Sandy puts her leg down. Turns to face him, waiting for an explanation.
‘Remember the armoured truck robbery – the guy who survived?’
‘The one you shot?’
‘Yeah. I tried to keep him locked up but the parole board decided to set him loose. If he hadn’t escaped, he would have been out anyway. I went up to the prison to talk to the chief warden, but Palmer had gone over the wire.’
Sandy sits up straighter, her eyes narrowing. ‘Is he dangerous?’
‘He’s probably in Mexico by now.’
Valdez gives her a squeeze and she sinks back against him, holding his forearm between her breasts and resting her head on his shoulder. He’s going to let the matter rest, but reaches for his phone and scrolls through the images.
‘That’s what Palmer looks like,’ he says, showing Sandy a recent photograph.
Her eyes widen. ‘I saw him!’
‘What?’
‘Today. Outside the house,’ she stammers. ‘He was jogging. He said he just moved in around the corner. I thought it must be the Whitakers’ old place.’
Valdez is on his feet, walking through the house, peering through the curtains, his thoughts fizzing. He checks the locks on the windows and doors.
‘Did you see a vehicle?’
Sandy shakes her head.
‘What else did he say?’
‘He said he was a widower … doing some sort of audit. Why did he come here?’
‘Where’s that gun I bought you?’
‘Upstairs.’
‘Get it for me.’
‘Now you’re scaring me.’
Valdez punches a number into his phone. He’s through to a dispatcher. He relays the information, putting out a BOLO on Audie Palmer and asking for extra patrol cars in the neighbourhood.
‘But you said he’d be in Mexico by now,’ says Sandy. ‘Why would he come here?’
Valdez has collected her gun and fitted the magazine. ‘From now on you carry this everywhere.’
‘I’m not gonna carry a gun.’
‘Do as you’re told.’
He grabs his keys.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To get Max.’
17
The Shady Oaks Motel is just off the Tom Landry Freeway – a seventies building that is functional, utilitarian and ugly as a safari suit. Moss parks the battered blue pickup truck out front of his room and takes a shower before lying on the bed, waiting for Crystal. She arrives wearing dark glasses and a shiny black raincoat like she’s hiding from the paparazzi. Moss opens the door and she runs into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and kissing him passionately as he carries her backward into the room.
She looks around. ‘Is this the best place you could find?’
‘It’s got a jacuzzi.’
‘You want me to get cholera?’
He grabs her hand. ‘No, I want you to feel this.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Now you’re just spoiling me.’
‘The hardness of the butter is related to the softness of the bread. And your bread is soft, baby.’
She laughs and shrugs off her coat before unbuckling his trousers. ‘Where did you get the threads?’
‘They were left in a car for me.’
‘You got a car?’
‘I have.’
She pushes him back onto the bed and straddles him. Neither of them talks until they’re sweaty and spent. Crystal goes to the bathroom. Moss lies on the bed with a towel over his middle.
‘Don’t you get too comfortable,’ he yells.
‘Why not?’
‘I’m gonna do that all over again as soon as my eyes uncross.’
Crystal flushes the toilet and joins him on the bed. She takes a cigarette from the pocket of her raincoat and lights it up, putting it between his lips before lighting one for herself.
‘How long has it been?’
‘Fifteen years, three months, eight days and eleven hours.’
‘You kept count.’
‘No, but it’s close enough.’
She wants to know about Audie Palmer and the missing millions, listening without interrupting, although she frowns and harrumphs at chunks of the story like she wasn’t born yesterday.
‘Who are these people?’
‘No idea, but they got some real juice to get me out.’
‘And they’re going to let you keep the money?’
‘That’s what they said.’
‘And you believe them?’
‘No.’
She’s resting her head in the crook of his arm, with her thigh over his waist.
‘So what will you do?’
Moss draws on the cigarette and blows a smoke ring, which rolls upwards until the draft from the air conditioner obliterates the ghostly shape.
‘Find Audie Palmer.’
‘How?’
‘His mama lives in Westmoreland Heights – not a mile from here.’
‘And if she doesn’t know?’
‘I’ll ask his sister.’
‘And then?’
‘Jesus, woman, I’m trying not to get ahead of myself! Have a little faith. If anyone can find Audie I can.’
Crystal still needs convincing. ‘What’s he like?’
Moss ponders this for a while. ‘Audie is clever. Book-bright, you know, but not street-savvy. I taught him to have eyes in the back of his head and he taught me stuff.’
‘Like what?’
‘About philosophy and shit like that.’
Crystal giggles. ‘What do you know about philosophy?’
Moss pinches her for laughing. ‘Well, this one day I was getting frustrated trying to write a letter to the appeals board and I said to Audie, “The only thing I know is that I know nothing,” and Audie told me that I just quoted a famous philosopher – a man called Socrates. Audie says a man is smart to have doubts and question everything. The only thing we can know for certain is that we know nothing for certain.’ He looks at Crystal. ‘Does that make sense?’
‘No, but it sounds clever.’
Crystal rolls onto her side and stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray. A wisp of smoke rises from the crumpled butt. She picks up Moss’s hand and notices his missing wedding ring. Sitting upright, she bends the finger backwards until he cries out in pain.
‘Where is it?’
‘What?’
‘Your wedding ring.’
‘They took it off me in solitary and didn’t give it back.’
‘Did you ask ’em nicely?’
‘I fought for it, babe.’
‘You’re not trying to act single on me.’
‘No way.’
‘’Cos if I thought you were being unfaithful, I’d slice little Moss off and throw him to the dogs. Am I making myself clear?’
‘Crystal.’
18
The cell phone is bouncing across the kitchen table. Special Agent Desiree Furness saves it from toppling off the edge. Her boss is calling, hoarse and half asleep. Not a morning person.
‘Audie Palmer was seen in The Woodlands yesterday morning.’
‘Who saw him?’
‘A sheriff’s wife.’
‘What was Palmer doing in the Woodlands?’
‘Jogging.’
Desiree grabs her jacket and puts her pistol in the shoulder holster. She’s still eating a piece of toast when she skips down the outside stairs, waving to her landlord Mr Sackville, who lives beneath her and keep tabs on her comings and goings through a crack in his curtains. She drives north against the rush-hour traffic and pulls up twenty minutes later in front of a large house, partially hidden by trees. A police cruiser is sitting in the driveway with two uniformed deputies inside, playing games on their cell phones.
Desiree straightens her shoulders in a familiar attempt to appear taller as she shows them her badge and walks to the front door. Her fringe is too short to be pinned up and keeps falling over one eye. She warned her hairdresser not to trim too much off, but he didn
’t listen.
Sandy Valdez opens the door on a security chain, speaking through the six-inch gap. She’s dressed in a tight top, Lycra leggings, ankle socks and cross-trainers.
‘My husband is dropping Max at school,’ she says in the kind of voice you hear from educated southern women.
‘It’s you I wanted to see.’
‘I already told the police everything.’
‘I’d appreciate you being just as considerate with me.’
Sandy unlatches the chain and escorts Desiree through the house to the sunroom. She’s a size ten, blonde hair, smooth skin. Pretty. The house is tastefully furnished with just a hint that the eye was trying too hard to be stylish, poring over interior design magazines without ever settling on a theme.
Refreshments are offered … declined. There is a brief moment when both women run out of small talk and Desiree looks around the room as though contemplating an offer.
Sandy notices Desiree’s shoes.
‘They must hurt your feet and your back.’
‘You get used to it.’
‘How tall are you?’
‘Tall enough.’ Desiree gets to the point. ‘What did you and Audie Palmer talk about?’
‘The neighbourhood,’ says Sandy. ‘He told me he’d just moved into a place around the corner. I said he should join the country club to make some friends. I felt sorry for him.’
‘Why?’
‘He said his wife had died.’
‘What else did he talk to you about?’
Sandy tries to think. ‘He said he was doing some audit for his company. I thought he’d moved into the old Whitaker place. You will catch him, won’t you?’
‘We’re doing everything we can.’
Sandy nods, but doesn’t look reassured.
‘Did anyone else see him?’
‘Max, our son.’
‘Where was he?’
‘Riding his skateboard out front of the garage. I came home from the store and Palmer was standing beside the driveway, stretching.’
‘Did Max talk to him?’
‘Not then.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He saw him later at the Mews – it’s not far away. Max was riding his skateboard and Palmer was sitting on a park bench. I told the other detectives all this.’ Sandy is wringing her hands in her lap. ‘Ryan wanted to keep Max home today, but he’ll be safe at school, won’t he? I mean, we’re doing the right thing by acting like nothing is wrong. I don’t want Max growing up thinking the world is full of monsters.’
‘I’m sure you made the right decision,’ says Desiree, who isn’t used to having such a sisterly conversation. ‘Had you ever met Audie Palmer before yesterday?’
‘No.’
‘Why do you think he came to your house?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘Not to me.’
‘It was Ryan who shot him – everybody knows that. Audie Palmer got one in the head. He probably should have died and saved everyone a lot of trouble. Either that or gone to the chair – not that I believe in executing people willy-nilly, but four people died, for God’s sake!’
‘You think Audie Palmer wants revenge?’
‘I do.’
‘How would you describe his demeanour?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Did he seem agitated? Stressed? Angry?’
‘He was sweating a lot – but I figured he’d just been running.’
‘And apart from that?’
‘He looked relaxed … like he didn’t have a care in the world.’
Less than two miles away, Ryan Valdez pulls through the school gates and turns off the radio. It always amazes him, the people who call into talkback shows to spout their prejudices and publicise their ignorance. Don’t they have anything better to do than to bitch about the state of things, which were always better in ‘the good old days’, as though time had mellowed their memories, turning vinegar into wine?
‘So we’re clear. You wait to be picked up. You don’t leave the school. You don’t talk to any more strangers…’
Max takes out an ear-bud from his ear. ‘So what did this guy do?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘I think I should know.’
‘He stole a bunch of money.’
‘How much?’
‘A lot.’
‘And you arrested him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you shoot him?’
‘He was shot.’
Max looks genuinely impressed. ‘And now he’s come back to get you?’
‘No.’
‘Why else would he come to our house?’
‘Let me worry about that. And don’t go upsetting your mom by asking her questions.’
‘Is this Audie Palmer scary?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He didn’t look very dangerous.’
‘Looks can be deceiving. He’s a killer. Remember that.’
‘Maybe you should let me carry a gun?’
‘You’re not taking a gun to school.’
Max sighs in disgust and opens the door. He joins the tide of students funnelling through the gates. Valdez watches him walk to the main doors, wondering if he’ll turn back or wave. The answer is no.
When the boy disappears, he takes out his cell and puts in a call into the Dreyfus County Sheriff’s Office. He talks to his most senior deputy, Hank Poljak, and tells him to contact every dispatcher in Houston and the surrounding counties.
‘If Audie Palmer is sighted I want to know first.’
‘Anything else?’ asks Hank.
‘Yeah, I won’t be in the office today.’
19
The cab surfs the freeway traffic under the sun’s red stare. Audie gazes out of the tinted windows at the ocean of soulless strip malls, red-tiled houses and cheap prefab warehouses with razor wire along the rooftops and bars on the windows. When did Houston start dragging its knuckles? It had always been a strange city – a collection of neighbourhoods, like Los Angeles, where people commuted from home to work, barely interacting with one another. The only difference is that Houston is a destination while LA is merely a stop-off on a journey to somewhere better.
The cab driver is foreign, but Audie has no idea where he’s from. One of those tragic countries, he supposes, a land beset by dictators or fanatics or famine. He has dark skin, more olive than brown, and receding hair that seems to be slipping backward off his head. Opening the sliding window between the front and back, he tries to start a conversation, but Audie isn’t interested. Instead his mind wanders back to when he left Carl on the banks of the Trinity River.
There are moments in life when important choices have to be made. If we’re lucky we get to make them, but more often they’re made for us. Carl wasn’t at the river when Audie got back with the police and paramedics. There were no bloody bandages, no messages or apologies. Audie knew what had happened, but didn’t tell anyone. It was more out of respect for his parents than for Carl. The police wanted Audie charged with wasting their time and kept him in custody for another twelve hours before they allowed him to go home.
Weeks went by and Carl’s name disappeared from the headlines. In January Audie returned to college and was summoned to the Dean’s office. His scholarship was being withdrawn because he was a ‘person of interest’ in a cop killing.
‘I didn’t do anything wrong,’ said Audie.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said the Dean. ‘And when this is all sorted out and your brother is found, you can reapply and the admissions officer will assess your eligibility and character.’
Audie packed up his things and withdrew his savings and bought a cheap car and headed west, putting miles between the past and whatever was coming. The Caddie rattled and banged across fifteen hundred miles, always threatening to perish, but displaying a will to survive that people normally attribute to sentient beings. Audie had never seen the sun set over the ocean. He’d never seen anyone surf in real li
fe. In southern California he saw both. Bel-Air, Malibu, Venice Beach – famous names, images from films and TV shows.
It was different being on the west coast. The women smelled of sun oil and moisturiser instead of lavender and talcum. They talked about themselves and were obsessed with materialism, spiritualism, therapy and style. The men were tanned, with thick shiny hair or oiled skulls, wearing hundred-dollar shirts and three-hundred-dollar shoes. They were fixers, hustlers, stoners, dreamers, actors, writers, movers and shakers.
Driving as far north as Seattle, Audie worked as a barman, a bouncer, a packer, a fruit picker and a delivery guy. He stayed in cheap motels and doss houses, or occasionally with women who took him home. After travelling for six months he walked into Urban Covic’s skin joint, twenty miles north of San Diego. It was darker than a cave except for the spotlighted stage where a pale girl with flesh climbing over the rim of her panties was polishing a silver pole with her thighs. A dozen men in suits gave her encouragement or pretended not to notice. Most of them were college boys or working stiffs trying to impress their Japanese business partners.
These southern Californian girls seemed to enjoy their work, torqueing and thrusting in the time-honoured fashion, earning every note that found its way into their G-strings and bra straps.
The manager had a comb sticking out of his shirt pocket and hair slicked back in wet-looking ridges like a freshly ploughed field.
‘Got any work?’ asked Audie.
‘We don’t need any musicians.’
‘I’m not a musician. I can work the bar.’
The manager took out his comb and ran it over his scalp, front to back. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-one.’
‘Experience?’
‘Some.’
He gave Audie a form to fill out and said he could work a shift unpaid as a trial. Audie proved himself to be a hard worker. He didn’t drink. He didn’t smoke. He didn’t sniff. He didn’t gamble. He didn’t try to screw the girls.
Apart from the bar and the rooms, Urban Covic also owned the Mexican restaurant next door and the gas station opposite. These attracted families and helped him launder some of the money he earned from his other less lawful activities. Audie started work at eight most nights and went through until four in the morning. They let him eat at the restaurant first. It had a rear courtyard with a grapevine trellis and stucco walls banked with wine bottles.
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