Gumshoe Rock

by Rob Leininger

  “We’ll be there.” I hung up.

  Lucy propped her head on an elbow. “Powwow?”

  “It’s Ma’s word. At the Goose. Now if you’ll get out of bed and haul me out, help me get on my feet, maybe even dress me like you did a few days ago, we might make it. If not, then Ma’s gonna be pissed, and I’ll tell her it’s all your fault.”

  * * *

  Of course, “bits of paper” was ninety-six thousand dollars in cash and three cashier’s checks, currently stashed in a gun safe with ballistic cladding. It did present a problem. Ma solved part of it right away while we were at a table in the Green Room, not lined up at the bar. O’Roarke didn’t need to hear any of this since it would make him an unpaid accomplice.

  Speaking of accomplices, a new girl was tending bar with O’Roarke. Traci Ellis. He was teaching her the ropes. She was twenty-five, slender, very pretty, very blond, and she gave me a big smile with perfect teeth. This can’t be good, I thought. Ever since I became a PI, girls had been flocking to me like pigeons to a statue. But I already had a one-in-a-million girl, and she had a marriage license that was burning a hole in her pocket. In spite of that, I felt Traci nudging up against that nameless PI essence that pulled in hot babes like iron filings to a magnet. If she was going to stick around and be part of the Green Room’s ambience—like O’Roarke only better—she and Lucy might end up having a little chat. And Lucy, Ma, and I would have to find out if Traci could be trusted with conversational snippets that tended toward the pseudo-legal. If not, we wouldn’t be sitting at the bar as often as we had in the past. Again, not good. Traci would, of course, enhance the ambience in ways O’Roarke never had, but I hoped her being there didn’t mean he was going to leave. I would have to ask him what the story was.

  Nine fifteen p.m. Lucy in a short black skirt and a skintight tank top molded to her as if painted on—some sort of filmy emerald green material. Me in gray slacks and an off-white Guayabera shirt. Ma in black pants and a no-nonsense brown shirt. We’d eaten at Lucero’s, an Italian restaurant at the Goose. Time for a nightcap. Pete’s for me, a Virgin Mary for Lucy, double G and T for Ma.

  “I’m takin’ twenty grand off the top,” Ma said. “In cash. Expenses and PI work. I’m not runnin’ a charity here. Cashier’s checks are made out to Lara Donndin, so I’m not through with that ID yet. Got to get that money to Volker somehow.”

  “Open a joint account in Lara’s and Volker’s names,” Lucy said. “The checks are in Lara’s name so she endorses them and Volker deposits them, alone, days or weeks apart to keep it from the IRS. That way you’re out of it, not even on a surveillance camera at the time the money is deposited. Lara vanishes into thin air forever, and it’s all on Volker. And Lara should be in a good disguise the day the account is opened.”

  Ma turned to me. “If you don’t let this absolutely lovely, intelligent creature make an honest man out of you—the sooner the better—you’re fired.”

  “The pressure’s on,” I said.

  Lucy took my hand. “No, it’s not. It’s if and when you say, not before.”

  “Which only reinforces my opinion,” Ma said. “You let her get away, you’re a moron. And unemployed.”

  “No argument there, Ma.”

  Lucy squeezed my hand. “Que sera sera. Okay, back to it.” She looked at Ma. “What bank would you use?”

  Ma thought about that for a minute. Finally, she said, “Big anonymous bank right here in Reno. Like you said, Volker will have to feed the money in one check at a time, spaced a week or more apart. In fact, I’ll force him to do that by giving him the checks one at a time. If he’s not happy with that arrangement, we’ll use him to chum sharks off the coast.”

  “Shark chum,” I said. “Nice.”

  Ma zippoed a Camel, blew a cloud of smoke away from me and Lucy. “It’ll take Volker a while to pack a hundred grand away. But I think we’ll hold off on giving him the money for a while. I’m still not a hundred percent about him yet.”

  “Cryptic,” I said.

  Ma took another hit of carcinogens. “The thing is, boyo, someone killed Soranden. Volker might be just what he appears to be. And Marta, who I haven’t met, so I’m going on what you and Lucy have told me about her. Nice lady in a wheelchair. But Volker and Soranden’s sister both went to Arizona. That might not have been a coincidence, but maybe it was. Arizona’s a big state. It borders Nevada. For tourist attractions it’s got the Grand Canyon and giant freaking ants. People go there, coincidence or not. But I don’t want to hand over a hundred grand to Volker if he’s not legit, so I’d like to be sure.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “Only thing I can think of. Follow him a while longer, see what he does. See if anything looks fishy. We made enough on this deal to give it another few days.”

  “My butt’s already tired, thinking about sitting in front of Volker’s house eight or ten or twelve more hours.”

  Ma blew another toxic cloud. “I’ve got sort of a view of your butt in my office. Odds are it’ll handle it.”

  Lucy snickered.

  “Whose side are you on here, Cupcake?” I asked her.

  “The side of the angels. Always.”

  “The side of the angels, right.”

  “Which is what Disraeli said about Darwin’s theory, but the expression is in wider usage now.”

  I stared at her. She smiled at me. Ma chuckled.

  The thought of staking out Volker’s house had little appeal. It wasn’t a good neighborhood for it. Too rich. Would Russ fix things for me if I was rousted by another cop?

  I said, “Can we do anything to get Volker to tip his hand—if there’s anything to tip? Last year we got Julia and Leland Bye to run around when Jeri hit Bye between the eyes with a two-by-four—figuratively speaking on that lumber reference.”

  We gave that some thought—after I told Lucy how Jeri had gone into Leland Bye’s office and rattled his cage. She’d gone in unannounced and asked him if he knew that his dead sister was the registered owner of a certain Mercedes SUV. She didn’t tell him the SUV was being used in a murder-enhanced blackmail scheme, but he knew that since he was in on it. Just the mention of that SUV lit a red-hot fire under Julia and Leland. It also got Leland killed, but that’s another story.

  Finally, I said, “Maybe Volker didn’t kill Soranden, but he might have an idea who did, or he might have hired someone to do it. Probably not, since hits are expensive. He had a motive though, even if killing The Toad wouldn’t get his money back. Lots of possibilities, so giving him a jolt might be a good idea, see if anything falls out of that tree.”

  So we thought about that.

  Lucy said, “If he did kill Soranden, then he did that thing with the skull, which means he’d probably be touchy if anyone mentioned Arizona and ants. Or if anyone made any slight hint that he might’ve dropped a skull in a car.”

  “That Arizona thing might be enough,” Ma said. “It seems out of character for him to have put that skull in your car—or Mort’s car, if he thought it was Mort’s. Why would he do that?”

  “To confuse the Soranden investigation?” I offered. “Don’t forget, I’m a nationally recognized figure—like Bing Crosby back in the day. I would’ve been on Volker’s radar for sure.”

  Ma snorted. “Bing, right. But the investigation was stalled. The FBI wasn’t getting anywhere. All Soranden’s skull did, showing up like that, was give the FBI a boost, get them running around again. If Volker had anything to do with Soranden’s murder, he had nothing to gain by that, so I don’t see him putting that skull in Lucy’s car.”

  So we thought about that. And Bing.

  I raised my index finger. Traci came bouncing over and I ordered a sarsaparilla to get her on board with my favorite nonalcoholic beverage. Bounced over. My, my. She might’ve been hoping for a bigger tip. Ma got another double G and T. Lucy was good with her weak Mary.

  We continued to think.

  Traci arrived, gave Ma her double then set the sar
saparilla in front of me. “One sarsaparilla for Magnum P.I.”

  Lucy bumped my shoulder. “Magnum. How’d she know?”

  “P.I.,” I said to her. “You left that part out, kiddo.”

  Traci smiled and left.

  Lucy said, “Okay, then. Arizona. What if someone whose voice Volker doesn’t know calls him up and says, ‘Harvester ants are found in Arizona.’ Just that, nothing else. If it didn’t mean anything to him, he probably wouldn’t do anything. But if it did, who knows what he might do?”

  “That’s a thought,” Ma said.

  We sat there a while, thinking.

  Finally, Ma said, “Lucy’s idea sounds as good as any. We give Volker a shove, see what happens.”

  “Who’s gonna give him that shove?” I asked.

  “Not me,” Lucy said. “He’s heard my voice. A lot. Not you or Ma, either.”

  We thought about that, then I said, “We’ll get Russ to do it. That’ll make his day.”

  Lucy smiled. “I want to listen in when you tell him.”

  * * *

  Of course, Russ was thrilled with the idea. Not that he knew what the idea was when he hustled over to the Green Room to get briefed on the project. I gave him the bulk of the briefing since he was in my pocket and we were pals. And I bought him a beer, his usual, Bud Heavy, to loosen him up and make him pliable.

  “What the fuck for?” he said. “I’m supposed to phone some guy and say, ‘Harvester ants are found in Arizona’? What’s that all about?”

  Neither loose nor pliable.

  “Drink up,” I said.

  “Again, I ask, what the fuck for?”

  “Tryin’ to surprise some guy,” I said.

  “The FBI determined it was harvester ants that cleaned out Soranden’s skull.”

  “Huh.” I gave him bland. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Like hell you didn’t. Suddenly we’re up to our necks in harvester ants? What the fuck, Mort.”

  “Language,” Lucy said.

  Russ looked contrite. “Sorry.”

  “Kidding,” she said. “You can say ‘fuck’ if I can. I just don’t use it as often or in the same context.”

  Russ smiled. Or grimaced. Hard to tell with Russ, but I think Lucy put him off his game. It might’ve been the outfit she was wearing since it had those no-bra bumps. He turned to me. “Who is this guy you want to surprise?”

  “It’s a surprise,” I said.

  Russ shook his head. “Jesus. Gimme your phone. I’ll do it just so I can get the hell outta here.”

  “Not right now, Russ. We’ve got to get set up. It has to be timed just right.”

  “We? Who’s we? Get set up how?”

  “You really want to know?”

  Give the guy credit; he gave that some thought then finally said, “No. Don’t tell me.”

  “Better that way,” Ma said. “Gives you deniability like they do in Washington. Keeping people out of certain loops is called professional courtesy.”

  “Jesus. Okay, when?”

  “I’ll let you know,” I told him. “Soon, though. Most likely tomorrow sometime. You should buy a burner phone and give me the number so I can let you know when to call. Pick one up at Walmart on the way home tonight so you can get it charged up. I’ll reimburse you since RPD pay isn’t enough for both that and a mortgage. You can use the burner to call this guy. In fact, it might not hurt to keep it on you ’til the minutes run out in case I need more police work done on the sly.”

  “Sonofabitch. This is police work?”

  “You’re police, it’s work, so, yup, kinda. We could call it that if the FBI ever gets wind of it. Hope not, though. I wouldn’t show ’em your burner and, you know, brag about it.”

  “Sonofabitch.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  RUSS DRAINED His Heavy and left. We stayed.

  Bartender-in-training Traci Ellis stopped by our table and asked if we wanted anything right then, said she was about to go on break. We were good. When she left, I strolled over to the bar and asked O’Roarke what was up with the new girl, not that I minded a new face in the place since, I told him, his mug with its red Yosemite Sam moustache and squinty eyes wasn’t a tenth as photogenic.

  “Ella’s leaving,” he said, ignoring the editorializing.

  Ella Glover. She’d been there almost three years.

  “Sorry to hear it,” I said.

  “Don’t be. She’s getting married to a guy who just got out of law school and passed the bar.”

  “Sorry to hear it—that part about law school. She deserves better.”

  “You should tell her that, see what she does to you. When were you last in intensive care?”

  “I might pass on that. What’s the story with this new girl, Traci?”

  “Story?”

  “Ah, circumlocution. Means there is a story.”

  He sighed. “Hands off, Spitfire.”

  “Got my hands full already, so no problem. But if I didn’t have my hands full …”

  “It would still be hands off. Traci is my niece. My sister’s kid.”

  “Nepotism, cool. Does she call you Uncle Patrick? But a niece? Then why would it be hands off? I’m a nice guy.”

  “Nice being an indefinite relative term. Thing is, you’re a dangerous guy to be around. You find bodies and people try to kill you and people around you. And she’s only twenty-five and you’re a crusty old fart with scars and bullet wounds.”

  “Got me there.” I grabbed some peanuts from a bowl on the bar and tossed them in my mouth. “Though a lot of women find the scars sexy, and the bullet wounds have healed.”

  “That’s because they really are the weaker sex.”

  “You’ve got a death wish. Didn’t know that about you.” I grabbed a few more peanuts. “Sometimes Lucy, Ma, and I come in to discuss things. How would Traci be if she caught snippets of iffy conversation?”

  “Iffy? That what you call them?”

  “Sounds better than conspiratorial.”

  “Dunno. You could fill her in on whatever you’re cooking up with that detective, Fairchild, see how that goes.”

  “You think I’m cooking up something with Fairchild?”

  “You, Lucy, Maude. He comes in, the four of you put your heads together, he leaves looking like he swallowed a roach.”

  “What kind of a roach? A bug or a doobie?”

  He didn’t get a chance to elucidate because Traci returned and grinned at me. “How’re you doin’, Sarsaparilla?”

  “Jest fine, little lady.”

  “Uncle Pat says he got food services to order an entire case of sarsaparilla just for you.”

  I smiled at O’Roarke. “Okay if I call you Uncle Pat too?”

  “Depends on how attached you are to those incisors.”

  “Touchy.”

  Traci laughed. Then she put a hand on my arm. She must have had it in a microwave because it sizzled. “I’ll be here Monday and Tuesday evenings after this training, which I don’t need. And I’ll be on the ten to six-thirty shift during the day, Wednesday to Friday.”

  I lifted an eyebrow at Uncle Pat.

  He said, “Lucy’s watching. If you’re contemplating suicide, you could juggle chainsaws. Or just pour gasoline on yourself and light up a Havana, but not in here.”

  I knocked twice on the bar and went back to Lucy and Ma.

  “What’s her story?” Lucy asked.

  “She’s Patrick’s niece.”

  “That’s like a backstory. What’s the real story?”

  “Real story is she’s replacing Ella, and even if she’s a hot kid—I only say that because I notice things like that even when they’re irrelevant—she doesn’t hold a candle to you, and you’re the one with the marriage license, so you two can be friends if you want since that’s in your easygoing, non-jealous nature.”

  “Then we could talk about you. Cool.”

  “There’s that, sure. But I’d want transcripts.”

  Lucy g
ave me a big wet kiss that tasted of Virgin Mary, the drink, not the other one, which I wouldn’t recognize anyway, and said, “Okay, Cowboy. Sorry I sparked off like that.”

  “You might spark off later tonight, Sugar Plum.”

  “We should leave now.”

  * * *

  Here’s how we set it up:

  Wednesday. Lucy and I were in her Mustang half a block west of the office of Joss & Volker. We had an angle where we could see Volker’s BMW in a parking lot. I wanted to get eyes on him here. His neighborhood felt too exposed. Ma was waiting in her fifty-six-year-old Cadillac at the corner of Kietzke Lane. Fifty-six. She was in the first grade when it rolled off the line in Detroit. I pointed that out to her last year and she’d given me a trucker’s response that ended with “boyo.” Volker came out at 5:25 p.m. and got into his car.

  “He’s out, Ma,” I said into a burner phone.

  She burnered back, “Gotcha.”

  Four words total. Heady stuff if the NSA was listening in. Black helicopters could arrive at any minute.

  Volker rolled out of the lot and headed east, away from us and toward Ma. I let her know, then followed him.

  “Call Volker now or when he gets home?” Lucy asked.

  “Home,” I said. “If the call makes him go somewhere other than wherever he’s going now, we would never know. If he gets home and then leaves right after Russ shakes his tree, we might glom onto something interesting.”

  “Glom. Cool.”

  I’d told Russ to stand by, keep his new burner handy. We waited until we were sure Volker was headed home, then Lucy called Russ. “Soon, sweetie. I’ll let you know.” She ended the call.

  My head whipped around. “Sweetie? Since when?”

  “He likes it. And, hey look, Volker is turning right.”

  “Ma’s on him. What’s with that ‘Sweetie’ thing?”

  “I think it puts him back in high school. Girl like me calls him Sweetie, he’s all over it. You think guys in their forties have grown up, but they haven’t.”

  “I’m in my forties, kiddo.”

  “Wow, do I ever rest my case.”

  Okay, no argument. I remembered the new bartender, Traci, her hand sizzling on my arm. Grow up? How? What for? What’s the upside?