“What, the martini?”
“Watch it, sonny boy …”
“You probably meant the Soranden skull thing. Not really. I’ve got no handle on it, no kind of lever. I can’t get a fingernail under any tiny crack of it.”
“Papers,” Lucy said.
“Huh?” Ma and I said together.
“Soranden’s got to have a ton of papers, like bank accounts, property, mortgage, loans, address book, notes, tax documents, car registration. And a gazillion computer files.”
“Good luck gettin’ any of that,” Ma said.
“RPD is probably already rooting through it. And Mort has a defective detective in his pocket. How about that?”
I smiled. “Don’t let Russ hear you use that adjective.”
“I already did, two months ago. He just laughed.”
He would. Lucy had him wrapped around her little finger. I looked at her, then at Ma. “Yeah, how about that, Ma?”
She shrugged. “That would be a hell of a paper chase. RPD and the FBI will be all over it already. You would go blind. You don’t even know what you’d be looking for. But if you’ve got nothing else to do and get bored, have at it. Lucy could work on it, then both of you could spin your wheels, see what real private investigation is all about.”
Lucy and I looked at each other.
I said, “I’ve never been blind.”
Lucy said, “I’ve never actually spun my wheels.”
“I have,” I said. “Last time was on ice on Virginia Street. That badass winter of ’17.”
Lucy said, “I’ll call Russell. Ever since I pretty much got his daughter off the hook for murder, he likes me. A lot.”
“Have a ball,” I said. “I’m still all over Joss-Volker.”
* * *
Turns out, the Soranden affair looked like a real dog. All the FBI had was a missing IRS chief, eighteen hundred suspects, a hyper-clean gap-toothed skull, and a very large ant. Therefore, they were more than willing—okay, eager—to share the blame once the investigation hit what they saw as an inevitable bridge abutment. RPD was the upcoming fall guy. Russ said the Reno Police Department would be happy to supply Lucy with Xerox copies of everything the FBI had given them as long as no one at the FBI or RPD found out. Such was the benefit of having a homicide detective tucked in your pocket, or wrapped around an aforementioned little finger.
“But why do you want all that?” he asked Lucy.
“To collect a fifteen-thousand-dollar bonus.”
“Okay, I don’t want to know. But good luck with that. I’ve been through it and it looks like a lot of nothing. At least nothing that has anything to do with his murder. I’ll bring it to the Green Room at six this evening. Tell Mort to buy me a Bud.”
I’d been listening with my ear two inches from Lucy’s. She smelled good, and everyone was offering us good luck in subtly ironic tones, which was interesting. I took the phone from Lucy. “Make it ten o’clock, Russ,” I said. “Bud Heavy included.”
“I’ll be asleep at ten.”
“No you won’t. You’ll be at the Green Room with bells on. Turns out, I’ve got you in my pocket.”
“Fuck you, Angel. You’re in my pocket too.”
“Mutually Assured Destruction. Look how well it worked for the U.S. and Russia. Decades without an actual nuclear war. The Cuban Missile Crisis in ’62 was a close call, but Nikita blinked, no one got hurt. So, Green Room at ten. I’m buying.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He ended the call.
Ma swiveled around in her office chair. “You got any sort of a handle on Volker and what he did with that fifty grand? If not, we oughta shut that turkey down.”
“Bowling night,” I told her. “I’m gonna knock a door off its hinges in the interests of investigative professionalism.”
Lucy smiled. “Groovy. I’m learning stuff like crazy.”
* * *
“Where to?” Lucy said. We were in a miniscule parking lot behind Ma’s office on Liberty Street. Lucy was at the wheel of her ragtop Mustang. The slash was still covered with duct tape.
“South. After we lose our shadows.”
“Meaning George and Dennis?”
I stared at her. “You’re on a first-name basis with those two monkeys?”
“Keep your friends close. Keep your monkeys closer.”
“I may have underestimated you, Sun Tzu.”
“That’s a given.” She backed out, nosed out into Liberty Street, and waited for a break in the traffic.
“There’s Bledsoe,” I said, pointing.
“Where?”
“Homeless-lookin’ guy across the street, half a block down with a phone to his ear. He was coming this way, did a U-turn when he saw us. Which means they’ve probably bugged this car. Not a bug bug, but a tracker.”
“How do you know?”
“They’re IRS—I used to be IRS. It’s a family thing, sort of like Queens mafia. Also, take note: Bledsoe’s not in a car so he’s not worried about losing us. Hence—a tracker.”
“Great. Now what?”
“Now we debug the car.” I pointed left. “Up that way to the light at Arlington, hang a left and gun it.”
She did. We went half a dozen blocks south, turned right, and pulled over. We hopped out and checked under the car. Fifteen seconds later, Lucy stood up. “Is this it?”
She held up a small black plastic box. No dumb-ass light on it blinking away like you see in dumb-ass movies. That would do nothing but drain the battery and make it easier to find, two things you don’t want if you’re more intelligent than a radish—but a plain black box doesn’t film well so directors grit their teeth and bite that bullet. The box had no on/off switch. Insert a battery and it’s on, good to go. A ceramic magnet on the case kept it stuck to the frame.
“That’s it. Keep looking. You found that one pretty easy so there’s probably another.”
I found it hidden farther up under the right rear wheel well. “That’s it. Let’s go,” I said. “Fast. Back up to California Street, then west and over to Keystone.”
I pulled the battery on one of the units, let the other one do its thing. Lucy reached Keystone Avenue. I told her to go right on Fourth Street. By now, Renner and Bledsoe would be circling around, trying to catch up. I spotted a Citifare bus ahead.
“Get behind the bus,” I told Lucy. “When it pulls over, stop right behind it.”
Didn’t take long. Two blocks, then the bus pulled over to pick up an elderly lady with a handbag big enough to lug around a Great Dane. I got out, jogged to the rear of the bus, put the bug up as high as I could with a modest jump. Renner would have to get on Bledsoe’s shoulders to reach it.
Back in the Mustang I said, “Go.”
She went. I pocketed the inactive bug. Might find a use for it later. I wanted a video of Renner and Bledsoe tracking down the bug and hopping around like elves trying to debug the bus. That would go viral on Twitter, especially with a voice-over to let the world know they were IRS elves.
South a few miles on Virginia Street, Lucy and I ended up at High Sierra Lanes. We went in. That time of day, only a third of the lanes were in use. I’d always liked the smell of rental shoes and the hollow rumble of balls headed toward pins, the clatter of pins flying around, even the thunk of the ball as it went into a gutter followed by a muttered four-letter word.
“I once rolled a one seventy-three,” I bragged.
“I rolled a two eighteen when I was down in Phoenix, and what’re we doin’ here?”
“Not bowling, Cupcake. Not if you’re not kidding about that two eighteen.”
“That’s a lot of nots. What’re we doin’ here? And where’s that door you’re gonna knock off its hinges?”
“We’re checking out a league. Actually, a bowling team in a league. And don’t worry, that door thing will come later.”
“Okay, good. Don’t want to miss that.”
A bored girl in her early twenties was at the rental counter. I asked her if they had
league bowling.
“Yah, sure.” She snapped her gum, gave Lucy a look then chewed, giving me a bovine stare.
“Teams have names?” I asked.
“’Course.”
“Got a team called the Gutter Bugs? They’re a bunch of photographers. As in, shutter bugs?” I’ve found starting off with misdirection is best. Old IRS trick.
“Might. Dumb name, though.” She stared at me.
I pulled an old badge, set it on the counter. “IRS, hon.”
“Yeah?” Snapped her gum again. “What’s an IRS?”
Well, shit. Our educational system in action. And we’re supposed to compete with Russia, the Chinese, Guatemalans? I took the badge back. Impersonating an IRS agent can hang you up at the Pearly Gates. “IRS is Internal Revenue Service,” I said. “That’s income taxes. You get paid here, right?” I looked at her name tag. “Brittany.”
Her shoulders straightened and her eyes got wider.
“Gutter Bugs?” I asked again.
She looked at a sheet behind the counter. “Uh, no team by that name.”
“How about the Alley Cats?”
She looked again, brightened. “Yeah, they’re here. I mean, they’re here on Wednesdays.”
“What time?”
“Like, seven’s when they start. In the evening.”
“Last one. How about Reno Outfitters?”
“Um, no. Don’t see that one.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I leaned closer and looked her in the eye. “Who does your taxes?” Leave ’em with a reason to lunge for a worry stone when you’re gone. IRS Field Directive 1998-17a.
“My … my boyfriend. Um. Why?”
“Just curious.”
I nodded to Lucy and we left.
Outside, she said, “She’ll be headed for the bathroom about now, probably at a sprightly jog.”
“Bathroom. That’s sort of like a worry stone, isn’t it?”
“Huh?”
“We’ll be back tomorrow at seven, have a chat with Volker away from his house and family, away from where he works. He’s got some explaining to do. Right now, the sun is bright, it’s almost ninety degrees, won’t be many more days like this this year, so how about we take a drive on a lonely desert road, like up to Gerlach and back?”
“In my car?”
“Yup.”
“With the top down?”
“Yup.”
“I mean … both tops down.” Which is what she’d done in Southern Nevada in July when I first met her. Something I could get used to, given a little more practice.
I said, “What I like about you, you catch on fast.”
“Groovy. Let’s go.”
* * *
I’ve found that it’s best not to overplan things. Spur-of-the-moment decisions keep you loose. We made a quick stop at her apartment, another one at a Walmart to pick up a burner phone to keep in touch with Munson, then went out to Fernley on I-80, north on 447. I slid a Chuck Berry CD into the player. First up was “Maybellene.” Perfect.
Once we were through Wadsworth, one of us removed her shirt and sat up on the back of the seat in the last blast of hot air we were going to see until June next year. On the other hand, I wore khaki cargo shorts and a blue Guayabera shirt. Starting to like those Guayaberas.
“Remember to steer,” Lucy said. “Keep your eyes mostly on the road, okay?”
“Mostly?”
“You might glance over here from time to time to be sure I’m still here, didn’t get blown out.”
“I’ll do that, Sugar Plum.”
So I did. After every bump and dip in the road, I made sure she hadn’t been tossed out, and there were a lot of bumps and dips. We passed five big rigs on the way up. All five gave her a hearty blast of horn as we went by. The longest was by a woman in her fifties.
* * *
Lucy had her top back on by the time we reached Empire, but she got fifty miles of sun and wind. Then it was five more miles to Gerlach. Waldo’s Texaco was still there. And Corti’s Motel and Casino. This was Lucy’s first visit.
I filled the gas tank at Waldo’s. I remembered that Hank Waldo shut the place down at eight and got stinking drunk, so this was a necessary stop. Then we went on to Corti’s Casino.
“Well, if isn’t Chandelier Man,” said Cheryl, Dave’s wife, six seconds after we came through the door.
What a memory. Dave was the nighttime bartender. He and I had bumped pig knuckles last year, something of an unspoken male solidarity gesture celebrating the outfit Holiday was wearing when she and I were up there trying to find her missing sister.
Lucy had an arm around my waist. “Chandelier Man?” she said.
Cheryl gave her a look, then gave me a thumbs-up. “Sure can pick ’em.” She smiled at Lucy. “One more sarsaparilla and he was gonna do bare-ass trapeze tricks on old Bucky there.” She nodded at a six-foot western chandelier made of deer antlers in the middle of the room.
Lucy raised an eyebrow. “Bare-ass, huh?”
“That was the deal. He didn’t follow through.”
“I’m shocked.” Lucy looked at me. “Why didn’t you?”
“I was going to after my third sarsaparilla, which I didn’t get, and, hey, look—that’s the table where I opened that FedEx package with Reinhart’s hand in it.”
“Uh-huh. Don’t change the subject.”
“Yeah,” Cheryl said. “Don’t. Here you go.” She shoved a sarsaparilla toward me. “Drink up, strip and swing.”
Well, shit. I was going to have to hurt one or both of them if they didn’t calm down. Instead, I said, “What’s new?” which is the kind of sophisticated conversational feint a person learns in one of the better frat houses and nowhere else.
Cheryl shrugged. “FBI still comes nosing around.”
Damn. I should’ve known the investigation into Reinhart’s murder was still ongoing. Bump off a presidential candidate and the feds get their panties in a wad. “That right?” said Mr. Casual.
“Yup. In fact, two of ’em are here now. Well, not here here. They drove up north, probably to that old abandoned mine shaft where they found that senator and those others. Bureau of Land Management got funding to fill it in so there’s probably not much to see up there anymore.”
“It’s been a year,” I said. “Trail’s probably pretty cold by now.” I took a sip of sarsaparilla. Casually.
“For sure. Real cold. And I’m not convinced either one of those guys could find his pecker in a mirror.”
I almost sprayed sarsaparilla.
“Too small a pecker?” Lucy said. “Or too dumb to figure out how to use the mirror?”
Cheryl laughed. “Got yourself a live one there, Mort.”
* * *
We stayed the night. I hadn’t planned on it when we left Reno, but Lucy decided she liked Gerlach and wanted to stay. I had two reasons. I didn’t want to give the FBI guys the idea I’d left because of them—and Cheryl might very well tell them that the investigative genius who’d found Reinhart’s hand was in town and wasn’t that somethin’—and I thought our being gone would give Renner and Bledsoe fits. So given that twofer, we got room eleven. Cheryl checked us in, told us it was right next door to one of the FBI guys. Great.
“Russ,” Lucy reminded me.
“Huh?”
“He’s supposed to meet us in the Green Room at ten.”
“Oh, right.” I gave him a call, told him we were out of town and to make it tomorrow night at ten. He said a word that would slow him down when he arrived at the Pearly Gates.
I remembered Munson and the burner phone. I figured out what my burner number was then phoned Slick Willie and gave it to him. He wanted to know how far I’d gotten with Soranden’s investigation and I told him patience was a virtue that would be rewarded differently in the afterlife than heading up the IRS, and he should rack up points while the racking was good. He hung up. Then I called Ma, gave her the burner number too, told her I was going to dump the previous burner I’d been us
ing since we had used it enough. She said she’d dump hers too and buy a new one, get back to me with the number. Paranoia R Us.
Later I introduced Lucy to Dave. He’d taken over bartender duties from Cheryl at six. We walked up to the bar, and I said, “Dave, this is Lucy.” He didn’t say a word, just gave her a long look, didn’t know his jaw had gone slack, then slowly held up a fist and we bumped pig knuckles again.
When he found his voice, he said, “Each one better than the last. Don’t know how you do it, man.”
Lucy was wearing white hip-hugger jeans and a tight white tank top that might’ve been silk. She had a twenty-three-inch waist, three inches of flat tummy showing, one inch of which included the sweet flare of her hips. And, of course, no bra so that top was getting more than its fair share of attention.
About then, the two FBI guys came in. You can tell FBI at anything under a hundred yards due to the stick-up-the-butt gait. This time the walk was subtle, but their eyes gave them away, that three-quarter squint as they took in faces and scanned the room for hostiles. I made them two seconds after they came through the door, even though they had on flannel shirts, jeans, dusty boots.
Lucy still didn’t know that Ma, Holiday, and I had traveled to Paris and sent Julia Reinhart on her way to whatever reward she had earned after she’d murdered Jeri, and her husband, and her lover, Leland Bye, and Holiday’s sister, Allie, and another of her lovers, Jayson Wexel. Julia was what is commonly known as a Murderous Bitch. I didn’t want Lucy to have to deal with that knowledge. I didn’t want to deal with it either, but it would take a lobotomy to get rid of it and I didn’t want that even more than I didn’t want the knowledge, so I lived with it.
Having dispatched Julia made me wary of these two FBI drones, but I didn’t seek them out and didn’t avoid them. I just accepted them as part of the scenery.
Until, that is, one of them came up to me and said, “You’re Mortimer Angel, right?”
I turned. “Close. That’d be worth a point or two if we were chucking horseshoes.”
He gave me a steely FBI look. “Say what?”
I’m not sure the question “say what?” can be found in the FBI field interrogation manual. That flannel shirt might have sucked up his entire reservoir of gravitas.
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