‘Office Dodds,’ Kate asked. ‘You mean, so he can help?’
‘I can’t take a weapon on the plane with me, but I don’t feel good doing all this unarmed. He can get me a gun,’ Malcolm said.
‘Bill Matthews,’ Kate said. ‘Talk about a common name.’ Suddenly, she put down her fork and began to cry, little shuddering sobs. ‘I, I, I’ve never heard of a Bill Matthews,’ she sobbed.
‘Come on,’ said Malcolm, more to cheer her up than anything else. ‘Everybody’s heard of a Bill Matthews.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
It was late afternoon by the time Malcolm’s plane landed at the Newark airport, and even later by the time he picked up the rental car and hit the freeway. One of these days he’d get one of those smartphones with the GPS app, but for now he had directions to a house written down. He drove directly there. A brick one-story in the heart of suburbia, kid’s bicycle in the driveway, basketball hoop on the garage door.
Malcolm parked, started to get out of the rental car, when Officer Matt Dodds came out of the house, carrying a plastic bag from Target. Malcolm got back in, lowered the window.
‘Afternoon!’ Officer Dodds said.
‘Afternoon!’
‘Good flight?’
‘It landed,’ Malcolm said.
Officer Matt Dodds handed Malcolm the plastic bag; it was heavier than it looked. ‘Much obliged,’ Malcolm said.
‘You take care now,’ said Officer Dodds.
He’d gone online late the night before and looked up all the motels in a ten-mile radius of the house on Roscommon Drive. Basically, that included the area where he and Kate had stayed the last time and then a couple more a few miles down the freeway. If the guy had out-of-state plates, there was a chance he might have checked into one of them. Also a chance he’d be wearing the big black glasses. Also a chance, Malcolm thought, by now feeling weary of chance, he would have paid for the motel with a credit card and the card just might have his real name on it.
Unless, of course, his name actually was Bill Matthews.
It was all worth checking out – many a case had been solved due to plain old stupidity on the part of the perp. Even smart guys could be stupid once in a while.
He’d brought his badge from Mesa PD, figured it would give him some credibility. He planned to hit all the motels, and it would only take one, just one, person remembering something, which might lead to something else, which might lead to this whoever he was, this Bill Matthews guy. He had a theory, though it was usually best to avoid those, but he’d had this theory for a while and was still liking it – the actual shooter wasn’t connected directly to Wes and Carrie, but was acting on behalf of someone else who was connected to them. A hired killer.
But how, how, did Kate fit in? Was he right in thinking she knew something she didn’t know that she knew? Or the killer thought she did? He wished he could stop thinking for just a little while, stop obsessing – he’d heard of old retired cops who never stopped thinking about certain unsolved cases, lay on their death beds, surrounded with what was left of their estranged families, still mulling over certain details, still thinking, still figuring out.
Then a new thought occurred to him. Something he wanted to ask Rose, Carrie’s sister. He called the cellphone number she’d given him, but no one answered, and a female robot informed him she had not yet set up her voicemail.
He checked into the same motel in the suburban area – Jack in the Box, Burger King, McDonald’s, Kentucky Colonel, Wendy’s and Kroger’s – where he had before. There was a different clerk at the check-in desk than the one who’d been there the last time. He flashed his Mesa PD badge, but the kid working there had no memory of a man wearing ugly black glasses, driving a Toyota with out-of-state plates who might or might not be called Bill, or William, Matthews, at the dates he supplied. No one at the desks of the other three motels in the same area remembered anything either, but they all took Malcolm’s cell number in case of a sudden memory – anything: some little altercation, a casual remark that struck home, odd behavior.
And then, why not? He wasn’t really tired, so he drove the five-mile stretch to the next batch of motels – two at a smaller plaza, just a Subway and a Pizza Hut, and found no one there with any memory of a man with ugly black glasses. Surprise. But in spite of everything he had a feeling he was getting closer, closing in. After all, he’d left his card at every motel in a ten-mile radius. He drove back.
His room was one door down from where he’d stayed before, a few doors down from Kate’s old room. He stopped in and took a long shower. As if for old times’ sake he ate at the same McDonald’s where only a few days ago he and Kate had been, sat in the same booth on the same hard orange seat, had a quarter-pounder with cheese.
Tomorrow, get up early, start checking with the daytime staff in the motels. Also, he wanted to talk directly to Steve Anderson, the realtor, show him the picture of the woman in the bathing suit at Tall Pine Lake. Why? Because it didn’t quite fit in with the basic emptiness of the rest of the house. You had to pay attention to the details. What was that expression? The devil’s in the details.
He looked up Evan Bright Realty on his laptop, found out it opened at nine. He planned to park out front in his rental car around eight thirty and try to catch this Steve Anderson on his way in. He spent a sleepless night thinking about all this and more.
Without him as a bodyguard on her couch, Kate was staying over at Dakota’s. There she would be relatively safe, but how long could this go on? And what did relatively safe mean, anyway? At some point in his sleepless night, after Letterman, during the reruns of tired old sitcom shows, it came to him, as if he didn’t already know it, that no matter what you did you could never make another person entirely safe.
Then dread, the black dog, came over him suddenly.
Nothing, nothing he had done had ever helped Cindy as she moved forward slowly and inexorably to her death. It seemed to him he had to save Kate or he would die too.
Kate mostly walked everywhere in Dudley, but after work she drove her car to Dakota’s so it wouldn’t be just sitting there in her driveway waiting for someone to plant a bomb in it or something. She parked it under a street light several doors away from Dakota’s. The box of mail was still in the back seat where she’d left it two or three days ago, so she took it with her to sort through later, along with the box of takeout – Moorish chicken kabobs with quinoa tabbouleh – from the High Desert Market.
‘So,’ said Dakota as they sat on her patio eating the takeout. ‘Where’s your boyfriend now?’
‘He went back to New Jersey. And he’s not my boyfriend. I don’t intend to have another boyfriend for a very long time.’
‘Suit yourself.’
So Dakota would shut up, Kate went into the house and brought out the box of mail and began to sort through it, tossing catalogs and things addressed ‘Resident’. ‘There is nothing,’ she said, ‘nothing here. Oh, wait. This is from my friend Mandy in New York that I stayed with. A DVD she made of a bunch of videos – me and a lot of other people being stupid when we were young. Let’s watch it later.’
‘Is your ex in it?’ asked Dakota. ‘Rick?’
‘Probably. And Ellen, who turned out not to be Ellen – the old friend?’
‘One of the Ooblecks.’
‘Yes. She’ll probably be in it too. You know what? I don’t think I’m ready for this. Maybe tomorrow night.’
‘You know what else?’ said Dakota. ‘Let’s do a dinner and movie night tomorrow, invite Biker Bill. We kind of owe him. I’ve got that Jim Jarmusch movie, Dead Man. Biker Bill loves Jim Jarmusch. We can watch your DVD after.’
THIRTY-NINE
Melody got someone else to babysit the gallery and spent most of the morning in thrift stores – not only locally, but in Douglas too, the next town over – before she found what she was looking for. Then she hung around the county offices that afternoon until she saw the tamale lady drive up in her old battered Ford.
<
br /> ‘Señora!’ she called out to her. ‘Tamales?’
The tamale lady nodded her head vigorously ‘Si, si.’
‘Green corn?’
‘Si.’
She bought a dozen, stopped by the Co-op – Hi, Windsong! Hi, Posey! – and bought some of the Co-op’s all-organic salsa and some sour cream. She carried her bags up the hill and into the house. She put them in the refrigerator way at the back where he wouldn’t see them. She wanted them to be a surprise.
‘What you got there?’ he called out to her.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Melody?’
‘What?
‘I’ve been thinking …’
She went into the living room. He was on the couch with a book. He told her he planned to read everything ever written by Roberto Bolaño. She’d gone to the library and checked out everything they had. Right now he was on The Savage Detectives, which was going to take him a while.
‘Thinking about what?’ she asked.
‘That gun.’ He scratched his face – he was growing out a beard, and it was itchy. ‘The one your ex left here. You said it wasn’t loaded?’
‘That’s right. It’s not.’
‘It might be good if you got some ammo for it.’
She sighed. ‘Everyone says not to, that if someone breaks in and tries to steal it, they could shoot me.’
‘Melody, cheez.’
‘All right, all right.’
Around six, which was when they were in the habit of eating, she steamed the green corn tamales and made a salad. He tried to come into the kitchen while she was doing this, but she wouldn’t let him.
She didn’t have a dining room – they ate at a table in one corner of the center room. She set it with the salsa, the salad and the sour cream.
‘Ta-dah!’ she said as she carried out the tamales.
He was happy, and they ate eight of them. She had three, and he had five.
Afterwards she brought out the shirt and the hat she’d found at the thrift store. The shirt was Hawaiian, printed with palm trees, the hat a straw fedora. Chico tried them on, and they both fit him perfectly.
Everyone looking for Chico, everyone, thought Melody with pride, but it was her door he came to late that night, blood all over his head but alive. Alive.
FORTY
First thing the next morning Malcolm grabbed a coffee at McDonald’s and cruised Roscommon Drive, car window down in the morning cool, obsessing a little. At 350, the yellow roses were still blooming. A woman walked her dog. The green grass was dewy and sweet smelling.
Then he drove to Evan Bright Realty and parked a few doors down. It was eight thirty. Two women showed up first, talking animatedly, one of them plumpish and carrying a box of Dunkin Donuts. About ten of nine a third woman in a bright-red suit came along and vanished through the glass door. Then nobody.
Malcolm yawned and glanced at his watch. He’d had about an hour’s sleep last night. Ten after, quarter after. Damn. Might as well see what was happening. He got out of his car and went inside. Four desks, all of them occupied, three by the women he’d seen going in and a fourth by a man. Either he’d been there before Malcolm arrived or there was a back door.
They all looked at him as if he were their potential next best friend, and God knows working for a realty company in this day and age you needed all the friends you could get.
‘Steve Anderson?’ Malcolm said.
The man stood up, good-looking in a waspy forgettable sort of way, and came towards him, hand outstretched. Big grin. ‘C’est moi,’ he said.
The woman closest to Malcolm rolled her eyes.
‘Mr Anderson,’ Malcolm said.
‘Please, call me Steve.’
‘Steve. I’m Malcolm MacGregor. We spoke on the phone.’
For a second, Steve Anderson looked surprised. ‘No shit,’ he said. ‘You came all the way from Arizona?’
‘That I did.’
‘Then I’d say you deserve a medal. You’re really hot on this. Tell you what, I’m not engaged at the moment, and I haven’t had breakfast. There’s a Denny’s right down the street. We can go there and talk. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.’
At Denny’s, they sat in a booth. Steve described in detail the man with the ugly black glasses – brown hair, big nose, chapped lips (‘I noticed that ’cause he kept licking them, you know?’) – and what had transpired between them as he devoured the lumberjack slam breakfast, which included eggs, pancakes, sausage, bacon, toast and home fries. Malcolm sipped coffee.
Nothing Steve told him added anything new, really, to what he had told Malcolm on the phone.
‘Ah!’ Steve pushed his plate away, wiped his mouth. ‘Good Lord.’ He picked up his coffee cup, then set it down without taking a sip. ‘Good Lord,’ he said again. ‘I have to say, this whole thing is some story. What I can’t figure out is why someone would want to play a trick like that on your friend.’
‘I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
‘So she sends you.’ He laughed. ‘Can’t blame her if she never comes back here. So, she’s safe and sound in – where is it in Arizona you’re from again?’
‘Dudley.’
‘What was her name again?’
‘Kate. Kate Waters.’
‘Ahh. Kate. Ka-Ka-Ka-Katie. It’s just nutso, you know what I mean, the whole thing, and—’ Steve Anderson smiled – ‘even more surprising is that she fell for it. What I don’t get, to be honest, is you flying all the way from Arizona to check things out. It seems like a stupid trick, but—’ He shrugged. ‘It was just a joke, after all.’ He paused and looked bemused. ‘Wasn’t it?’
‘It’s linked to a homicide investigation,’ Malcolm said. ‘A double homicide, actually.’
‘No shit!’ He leaned back in the booth. ‘No fucking shit. Wow. I mean, like, how linked?’
‘I’m not sure, exactly. That’s why I’m here.’ Malcolm slid the copy of the photograph of the woman at Tall Pine Lake out of its Manila envelope and pushed it over to Steve Anderson. ‘You got any idea who this is?’
Steve Anderson looked at it, held it up to the light by the window. ‘Nope. Not a clue.’
‘On the back it says Tall Pine Lake.’
‘Sure. Tall Pine Lake. That’s a hundred miles or so from here. Lots of people from this area have a cottage there. Been there myself but I never—’ he shrugged and pushed the photo back – ‘saw her there. Not that you can tell what she looks like, anyway. What’s the point of showing me this?’
‘It was in the house, that’s all.’
‘Probably left there by the relatives.’
‘It was in one of the bedrooms. On a bedside table. Do you recall seeing it there?’
‘As a matter of fact, I do not. Huh. Funny. You’d think I’d notice something like that.’ He shrugged. ‘But maybe not. Weird.’
The waitress came over with a full pot. Malcolm shook his head; Steve gave her a big smile and covered his cup.
‘What was the name of the owner of three fifty Roscommon, by the way?’ Malcolm asked. ‘I’m not sure I ever knew it.’
‘Madigan. Emily Madigan.’
‘Emily Madigan,’ said Malcolm. ‘Anyway, I’d like to have the number for the relatives – see if it rings a bell with them.’
‘No prob.’ Steve whipped out his cellphone. ‘Got it here in my contacts.’
Malcolm punched it into his.
‘How long do you plan to be around?’ Steve asked.
‘I booked a flight out, red-eye, day after tomorrow.’
Steve sighed. ‘Well, anything I can do to help—’ His face radiated goodwill, concern. ‘Give me a call.’ Then for a second he looked lost. ‘Whew,’ he said.
He seemed like a good guy.
Suddenly, Malcolm was worried for him, almost like a premonition. ‘Don’t do any investigating on your own, okay?’
Poor old Steve, thought Malcolm as he drove to the plaza with the two motels to
check with the daytime staff. He’d probably ruined his day. Or maybe not. Some people were jazzed up by crime, disaster, tragic events.
At the two motels, he got nowhere again. ‘Where’s a good restaurant?’ he asked the woman at the second motel. He’d kind of forgotten about breakfast, just the cup of coffee at McDonald’s and then another at Denny’s, and here it was a little late for lunch. He’d considered a sandwich at Subway, but thought, no, a real meal. At least he’d earned himself a decent meal, just for trying.
‘You like steak?’ the woman asked.
‘Sure do.’
‘Then try Rancher Bill’s.’
Malcolm slid into a dark leather booth at the Rancher Bill’s Steak House. Rancher Bill, indeed; there probably wasn’t a ranch within a thousand miles of here. Annoying music played in the background, sounding like imitation Sons of the Pioneers. But a steak is a steak is a steak, if it’s a good one.
A waiter showed up, wanting to know about anything from the bar.
‘Sam Adams, if you got it,’ Malcolm said.
‘Very good, sir,’ he said, as if he’d been watching movies lately about ritzy places with high-class waiters. ‘Your waitress will be right along.’ He left a laminated menu.
Malcolm perused it. Adorned with brands and branding irons, cowboys, lassos and cacti, it offered Cowboy Bill Prime Ribs, Billy’s Rib-Eye, South of the Border Flank Steak, Rancher’s Best Sirloin. The waitress showed up – she was tall, and dark and plump, in cowboy boots, white shirt with bolo tie and a chamois colored buckskin fringed vest. He ordered the rib-eye, medium rare, with fries.
‘Dressing?’
Malcolm looked at her blankly for a second. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I thought I’d come nude.’
The waitress giggled. Her face turned bright red. ‘For the salad; it comes with a salad.’
‘Then ranch,’ said Malcolm. ‘Of course.’ What was happening to him? He was turning into a clown.
Waiting, he called the number Steve had given him for the relatives of Emily Madigan.
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