“I’m not with them, remember? Look, Caroline, I don’t give a damn about the jewels.” Not much. “What I want is the man who killed Fontaine and Meacham, and it’s in your best interest to help me find him.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s probably the man you saw following you. I’m pretty sure it’s Rueben Archuleta.”
“What?”
“That’s right. He thinks your grandfather can lead him to the jewels, and he’ll kill anyone who gets in his way. If your grandfather knows where they are, he could help me trap Archuleta by—”
“He doesn’t know!” she shouted at me, then turned away, embarrassed at her outburst. When she spoke again, it was with restrained calm.
“Why does everyone refuse to believe that my grandfather was a victim?” she said. “He was forced to take part in that robbery, and he was lucky to escape with his life. But everyone’s against him. They are now, and they were back then. I was too young to know then, but he’s told me all about it. The police, the insurance company, even my other grandfather, Trenton, Sr.—they all wanted him to go to prison. It was like a conspiracy. And it’s the same today. I feel like it’s him and me against the world.”
“What about your parents?”
“My parents,” she said in disgust. “They want nothing to do with us, and that’s fine with me. Do you know they didn’t once visit him while he was locked away? Not once. They can both go to hell.”
“I see.”
“I wonder if you do,” she said. “Don’t you think if my grandfather knew where the jewels were, we’d have done something about it by now?”
“What would you do?”
She nearly smiled.
“Use them to take my grandfather far away from here and … but it doesn’t matter. The Lochemont jewels will never be found.”
She didn’t much like the idea. Neither did I.
Outside, the front tire on the Olds was still flat. By the time I got it changed, my head was booming and I was dizzy. Maybe Caroline was right—I wasn’t so tough after all.
When I left Caroline’s house, I drove toward the office. I soon found I wasn’t alone. Following me a dozen car lengths back was the blond guy in the tan Ford.
He tailed me all the way down Alameda, just like the first time I’d seen him. There was one difference, though: This time I had a gun. I crossed the South Platte River and turned north on Santa Fe. Two blocks later I swung into a warehouse parking lot and whipped the Olds around in a U-turn, ready to take the guy head-on.
No guy.
When I nosed out onto Santa Fe, the Ford was nowhere to be seen. I checked my mirror all the way to the office. The cute bastard stayed out of sight.
There was one message waiting on my machine: Wendy Apple said it was urgent that I call her right away. I let her phone ring a few dozen times before I called Fancy Dan’s. She wasn’t there, either. Then I remembered I hadn’t returned Zack Meacham’s house key. Maybe Wendy just wanted it back.
I locked up and drove to the Frontier Hotel. Nosferatu was still working the desk. He didn’t act like he recognized me, but then he didn’t lift his eyes above my neck. I flashed him something with my picture on it.
“Investigator Lomax,” I said. “I want to ask you some questions about Zack Meacham.”
“Who?”
“The guy who bled all over room twelve.”
“Oh, him. I thought his name was Cliff.” His eyes stayed glued to my neck.
“How many visitors did he have the night he died?”
“I already told you guys all I know.”
“Tell me again. Unless you’d rather talk downtown.”
His lips drooped over his canines.
“I don’t want no trouble. Like I told you before, I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember if he had any visitors? Male or female?”
“No.”
“Did anyone other than a guest enter the hotel that night?”
“I don’t remember.”
Some witness. Helen Ester, Rueben Archuleta, and I had all gone up to Meacham’s room.
“I’m going upstairs to question a few people. Don’t phone to warn them. If you do, I’ll bust you for obstructing justice.”
“I resent that,” he said. “Besides, there’s no phones.”
In addition to Meacham’s room, there were five rooms in the hotel that overlooked the fire escape and the alley.
At room number ten I met a snaggletoothed old geezer who was practically deaf and legally blind. See no evil, hear no evil.
Behind door number eight came the blast of a TV turned up full volume. “Come on, wheel! Come on, big money!” I pounded on the door. “Four hundred dollars!” I pounded again. “I’d like an ess, please!” I pounded some more. “Come on, big money!”
I moved on to door number six, which was answered by a short, fat Hispanic dude wearing an Army-green T-shirt that didn’t quite cover his stomach. He was barefoot and holding a tall can of Miller Lite.
“¿Qué?”
I asked him about the shooting in twelve.
“Jew a cop, or wha’?”
“What do you think? Were you home that night?”
“Jew got a bahdge, or wha’?”
Bahdges? We don’t need no stinking bahdges. “I asked you if you were home.”
“Chure, man, I was here. An’ I din’ see nothin’.”
He slammed the door in my face.
So did the black dude staying in four, when I couldn’t produce a stinking badge.
Behind door number two I found the old hag who’d pointed me out on the street Tuesday night. She was still wearing her scummy hot pink bathrobe and carrying twenty pounds of steel curlers in her hair.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
So much for the witnesses for the prosecution.
“Investigator Lomax. I’d like to ask you some questions about the shooting the other night.”
She smiled. Or it could have been a gas pain.
“Investigator, eh?” Her voice sounded like a chicken chewing sandpaper. “Where does the police department find all you big hunks?”
“Talent scouts.”
She cackled. “Step right in, honey.”
She held the door for me, then looked hopefully up and down the hall. Bad luck; no one saw a man enter her room.
“You wanna creamy?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Candy,” she said. There was an open box of chocolates by the bed. She’d been lying on top of the covers, watching TV. The sound was off. The people on the screen were spinning a large painted wheel. It made them all very excited.
“No, thanks.”
“The other cops already asked me about that night.”
“I’d like you to tell me again, miss.”
“Why? And call me Winetta.”
“Winetta. Just routine. And call me Jacob.”
“Okay, Jacob,” she said, and sat seductively on the edge of the bed. The springs groaned for me. She patted the colorless blanket next to her. “Take the load off.”
“I would, but I might get ideas.” Plus body lice.
“You men,” she said and clucked her tongue and crossed her legs, exposing her calves, as white and veined as cave fish.
“What were you doing Tuesday night?”
“Oh, this and that. Watching the TV.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I heard a bunch of shooting and then I heard somebody banging down the fire escape.”
“Are you saying that all the shots came at once?”
“I guess.”
“You didn’t hear shots and then someone on the fire escape and then more shots?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know.” She squinted one eye at me.
“Did you look out the window?”
“What do you think? Sure I looked out the window.”
“What did you see?”
“A man with a gun.” She was st
ill looking at me squinty-eyed.
“Just one man?”
“Yes. And he looked … he looked like …”
Oh, shit. “Like what?”
“Y-you.”
She scooted across the bed.
“It was you! Y-you’re no cop!” She bounced off the mattress and stumbled to the window, screaming, “Help! Police!”
I got the hell out.
Okay, so maybe Dalrymple had one witness.
18
THE NEXT MORNING, THE fresh head lump created by Mathew Two Hawks had roused the old head bumps from ten days ago and was leading them in a war dance on my scalp. It was distracting enough that I hardly noticed being stiff and sore from sleeping on the floor. Somehow I forced myself out of the apartment to shop for furniture.
A couple of times I thought my rearview mirror picked up a tan Ford with a blond guy driving. But if he was my shadow from the other day, he was being careful and staying too buried in traffic for me to be certain.
It took me half the day to find some pieces that felt comfortable and looked like they wouldn’t fall apart the first time I put my feet on them. After I beat the guy down on the price as much as I could, and still paid him what seemed like a hell of a lot, I stopped by Greenspan’s to pay back the thousand bucks I owed him for the bondsman. My remaining bank account could now hide under a rat’s ass.
When I got home, I dialed Wendy Apple. She answered on the second ring.
“I need to see you right away,” she said.
“If it’s about the key to Meacham’s house, I can—”
“It’s not about the key,” she said. “It’s … it’s about Zack’s murder.”
Ten minutes later I was parked in front of Wendy’s place on Pearl Street, a few tree-lined blocks south of Speer Boulevard. The area featured old, solid brick houses and newer but not-so-solid apartments, the latter thanks in part to the designer of Wendy’s building, who’d believed in straight lines, weak steel, and sandy concrete. When I climbed the stain to the second floor and walked along the outside landing, the entire structure vibrated. It vibrated again when I knocked on Wendy’s door.
Thanks for coming,” she said and let me in.
She wore a tight pink sweater and tight white pants and apparently nothing underneath. Her blond hair wasn’t the only thing that bobbed when she walked into the living room.
The place had rental furniture and cheap carpeting. There was heavy dust in the corners. A fish tank gasped and gurgled beneath the window, and goldfish moved lethargically through suspended scum. I sat on a thin-cushioned couch with fake wooden arms, and Wendy curled up in a chair beneath a painting on black velvet—a matador performing a veronica.
“I’m sorry about your loss,” I said. “I should have called you right after Zack died.”
“That’s okay.” She smiled weakly. “The funeral was this morning. It was nice—I mean, lots of people and flowers and all. I stayed way in the back, though, because Zack’s wife and kids were there. Ex-wife, I mean. I guess I didn’t want to, well, embarrass Zack. Isn’t that silly?”
She folded her hands in her lap and stared down at them, as if she were praying. When she spoke, it was so softly I barely heard her.
“I think my ex-boyfriend Vince Pesce killed Zack. I think he did it out of jealousy for … me.”
Before I could explain to her that Rueben Archuleta had killed Meacham, I was suddenly overcome by that vague feeling I often get soon after I believe I have all the answers, that vague feeling called stupidity.
“Wendy, what does Vince look like?”
“What? Oh, he’s cute—I mean, I think he is. And he’s kind of tall, about like you. He’s about your age, too.”
“What color hair?”
“Black.”
“Do you have a picture of him?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
Wendy went to the bedroom and returned with a photo album. There were so few pictures in it that I found myself feeling sorry for her. She had only one of Vince. He was sporting a beard, black streaked with gray, and wearing dark glasses and a shit-eating grin. He stood dripping by a swimming pool, cradling Wendy in his arms. All I could tell for certain was that he had black hair, an olive complexion, and good muscle tone. He might or might not have been the Latino I chased from Meacham’s hotel. The picture was months old, Wendy told me, and Vince had since shaved off his beard.
“How long have you known Vince?” I asked.
“Almost two years.”
“Is he from Denver?”
“No. When I met him he said he’d just moved to town.”
“Moved from where?”
Wendy chewed her plump lower lip.
“You know, I don’t think he ever said. Is it important?”
“Maybe.” Maybe he was from Santa Fe and had a wife named Gloria. “Where is Vince now?”
“I don’t know,” Wendy said.
“What makes you think he killed Meacham?”
“I … I’m not certain that he did.”
“But there’s a good chance, right?”
“Yes,” she said and lovingly touched his photo. “Vince came over here last Saturday, the day after you’d been in Fancy Dan’s talking to me about Zack. He was on edge about something, and when I asked him about it, he told me not to worry. He said in a few days everything would be just like it was before. Those were his words, ‘just like it was before.’”
“Before what?”
“He didn’t say, but I knew. Before I started seeing Zack.”
“I see. Why did Vince come here?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you tell me you’d broken up with him?”
“Oh, well, broken up. I mean, I still went out with him sometimes, just mostly I went out with Zack. There’s nothing wrong with seeing two guys, you know.”
“Right.” Maybe there was from the guy’s point of view. “Have you seen Vince since then?”
“No, but he phoned here two nights ago, the night after Zack had been murdered. I was already in pretty bad shape:—I mean, I’d just learned about Zack’s death from the newspaper. It was all so … I don’t know. I couldn’t think straight, I couldn’t even cry.” Her eyes were wet now.
“Why did Vince call?”
“He said he was in trouble and he needed money, a lot of money. He knew I had almost four thousand dollars saved up, and he wanted me to send it to him. He sounded scared. I’d never heard him like that.”
“Where did he want you to send the money?”
“He didn’t say. He gave me a phone number and told me to get a cashier’s check and then call him.”
“And?”
“I said I would.”
“Have you?”
“Sent the money? No, I … the more I thought about it, the more I thought Vince must have shot Zack and wants the money to run away. Then I thought, what if he wants the money to hire a good lawyer? Then I didn’t know what to do. So I called you.”
She looked at me with her eyebrows arched and her mouth partly open and waited for me to solve her problem. I probably would have in any case, even if it hadn’t been my problem, too.
“What’s the number Vince gave you?”
“I’ll get it.”
When she left the room, I looked closely at the photo of her and Vince and tried to picture him without the beard and sunglasses. He was the same size and apparent age as Rueben Archuleta, same color hair, same general features. But I couldn’t tell for sure if he was Archuleta. I’d have to see him in person.
Wendy came back and handed me a cashier’s check for thirty-nine hundred dollars and a scrap of paper with a string of numbers beginning with “(702)” and ending with “rm 309.”
“How long will Vince be here?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but I told him I’d call him in a few days, and that was two days ago. I’m afraid he’s going to be mad. And he’ll be even madder because he made me promise not to tell
anyone.”
“Don’t worry, Wendy, he’s not going to hurt you.”
“I’m not worried about that. I just don’t want to hurt him.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” I said. “Don’t call him yet, okay, not till I’ve had a chance to find him.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Talk to him.” I held out her check. “And put this back in the bank.”
Wendy shook her head no.
“Please give it to Vince.”
“Wendy, how long has it taken you to save up this much?”
She gave a tiny shrug. “It doesn’t matter. Vince needs it now more than I do.”
“If Vince gets this, you’ll probably never see it again.”
She put her hands on her almost-but-not-quite heavy hips and smiled smugly.
“You don’t know Vince like I do,” she said. “He’ll pay me back. You can count on that.”
“Sure I can,” I said. I could also count on the Cubs winning the pennant. The question was when.
When I got home, I dialed Vince’s number. Area code 702 was Nevada.
A man answered. “Desert Mirage Hotel and Casino.”
“Where exactly are you located?”
“Right at the end of the Strip, sir.”
“In Las Vegas?”
“Yes, sir, Las Vegas. It’s in the state of Nevada. Ask around, you can’t miss it.”
“Smart ass.”
The next available flight to Vegas was at 5:00 P.M. At five-thirty I was looking down on the Rocky Mountains from thirty thousand feet—they looked pretty damned rocky, even from up here. At seven o’clock:—six, local time—I was driving a rented Nova out of McCarran International Airport onto Las Vegas Boulevard.
19
THE SUN WAS STILL high enough above the desert to hold the temperature at an even ninety degrees. My jacket was draped over the passenger’s seat next to my red-tagged bag. I’d checked the bag through rather than carry it on the plane, and the tag was to announce the presence of the .357. I’d also brought a leather sap, twenty feet of clothesline, and a pair of handcuffs. If Vince Pesce was Rueben Archuleta, he was going to have a long, uncomfortable ride back to Denver in the backseat of the Nova.
Blood Stone (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 2) Page 11