicer’s cell, Fallon thought. He was gone less than five minutes.
“Still not here and still no answer on his cell phone,” he said to Tracy. “If it’s up to me, he’ll be looking for another job tomorrow.”
She said, “Maybe we ought to send somebody out to check on him.”
“Oh, sure. Who? I’m not about to drive all the way out to Bullhead City. Go ahead and make the announcement.”
Fallon thought: What the hell, give it a shot. He swiveled his stool chair to face the night shift manager. “I couldn’t help overhearing,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for Courtney myself, and not to listen to his music.”
“Yes?” Haskell gave him a half-appraising, half-distracted look.
“My name’s Jackson, Sam Jackson. I own a half interest in a club in Vegas. So happens Steve Courtney played with a trio at my place a while back.”
“Is that right?”
“I heard he had a gig here and I drove down to see him. I’ve got a business proposition he might be interested in.”
“What, a better job offer?”
“Not exactly. I don’t raid other establishment
s.”
“Yes, well, you can see that he’s not here and more than an hour and a half late. It’s not likely he’ll show tonight.”
“That’s too bad,” Fallon said. “I need to talk to him as soon as possible. You’re not going to send someone out to see if he’s home?”
“No.”
“Well, how about if I do it and let you know? I’m tired of just sitting around waiting. Only thing is, I’ll need his address. I don’t know where he lives.”
Haskell looked at him steadily for about ten seconds. Then, “What’s the name of the place you own in Vegas, Mr. Jackson?”
“Own a half interest in. The Star Lounge.” It was the first name that came into Fallon’s head. “On Flamingo.”
“Wait here.”
Haskell disappeared again through the door. Going to his office to check up on Sam Jackson? If that was it, Fallon could maneuver his way out of the Star Lounge lie, but he wouldn’t get the address. Long shot anyway. But worth it under the circumstances.
Haskell was back—too quickly for him to have done any checking. Fallon relaxed, keeping his expression neutral. He was about to get lucky after all.
“Courtney lives at 60 Desert Rose Lane in Bullhead City,” Haskell said. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you where that is or how to get there.”
“No problem. My car has GPS.”
Haskell handed him a card. “My office number is on there. Let me know, will you? Or if you find Courtney, tell him to call me. And he’d better have a damn good excuse.”
“I’ll do all I can to track him down, Mr. Haskell. You can count on that.”
In the Jeep on the way up Casino Drive he called Casey’s cell number to tell her why he’d been delayed, that he’d gotten Spicer’s address. But she didn’t answer. Why would she have her phone switched off? Accident, maybe, or because she was trying to get some rest. She was expecting him to come back there, not to call.
Behind him to the north, as he crossed the bridge into Arizona, the carnival dazzle of lights and neon colors cast by the Laughlin casinos stained the night sky, turned the surface of the Colorado into a distorted reflector dominated by crimson, as if the river had been fouled with currents of blood. By comparison, Bullhead City seemed sedately lit. There wasn’t much traffic over here. Monday evening quiet. All the night action, all the noise, belonged to the Nevada side.
The Jeep’s GPS led him down Highway 95 to Silver Creek Road, then through a series of secondary streets into a housing development so new that some homes were still under construction. Sunrise Acres, according to a sign—the same tract that Co-River Management had featured in its wall decorations. Stucco-and-tile-roofed homes of various sizes on large lots. Even out here in desert country, lease and rental prices would be substantial. Spicer wouldn’t be able to afford one of these places on the scale salary the Wagonwheel paid a lounge act. His high-living expenses had to be underwritten by David Rossi.
Desert Rose Lane was a short dead-end street, three two-story houses on each side. A couple of them looked as though they might be unoccupied, and only two of the others showed lights, the first on the left coming in, the second on the right at the far end.
Fallon relaxed a little when he saw that number 60 was the lighted one at the end. Somebody was there, Spicer or possibly a guard on Kevin; the lights, and the bulky shape of an SUV in the driveway, told him that.
He parked in front of the dark house next door. Before leaving the motel earlier, he’d locked the unloaded Ruger in the console storage compartment; he took it out, slid it inside his belt under the light jacket he wore. A loaded weapon, even if you didn’t intend to use it, was a foolish risk with a young boy on the premises. Running a bluff with an unloaded gun went against his army training, but if taking action was necessary, it was better than relying solely on hand-to-hand combat techniques. Whoever was inside the house wasn’t likely to answer the door packing heat.
He locked the Jeep, walked slowly to number 60. The spicy scent of sage was strong in the warm darkness. The first thing he saw as he neared the front porch was the thin wedge of light that lay across the tiles. It came through a crack between the door and the jamb: the door was open inward a few inches. Funny. Why leave it open like that, even in what was probably a safe neighborhood?
The doorbell was a vertical strip of lighted plastic; Fallon pushed it and listened to chimes roll out within. Half a minute passed with no response. He thumbed the strip again. Still no response.
He leaned close to the crack in the door. The silence inside and out now seemed acute, charged. He could feel the muscles across his shoulders pulling together, knotting—the same physical reaction he’d had that time in Cochise County, before kicking in the door of a hotel room where a drunken soldier had been holding a woman against her will.
One more push on the doorbell. When that didn’t bring anybody, he drew the Ruger and used the back of his left hand to nudge the door open halfway. Foyer, palely lit by a suspended fixture. He leaned his head inside and called out, “Courtney! Steve Courtney!”
The words echoed faintly, died into more heavy silence.
Enter uninvited and technically he’d be committing criminal trespass. But the door was open and it shouldn’t be, and the lights were on and they shouldn’t be if there was nobody in the house. He couldn’t just walk away now.
He called the Courtney name again, then went in and nudged the door closed with his shoulder.
The living room and dining room that opened off of the foyer were both fully furnished. Lease or rental, maybe even one of the tract’s original model homes. As often as Spicer traveled from gig to gig, he wouldn’t have bought a place like this if he could have afforded it.
Fallon moved cautiously through the downstairs rooms. No sign of anybody. But when he went upstairs to where the bedrooms were, into the hall that bisected the house—
Man on the hallway floor.
Fallon stopped, staring down at him. The back of his scalp crawled.
Dead man. Curled up fetally on his side, both hands pressed under his sternum. Blood and scorch marks on his white shirtfront. Eyes open and staring sightlessly, mouth in a rictus, blood and dried spittle staining the dyed brown goatee.
Court Spicer.
FOUR
FALLON’S FIRST THOUGHT WAS of the boy. He ran along the hall, shouldering open doors and flicking lights on briefly to scan the interiors. The door standing ajar at the far end had a pair of hasps screwed to it and its frame, an open padlock and a key on a chain hanging from one. A bedside lamp was lit inside, but the room, like all the others, was empty.
Kevin’s room.
Kevin’s prison cell.
Single bed, nightstand, dresser, TV set. Bookcase with a row of thick paperback books. The only window shuttered and padlocked and probably nailed down. Signs of hasty packing: dresser drawers pulled out, closet mostly empty, a couple of items of boys’ clothing forgotten on the floor.
Gone. Taken away by whoever killed Spicer.
Fallon ran back to where the dead man lay, dropped to one knee without touching him. Shock still had hold of him. He’d seen corpses before; you can’t grow up in East L.A. and spend four years as an army MP, even on stateside duty, without coming face-to-face with violent death. But this was something outside his experience, as inexplicable as it was unexpected.
Spicer had been shot once at close range. Small-caliber weapon, maybe a .22. What blood had leaked out of the wound was tacky, drying. In addition to the white shirt, he wore trousers and a knotted tie—his Sunset Lounge outfit except for the jacket. Dressed and ready to leave when whoever shot him showed up. That and the drying blood put the time of death at between five and five-thirty. Three hours.
Who? Why? And why take Kevin? To liberate him from his father, or because he was a witness to the shooting?
Fallon stood up and leaned against the wall. Training and instinct urged him to notify the police immediately. Right thing to do, start them looking for the
boy as soon as possible. For his own protection, too, even though Casey could verify his whereabouts when Spicer died.
But not just yet.
His first obligation was to Casey: she had to be told about this, and by him, not the law. In person was better, but there wasn’t time for that. He hit the redial button on his cell phone.
No answer. Her cell was still switched off.
Dammit! He didn’t know the motel number . . . wait, yes he did. The letterhead receipt for the two rooms he’d paid for by credit card. He found it in his pocket, called the number, asked the clerk for Casey’s room.
Ten empty rings.
That made him even edgier. She should be in the room, waiting for him. And if she’d gone out for some reason, why hadn’t she made sure her cell phone was turned on? Where was she?
The need for movement drove him into the bedroom nearest to where the body lay. It was the one Spicer had been using; his dark blue dinner jacket was on a hanger on the closet door, his wallet in an inside pocket. Fallon eased the wallet out, fanned through it. Two hundred dollars in twenties and tens. No credit cards—Spicer must have paid for everything in cash. No union card. The only ID was a Nevada driver’s license in the name of Steven Courtney. Bought and paid for, probably in Vegas and probably from Bobby J. or one of his cronies.
Fallon wiped the wallet with a hand towel from the adjacent bathroom, returned it to the coat pocket. Then he used the towel to open drawers in a small writing desk. Looking for blackmail evidence, anything that might explain the shooting. All he found was a few receipts for meals and minor purchases. The closet and the dresser contained clothing, most of it on the expensive side, and little else. The nightstand was empty except for a package of condoms and a prostitute’s full-color business card like the ones they handed out on the Vegas Strip.
The Other Side of Silence Page 12