Power Slide

by Susan Dunlap

  My phone nearly vibrated off my hip. I flipped it open. Missed messages were lined up, looming, like clouds out of the Gulf of Alaska in January. John. John again. Gracie. Gary. Mom. Gary again. Janice. Janice, the nice one! She’d called me maybe three times in my entire life and one of those was when I got married. We were as close to acquaintances as biological sisters can get. Her message tempted me, but I went for John’s latest. “A couple of digits off? You had reversed two pair!” Leave it to John to lead with complaint! “But it’s the VIN for the Mustang GT used in the movie. Car was sold four times and then reported stolen end of last year. Where is it! Call me.”

  Good work, John! I was sure he could run down the info, but not that fast. Computer-wary as he was, he must have called in a favor from the tech guys. I could have called back and asked. Instead I reconsidered what had happened yesterday. First I surprised Melissa in the house with the stolen Oscar. Then I called Blink with the news the cops were outside. He pulled that snazzy maneuver, sideswiping the patrol car, giving the cops a lure they couldn’t refuse. I’d assumed it was to get me out of the garage free. But what if it had been to allow her to get the Mustang out of there? I had to give the guy credit for panache.

  I almost wished she’d pulled it off alone, but, no, she had to be in it with Blink. No way she’d leave her own car near Guthrie’s house when she drove off in the Mustang. Damn Blink! The guy gave her a lift there. Had to be that!

  She wasn’t Guthrie’s wife—

  Was she—“Oh, shit!”—Blink’s wife?

  No wonder he wouldn’t let me in the house!

  No wonder, so I wouldn’t see her? Or the Mustang? I was piling suppositions upon suppositions, but if, indeed, she was in this with Blink, where else would she hide a hot car fast? These might be suppositions, but they were going to be easy to test.

  Things were about to come together. For the first time since Guthrie died I felt hopeful.

  I hit the gas, coming as close to speeding as possible in this old vehicle. And I started through the rest of my phone messages.

  John: “I’m at SFO. I’ll be south of Matamoros by morning. I got word from my guy in Brownsville across the border there. They’ve discovered another one of those unmarked gravesites, could be ten years old. There are reasons to believe some are Anglos, kept separate, much better preserved. Looks like they were buried with possessions, so maybe . . .” His breath hit the phone, slow, thick, as if he were putting off something he couldn’t bring himself to say. “Amazing, but . . . one of them still has some red hairs . . . curly.”

  Curly red hair, like Mike’s. Like my own.

  I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. I stared at the phone, not seeing it. It couldn’t come to this; it just couldn’t. Mike could not be dead. He couldn’t have been dead all this time. No! It wasn’t true. I would have known if he died; I would have felt it.

  Wind slapped my face. The body in Mexico, it didn’t mean anything. There are two hundred million Americans, not to mention Canadians, Brits, Australians, and Europeans, who could be called Anglos. Hundreds of thousands with red hair. Thousands with wavy—not wiry—dark red hair. It wouldn’t be Mike.

  John would have thought that. And still he was on his way there.

  I clicked on the next message.

  Gary: “John’s going to Mexico. I’m checking international law. I can’t believe . . . God, I hope this is nothing. Call me.”

  Gracie: “I know you heard from John. Odds are—But, look, Mike could take care of himself . . . bottom line, he’d survive.”

  Mom in tears. I couldn’t make out a word.

  No! I couldn’t bear to think of Mom like that. Suddenly my face was wet; I could barely see to drive.

  Gary: “I’ve got the best guy in the state on international law. Whatever we have to do, we’ll do pronto. This whole thing sounds crazy, but you know, Darce, ragged as Mike was that fall—He hated working for Dad. It’s my fault. I should never have goaded him. When he didn’t go back to school that semester, I was on him all the time about freeloading. If he wasn’t going to school, get a job. I just kept at it. And Katy, too—I know she feels terrible—she shamed Dad into taking him. Still, though—”

  The message had run out. He called again with the oft-uttered mantra of us Lotts. “Mike would never hurt the family.”

  Janice: “Mom called me about Mike and the bodies outside Matamoros. I guess John left for there yesterday. No one ever tells me anything. Sometimes, I think they forget I even exist. It’s like Berkeley’s on the other side of the country instead of the Bay. I mean, except Mom. But I’m not calling you to complain about that; that’s not your . . . Never mind. I mean, the thing is, I don’t want you to worry. Drugs and voodoo and murders in Mexico: it’s common knowledge. Mike’s not a fool. You may not have realized it because you were a kid, but Mike and I . . . I know him. Anyway, what I’m saying is, don’t worry, I mean, despite—”

  Don’t worry, indeed! I couldn’t even stop shaking. I couldn’t remember the last time I cried. I knuckled the tears from my eyes, but it was useless. I kept thinking: one day I don’t think about Mike and I let him die.

  Why did guys just assume they could do any asshole thing and survive? Mike, and, dammit, Guthrie.

  I was desperate to put off the question none of my siblings had raised. When would we see the possessions that’d been buried with the bodies? When would each one of us have to go through them, desperately hoping to recognize nothing? I couldn’t leave the family hanging again. I needed to get home and be ready.

  I focused on the road, and by dusk I was on Blink’s street. I gritted my teeth and pulled the old pickup into his driveway.

  24

  I WAS READY for Blink’s wife to come running out at the sight of his ride. But not all wives are homecoming cheerleaders. It was dark enough to have lights on, but she didn’t. Which didn’t necessarily mean she wasn’t home.

  The lot was protected on one side by a creek, on the other by a stand of trees. The backyard was large, wooded, overgrown, more of an East Coast yard than the normal manicured and fenced California plot. No place to hide anything.

  But the house was a two-story affair, as if it had been raised to allow for an above-ground basement. Home improvement for thieves? An entry door led from the driveway. A circuit of the house showed that every window was curtained off or covered with thick shades. To keep the light out or the curious from peeking in?

  I actually laughed! Thank goodness the place was empty; I was too light-headed to confront anyone. I’d grabbed some junk food at a gas station, but otherwise I couldn’t remember when I’d last eaten. But I had to stay, to watch, to be ready. I’d forgotten about Mike all day and look what had happened.

  Oh, shit, I really was losing it.

  I considered my options. I needed to sort, to plan, to call one of my siblings. I needed to charge my phone. Needed to eat. Needed coffee, really needed coffee. I climbed into my own little rental car and headed toward the ocean.

  Luck was with me. I found a Peet’s Coffee in a mall minutes before it was closing and left with two triple espressos. I stashed one in the car for an emergency, and took the other to a burger place and ordered the cholesterol special minus the roll. Bread’ll put you to sleep faster than you can chew. But the bacon cheeseburger with fried mushrooms, I was counting on that to keep me going. I slipped the counter kids ten bucks to plug in my phone and took my meat and coffee as far as the cord would stretch.

  I was calling my sister Janice before I realized I’d chosen her as my least-close sibling. “Janice, it’s me. Listen, I’ve got two minutes. Anything new?”

  “No, I mean, not that I’ve heard, but that doesn’t signify anything really. It’s not like they’d tell me any—”

  No wonder no one ever called her! “Will you phone Mom—No wait, make that Gracie.”

  “I really hate calling Gracie. She doesn’t say anything directly, but just her tone—”

  “Okay, Mom then
. Surely Mom likes you.” I could hear Gracie in my own voice! “Tell her I’m in L.A., trying to find out about Guthrie’s—”

  “I’m so sorry about him. You’ve had a hard time with guys. When I heard about this one I really hoped it’d work for you. He sounded so right. It’s just awful. I’m really sorry.”

  “Yeah, thanks. But the point is his friend—”

  “The one with the Mustang from Bullitt? Do you need any more background on the car? I can do an advanced search and—”

  “John called you for that?”

  “Hey, I know the Net. How do you—”

  “Sorry. I just figured he’d heavy-handed some rookie.” I also figured Janice would carry on with her gripe.

  But she surprised me with: “Do you remember Mike?”

  “What? Hey, there’s not a day—”

  “I’m not asking about your emotional hangover, Darcy. Or the pictures of what might be. Do you remember him as he was?”

  Whew! “Of course I do. Better than anyone.”

  “That’s exactly what everyone in the family says.”

  “No way! They’re into self-deception, then. None of them was anywhere near as close as I was.”

  “Close isn’t knowing. It can be just the opposite.”

  What was with my sister? “Whatever. I gotta go.”

  “I’m just saying, remember Mike, the guy who planned that big birthday bash for you in Golden Gate Park. The guy who knew the secret paths in Sutro Baths—which, incidentally, he learned from me. Does that sound like someone who’d stumble into a seedy bar in Matamoros and swallow whatever he was offered?”

  “Listen, you want to do something useful? You’re the family geek, right? I’m looking for this guy named Ryan Hammond. Normal spelling. Go online and get me anything you can, okay?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Thanks. I gotta go!” I hung up with the same mix of frustration and guilt that ended every conversation with her. The woman was infuriating. Did all her phone calls end with people slamming down the phone? Who the hell was she to think she knew Mike better than I did? Me, who did my homework on the floor of his room. Me, whose room he used to make secret phone calls. Me who took the heat for those calls past my bedtime. Me, whom he taught to drive and to dance when Gracie and know-it-all Janice couldn’t be bothered. Me!

  I wrapped the rest of my food, unplugged my barely charged phone, and made for the car.

  When I pulled up outside Blink’s, the only thing that’d changed was the clock. An hour and a quarter had passed. If the woman was behind the curtains in the dark, she could wait me out forever. I’d killed enough time here. She might be tops at theft and hot-wiring, but she’d be no match for me. I climbed the six steps to the porch and rang the doorbell. And when no one answered, I rang again and kept my finger on it. “Come on, dammit! I know you’re there! If you don’t answer the door, I’ll have every cop—”

  Hands grabbed me from behind, one over my mouth. I elbowed back hard. A woman gasped but didn’t ease up. She slammed me into the wall. I kicked back into her shin, switched quick and kicked the other leg, thrust my weight full toward the stairs, and sent us both toppling down. She let go midway and I rolled, caught the side of the staircase, and flipped myself so I landed in a squat. She was on her back, winded. I yanked her up, pulled her arm behind her. “Where’s Ryan Hammond?”

  “What?”

  “Ryan Hammond? Take me to him.”

  “How would I know—”

  “That’s your problem. My—”

  But my problem was behind me. Then it was over my mouth and around my arms. And this time I couldn’t get loose.

  25

  “SO YOU’RE BLINK’S wife, never Guthrie’s wife, and no longer Ryan Hammond’s girlfriend? Which is it?” I wasn’t in the best position to be shooting demands—on the sofa, hands and feet tied. Blink shrugged me off, like one more thing in a day that had forced him to drive one of Zahra’s clunkers back here and was now stretching to eternity.

  Not so Melissa, the same not-so-small blonde who’d tossed me like bag of groceries twice in two days. Whatever had made me take her for a fearful young wife yesterday was sure gone now. She was in jeans, a work shirt, now ripped and dirt-streaked, and hard-toed boots. She had the look of one of those pointer dogs focused only on its own goal. “Who did you tell about our house?”

  No one. “My brother’s a police inspector, do you think I would be crazy enough to come over here alone, at night, without a call?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Check my phone, my last couple of outgoing messages. Feel free to call. Name’s John. That’s Inspector John Lott.”

  Doubt flickered on her face, then disappeared. Her hand shot out and my phone vanished in it. “There’s a Frisco number.”

  “Your local cops’ll never get so good a chance to ingratiate themselves with a big shot in a big cop shop.”

  That got her attention. She gave a crisp nod toward the hallway and Blink followed her out.

  The living room could have been any upper-middle-class setup not inhabited by Blink or intended for a hog-tied victim. It had the look of a parlor entered only for dusting, the kind displayed by people with family rooms filled with dogs, clutter, and giant TVs.

  In the kitchen her voice rose: “Your fault . . . rid of her . . . in the whole fucking desert.” How “rid” did she mean? His grumble was too low to make out.

  Again, her: “Dumpster.”

  Dumpster!

  He was disagreeing.

  Her: “Okay, okay. You’re right. Too close . . . your stupid fault for letting her come here. What’s the matter with you? This was the perfect property—perfect. When are we ever going to find another basement like this? Damn you, Blink. Now we’re going to have to clean out, clean it out good, and—”

  He muttered something.

  She: “Okay, yeah, too close. They’d be on us before we got out of the county, before we could boost new plates. But . . . container . . .”

  Him: “not breathe.”

  “All the better,” she said as she slammed back into the living room.

  I heard her footsteps, felt the air on my sweat-coated shoulders. I inhaled and exhaled and inhaled again. “So, are you going to wipe down Guthrie’s house, too? They’ll trace me there, find your fingerprints all over. You can never clean them all up. You’re tied to me. No way you can change that now.”

  She swung her arm and slammed her fist into the side of my face. My eyes went blurry. “Stop that!” I yelled. “Look, we’ve got the same problem here. So stop with this ‘getting rid of her’ business and focus on our mutual problem.”

  “Which is?” She had stopped in front of me.

  “Ryan Hammond. Lookit, Guthrie was killed in San Francisco. Who was Guthrie’s partner in crime back there? Ryan Hammond. Who knew the other missing member of that gang? Him. Guthrie’s got a house here. Whose contraband was in it? Ryan Hammond’s.” I was going with the story of Ryan Hammond as the Oscar thief, trusting she wouldn’t guess Zahra Raintree had incriminated her. “Where is Ryan Hammond?”

  She was about to hit me again, for the pleasure of it. She caught herself. “Ryan? How would I know where he is?”

  “Tell me and I’m gone.”

  She looked at me a moment, then she laughed.

  I hadn’t expected her to buy that, but it was worth a try.

  Blink dropped into a padded chair behind her.

  I sat up as straight as my bound hands would allow. “Okay, we’re all pros here. You’re burglars and fences. No way are you going to let me walk out of here. I heard you talking ‘container’ back there.”

  “But?” she said, still looking amused.

  But what? What chip did I have? “Those cops who came flying up to Guthrie’s house, did you call them?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Right. So let me tell you how come they were there. My brother, the San Francisco detective, knew I was there. No, wait, I’m
not saying he sent them. You’ve got a bigger problem than that. One of his colleagues, in charge of Guthrie’s murder investigation, told me not to leave town—San Francisco. When I bolted, she called Guthrie’s agent and he gave her the address.”

  “You’re saying she’s concerned about you?”

  I forced a laugh. “Not hardly. The woman’s got a bug up her butt about me. If she had her way, I’d be arrested every time I ran an amber. If you”—I didn’t want to say “kill,” on the off chance that wasn’t really their plan—“If I don’t come home, my brother will trail you for the rest of your lives. But if she—Inspector Higgins—thinks I’m mocking her and her order, she’ll be a pit bull at your throat. She’ll use every reciprocity, call in every debt SFPD has. She’ll do it now. She won’t eat or sleep till she shows me who’s boss. And if that means tracking you down and sending you to Corcoran, that’ll be an extra gold star on her chest.”

  Melissa stared down at me. “We’ll take our chances.”

  Which will be better without dragging me with you. Damn, what could I trade? What?

  She gave me a snort of disgust—the woman was Higgins’s soulmate!—and headed through the hallway. “Blink, get off your ass. We gotta move!”

  He shifted in his chair but didn’t stand. His eyes were half-closed.

  “Hey, we don’t have time for this!”

  He dragged himself up and came back through the living room, lugging a box that might once have held a television. “Honey-love, I’ve exited more venues than you ever staged.”

  “Oh, for chrissakes,” I blurted out. “Can’t you even call your wife by name?”

  He started, then kept going. But I’d hit a nerve with Melissa. She shot through the living room, cut him off at the stairs, and kept going. Doors banged, and the couch shook, bouncing me forward and back against my tied wrists.

  They didn’t want to hands-on kill me; they just wanted me dead. Nervous crooks with problems, John always said, were the worst adversaries. Melissa would snap and shoot before she realized she had a gun in her hand. Or, more likely, she’d stuff me in a container, toss in more stuff, and let me smother before the top was sealed.