“The name is Mort. Mortimer is my CNN name. They get it wrong a hundred percent of the time.”
Lucy nosed into things. “And who’re you, butting in?” she asked him.
Smooth. But that was Lucy. Didn’t take shit from anyone, including me.
“Nance, FBI.”
“Weirdest name ever,” she said. “Like totally.”
His eyes jittered. Lucy had that effect on people. “Hah?”
“But a diminutive form would be Nancy,” she said. “Which is actually pretty cool and it fits. Okay if I call you that?”
“Darwin Nance,” he said.
“Wow, seriously, Darwin? That isn’t much better. You’re FBI? An anagram of that is FIB, which is really something, like maybe someone didn’t think that through. Got a badge? No, please don’t show it to me. Just nod your head. I don’t want you to pull out anything and show it to me. Anyway, what Mort and I were doing here, we were having a pleasant conversation with Dave—that’s the bartender and he’s funny and real nice—then omigod you came along and barged unannounced into the flow and what we were saying sort of jumped the rails, so now it’s gonna take us like a minute or two to figure out where we were so we can keep on with it, but FIB, that’s really something, sort of like Eliot Ness, practically almost groovy, except not terribly, so if you’re done here, Nancy, I’d like to get back to what we were doing before this interruption. Bye.”
Ho-ly shit. And she said all that in one breath.
Nance turned and went back to his partner.
“Great lungs,” I said to Lucy.
“Thanks. That’s why I don’t need a bra.”
Dave choked on his club soda with a twist of lime. “Jesus, I wish I had a video of all that, start to finish.”
Lucy smiled at him and leaned closer. “It sorta dried me out. How ’bout another mojito, light on the mint?”
“You got it.”
“And a dinner menu.”
“Got that too.” He handed her a laminated sheet.
She ended up with a Caesar salad. I had grilled salmon on a bed of brown rice. We sat at a table. Twenty feet away, Nance and his sidekick glowered at us from time to time. Darwin was another shrimp, only five-ten. Sidekick was even shorter, five-seven, a shrimpette and ten or fifteen years younger than Nance, which put him somewhere around thirty. Their eyes looked like laser implants. Lucy had put us on their radar—but in a way that was actually decent camouflage, so I didn’t worry about them.
Much.
When our plates were taken away, Nance and his shadow drifted over and sat at an empty table five feet away.
“Sorry for butting in,” Nance said, then he waited.
Lucy stirred her drink with a finger, then put her finger in her mouth, pulled it out slowly. “Uh-huh. So, Nancy, who’s your bud?”
“You can call me Nance. Or Darwin. This’s Don Becker.” He hesitated for a moment, then said to me, “You found that IRS guy. Sorenson. I mean his skull. In Reno.”
“Soranden. And yes, I did.”
“Last year, right here in this room, you found Reinhart’s severed hand.”
“It’s a modest skill but it serves me well. It’s not teachable because it involves FexEx and obviously psychotic people, so if you’re looking for pointers, you’re out of luck.”
Back to laser eyes. “Makes me wonder what you’re doing back here in Gerlach, Sport.”
Uh-oh. Bad move, calling me “Sport.”
Lucy spun her chair ninety degrees to face him. “I wanted to come, Nancy. In my car, topless sitting up in the wind since it’s a convertible and there’s not much nice weather left. You should third-degree me like with rubber hoses since it’s my fault we’re up here and because I’ve got a lot of totally cool stuff I could tell you, like how to identify a Grant Wood painting at fifty paces—not that Grant Wood of those two comatose farm-looking people with the thousand-yard stare, like they were in the trenches in the first World War—and who, in case you didn’t know, look so freakin’ humorless they could almost be FBI in farmer drag.”
Farmer drag. How cool is that?
Two pairs of FBI eyes jittered.
“But first let’s back up,” she went on. “Suppose Mort had opened that FedEx package in, let’s say, the public library on Center Street in Reno. Given that, would you then wonder what Mort was doing back in the library a year later?” Her eyes bored into Nance’s. She could do that laser thing too.
He stared back, then looked away.
But Lucy is relentless. She doesn’t give up. “Don’t quit on me now, Nancy. Stay with me. What if he’d opened that package and found Reinhart’s hand in the library. Then, wow, hold the presses, a year later, he’s back in the library. Do you come over and ‘wonder’ to his face what he’s doing there?”
“Well, no.”
“Exactly. So you might revisit the logic that made you say you wonder what he’s doing back here, when what he’s going to do pretty soon, right here in Gerlach, is bed down with me after we shower together. But if you have any more questions, now’s the time to spit ’em out and get ’em answered.”
Wow. What a girl.
“Are you at least eighteen?” Becker asked, stepping right into it. “If not—” He gave me a hard look—not easy with a little residual baby fat still plumping his cheeks—thinking he might be about to make an arrest and get on Good Morning America.
In a soft voice, Lucy said, “How old are you, sweet pea?”
Sweet pea? I couldn’t wait for the rest of it.
“Twenty-nine. Thirty next month,” he added defensively.
Lucy smiled. “Show me a driver’s license?”
He pulled it out, set it on the table in front of her. She slid hers out of a pocket—ID for the bartender just in case—put it in front of him. “I’m thirty-one. You’re way out of your depth, sweetie. You might’ve been a cute baby, but now, not so much. You shouldn’t mess with either of us until that magic moment when your IQ picks up another twenty points. Don’t expect it to happen anytime soon. Now go away.”
The feds got up and left.
Lucy. Perfect freakin’ camouflage.
But later that night, after another few drinks at the bar with Dave pouring—and with Dave soaking up the sight of her—and after sleeping with each other—a euphemism for not sleeping with each other—she slept and I stayed awake another hour because I’d run into a truth that had eluded me for almost three months. An hour after Lucy and I first met, she told me she would marry me if I asked, that we could be hitched within two hours of my popping the question because we were in Nevada.
I’d thought that hadn’t happened yet because I had known her less than three months even though I could tell she would be the catch of a lifetime—no disrespect whatsoever to Jeri who would also have been the catch of a lifetime. And I told myself it was too soon after Jeri’s death, though that was coming up on a year ago. Was one year long enough?
It was partly those two things—not knowing Lucy quite long enough, and because of Jeri—but now, after coming across Nance and Becker, I knew it was more than that that had held me back. Lucy knew none of the details surrounding Jeri’s murder, including the alibi Ma had cooked up for me that night with Holiday. She didn’t know Ma and I had rid the world of Julia Reinhart because the authorities would never get her.
And I couldn’t marry Lucy until she knew all that because I couldn’t live that sort of a double life wrapped in a lie.
Which meant I couldn’t marry her without Ma’s okay. And Holiday’s. And even if the two of them okayed it, could I drop a bomb like that on Lucy? Could she handle it?
I just didn’t know.
CHAPTER TEN
“WELL, THAT WAS fun,” Lucy said, breaking ten minutes of silence. She was driving, I was copilot. It was one twenty, Wednesday afternoon, eighty-one degrees, convertible top down, Lucy’s top up. We were sixty miles south of Gerlach, approaching the town of Nixon, south end of Pyramid Lake. Nixon was a Paiute Ind
ian reservation. A Buddy Holly CD was playing. “Peggy Sue.”
“Yup,” I replied.
“So articulate.”
“Unlike you, I’m able to get the job done with a minimum of words. But I like your style, kiddo. Thing is, you’re on the FBI watch list now. Your picture might end up in post offices.”
She smiled. “I don’t think they still do that, but it would be totally cool if they did. I would tell my mom. And I would get one and have it framed. So, are we going back to that bowling alley this evening?”
“Yup. Not bowling though, since you’re a ringer and I’m a sore loser.”
“Uh-huh. This is bitchin’ music by the way.”
“Fifties gumshoe rock.”
She smiled. “We’ll be in Reno in about an hour. We should see if we can get a look at that Ramon Surry guy. If he’s still in the hospital, that is.”
“No, we shouldn’t.”
“What I mean is, we could peek into the room and just see if he’s there, Mort.”
“That would be like twisting the tiger’s tail. Not something I’d care to do.”
“But we could.”
I looked at her. “You’re serious.”
“Yes. Not to go into his room and like play canasta and get selfies and stuff. Just a peek, so I would know what he looks like. Which only makes sense. Think he’s still there?”
“No idea.”
“Bet Ma could find out. From what you said, you hurt him pretty bad.”
“As a grammar Nazi, that’ll get your knuckles rapped.”
“I’m practicing my colloquial English in case I have to go undercover.”
“Good job.”
“So, Ramon?”
“Only if I dress up as a matronly old battle-ax nurse with an extra heavy-duty catheter and a bad attitude.”
“Okay, then. We’ll work on that.”
* * *
Ramon was still there. Ma told us he was in room 335, due to get out tomorrow, Thursday. He’d had surgery on his elbow and shoulder on Monday after a bunch of X-rays and an MRI. Docs had to go in, put stuff back together. He had bolts and screws holding him together like Frankenstein’s monster, so he might clank when he walks.
“Wow,” Lucy said. “Judo rocks.”
“Yeah,” I said without enthusiasm.
“Hey, the jerk pulled a knife on you. I saw it too, the knife I mean. In the kitchen. It’s nasty looking but great on tomatoes.”
“You should see it when he’s holding it. I was lucky, kiddo. I don’t want to push my luck, have to try it again.”
“Still … let’s figure out how to get you matronly and find out if catheters come in triple-extra-large, like for horses.”
“A six-foot-four matronly nurse they’ve never seen before. I don’t think that’s gonna happen. Sorry to disappoint.”
She thought about that for a moment. “Okay. I’ll see if his door is open, try to take a quick flyby video with my phone.”
None of this was a good idea, but maybe not terrible, either. Ramon didn’t know Lucy. She wasn’t going to talk to him, not going to go marching into his room like an NBC crew and get an interview. Still, this was not a ripping idea.
“Or,” I said. “We could hit the bowling alley early, get in a few games. I’ll even throw a few in the gutter to make sure you kick my butt.”
“Nope. I want to see what this guy looks like in case he shows up again anywhere.”
Perfect.
So I drove us over to Renown Medical. I went up to the third floor with her, stayed at the nurses’ station while she went down a hallway to room 335 with her cell phone ready, and there I was, watching, willing her to hurry up, when Surry came up behind me pushing an IV stand with his left hand, not looking much like the Saturday night hero whippet he once was, wearing a loose baby blue hospital gown and a body cast that encased his entire right shoulder and arm.
He glanced at me, kept going. Twenty feet down the hall, he stopped and looked back, looked into my eyes, held it for a few seconds, then kept going.
I wasn’t wearing any sort of a disguise. I was recognizable all over the civilized world as Mortimer Angel, finder of stray body parts. Maybe that’s what got his attention. Then, of course, Lucy came back down the hallway toward him. Ramon stared at her as she went by. I didn’t know if he’d made me as the old guy who’d put him in this place, but I couldn’t take a chance that he had, and that he might connect Lucy to me, so I shook her off with a little head shake, ducked into a stairwell, stayed by the door in case she came through and I’d have to push her back into the hallway. She didn’t. Good. Smart girl.
But still …
Man plans, God laughs.
Perfect, just like I’d thought.
* * *
Michael Volker showed up at High Sierra Lanes at six forty-five that evening. I’d broken a hundred, rolled 104. Lucy had bowled 166. The house ball I’d used had a big chip in it that thunk-thunk-thunked down the alley. Lucy’s ball was smooth as freakin’ silk, which was why I lost. She laughed when I told her. I take enough flak that Kevlar underwear and a helmet makes sense.
“Hola, Mike,” I said. He had on a green bowling shirt with a sporty-looking, cross-eyed, half-drunk Alley Cat on the back. Mike’s name was on the front above a pocket. He had a bowling bag in one hand, ready to go get ’em.
He stared at me, then at Lucy who had an arm tucked through mine. “I don’t have anything to say to you, Mr. Angel.”
“Then just listen. Won’t take long. I know you rounded up fifty thousand dollars in June this year, how about that?”
“That … nothing like that happened.”
I gave him the IRS Medusa stare. “Yes, it did. We need to talk about it.”
“Aw, Jesus.” He looked all around, made sure no one was close enough to listen in. “How’d you come up with that?”
“I do more than find people. I also track money. Oh, and my assistant here—her name is Lucy—is hell on wheels when it comes to talking to the FBI. You should hear her sometime.”
His face went white.
“Not to worry,” I said, smiling. “I didn’t mean to imply that the FBI actually likes what she has to say.”
I’m such a liar. I meant to imply exactly that, see what kind of a reaction it got. The white face was a winner.
Then, to keep him spinning around, I said, “But when she does talk to the FBI, she’s really something.”
“Don’t,” he said. “Please … don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Talk to the feds. If you haven’t already. You haven’t, have you?”
“Let’s let that sit there as a possibility for a moment. Why shouldn’t I talk to the feds about a boatload of money—that is, if I haven’t already?”
His mouth opened, closed, opened again. “If you have, then I have nothing more to say to you.”
I gave it a few seconds. “Okay, let’s say I haven’t, but that it could happen if the urge strikes.”
“Then … then I can’t talk here. This is a bad time. And my sister needs to be in on it when we do.”
“Marta.”
“Yes.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Come by the house at eleven tomorrow. The kids will be in school. We can talk then.” He looked at Lucy, then at me. “Will your … your assistant be attending?”
Attending. How very tight-assed. Volker might have been born with a prissy gene, although people sometimes pick it up writing essays in grad school and can’t shake it off.
“She will,” Lucy said.
His brow wrinkled. “If you don’t mind my asking, how old are you?”
Lucy smiled. “You usually ask women their age?”
“This … tomorrow … it isn’t for …”
I said, “We get this all the time. All the time. Add at least ten years to whatever you’re thinking. At least. Maybe twelve. She’s old enough, trust me. So, yes, she’ll be there.”
A white-haired man with a little pot gut cl
apped a hand on Volker’s shoulder. His shirt was just like Volker’s except for the name. “You’re missing warmups, Mike.”
“Be there in a second, Ralph.”
Ralph’s eyes lingered on Lucy. She gets that, I don’t—even from women, which isn’t fair. Finally, Ralph left.
“Tomorrow at eleven, my house,” Volker said. “Okay?”
“It’s a date,” Lucy said.
He stared at her for a second, then went down into the pit with his team, looked over at us without expression, then got his shoes out of his bag, started to put them on.
“We should stay and watch,” Lucy said.
“He would bowl a ninety-four and have to commit suicide, or his team buddies would kill him, then we wouldn’t get to talk to him tomorrow. At eleven. That would put the kibosh on the investigation and Ma would fire us and we’d end up homeless or living in a trailer park somewhere in Iowa.”
“You’re so logical, I can hardly stand it.”
“Many are the numbers of criminal tax-dodgers who have fallen beneath the razor’s edge of my logic.”
“Now they’ll have to steam-clean the carpets in this place. Especially since you used the word ‘kibosh.’”
“I know why, but go ahead and say it. It’ll make you feel better.”
“To get the bullshit out, of course.”
“That’s my girl.”
* * *
Renner and Bledsoe were at the snack bar when we turned and were about to leave. Lucy saw them the same time I did.
“Go get ’em, pit bull,” I said.
Lucy led the way over. I stood beside her as she sat at their table. “Hey, guys, we should have dinner sometime, get to know each other better. Got any pictures of the kids?”
Well, hell. My pit bull had become a Chihuahua.
“How about San Francisco?” she added. “Dinner at the Top of the Mark? Good eats. We’ll see you there tomorrow afternoon at five. You buy. You can tell a bunch of IRS jokes.”
Maybe a Doberman.
“We should all go in one car,” Renner said. “Save gas.”
Lucy tilted her head. “Makes you sound skeptical about us meeting you there, George. A little hint of paranoia there?”
Renner looked up at me. He had a yellow dab of mustard at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got some property belongs to the IRS, Angel. Or you can cough up a hundred forty dollars.”
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