The Other Side Of Silence

ONE

CASEY’S TOYOTA WAS STILL in long-term parking at McCarran International.

That didn’t have to mean anything one way or another. He’d driven straight to the airport, exceeding the speed limit most of the way; the probable window of time of her disappearance from the Laughlin motel was not much more than three hours. If she’d left on her own for some reason, it might not be easy for her to get to Vegas to claim the car.

He was dog-tired from the day’s stress and all the miles he’d put on the Jeep. It was close to midnight now. Not much he could do at this hour. Number one on his list of possibilities was Bobby J., and trying to brace a hardcase when he wasn’t thinking clearly and his reactions were sluggish would be a mistake.

Another motel, this one closer to McCarran than the previous Best Western. Five hours’ rest should be plenty; as soon as he was in bed he set the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. But the tension wouldn’t ease enough to let him sleep right away. Every time he shut his eyes, he could see Spicer lying there dead in the hall, and the padlock on the door to Kevin’s room, and the items of kid’s clothing dropped and forgotten on the floor.

Seven thirty, Tuesday morning. McCarran International, long-term parking garage.

The Toyota was still there.

Number one on the list: Bobby J.

It didn’t take much imagination to picture a man with his track record shooting Spicer-money, a falling-out of some kind, whatever reason- and then snatching the only witness. What Fallon still couldn’t figure was Casey. If Bobby J. had grabbed her too, how and why? The only way it added up was that she’d somehow learned Spicer’s address on her own, made a wrong-headed decision to take a cab to Bullhead City, and been at the rented house when Spicer was shot.

Two witnesses, if that was the explanation. And then what? Two more killings-a woman and a young boy, in cold blood?

Don’t go there, Fallon. Get it out of your head.

Bobby J.

And no pussyfooting around this time. Straight at him. Fast and hard.

The house at 246 Sandstone Way had a run-down look by daylight. Scarred stucco facade, weeds in the yard, the big prickly pear cactus grown into a wild tangle of branches, thorny pads, and unpicked fruit. The driveway was empty. No sign of the Mustang on the street, either. But that didn’t have to mean nobody was home.

Fallon drove on by, parked around the corner. He’d taken the Ruger out of the console storage space last night, put it back again this morning. The difference was that now it held six live rounds. The risk of carrying a loaded weapon was no greater now than the risk he’d taken in not reporting Spicer’s murder, leaving the scene and the area. And it would be stupid to go up against a man like Bobby J. without it.

He tucked the weapon into his waistband, above his right hip, and got out and walked back to 246. A young, plump woman in a housedress was picking up her newspaper on the property next door; she glanced at him curiously as he passed by. He nodded, smiling, keeping it casual. She didn’t smile back. And she lingered to watch him as he moved on up the front walk and rang Bobby J.’s doorbell.

Nobody answered.

He tried again. Echoes in an empty house.

Shit. All worked up for a confrontation, and now this. He felt like slamming his fist into the wall to relieve the pressure.

The neighbor was still standing there looking at him. He went back to the sidewalk and over into her yard, still keeping it casual, putting on another smile for her. She glared at him in return-a look that managed to convey a combination of weariness, annoyance, and suspicion.

“Hold it right there, Mister,” she said before he reached her. “If you’re selling something this early in the day…”

“I’m not a salesman.”

“You a friend of that pair?”

“No. I have some business with Bobby J.”

“Bobby J.” Her tone and her mobile face both reflected distaste. “You don’t look like one of his kind.”

“What kind is that?”

“Sleazebag.”

“I don’t know him. I’m just a man trying to do a job.”

Screeches and other child noises came from inside her house, deepening her scowl.“Damnkids,” she said. “I should’ve had my tubes tied after the first one.”

Fallon said, “Does he own the house over there?”

“Who? Bobby Jackoff and his slut?”

“Jackoff?”

“That’s what my husband calls him. Some Polish name.”

“What name?”

“Don’t you know, you have business with him?”

“All I know is Bobby J.”

“Jackowsky, Jabowski… no… Jablonsky. That’s it, Jablonsky.”

“About the house. Does he own it?”

“Leased. The slut lived there before he moved in last year.”

“Candy?”

The woman made a spitting mouth. “Candy Barr. With two r’s. My God, the names these women give themselves.”

“Can you tell me what time they left this morning?”

“For all I know,” she said, “neither of ’em was home all night. It wouldn’t be the first time. Quiet over there for a change.”

“You didn’t see his car?”

“Didn’t see it, didn’t hear him jazzing the engine like he does some mornings. Or when he comes home drunk or stoned in the middle of the night when decent people are trying to sleep. I can’t tell you how many times he’s woken up the kids. They get woken up, I don’t get any sleep, my husband doesn’t get any sleep.”

“Do you know if he has a job?”

“A job? Him? Hah. He does anything at all besides gamble, it’s probably something crooked.”

“He’s a gambler?”

“Poker. Big poker player, to hear him tell it. Bragged to my husband once about how much money he wins at the casinos.”

“Any one in particular?”

“Who knows? The one where Candy Barr works, probably. Calls herself a dancer. Hooker, more likely. Foul mouth. You should hear the things they shout at each other over there. You should’ve heard what she called me once. It’s enough to make you sick to your stomach.”

“There’s a friend of Bobby J.’s-big man, blond, thick blond beard. Drives a Ford Explorer.”

“Oh, him. He comes around sometimes. Another sleazebag.”

“You know his name?”

“No, and I don’t want to know it.” She frowned at Fallon. “You sure ask a lot of questions.”

Before he could make up a response, more screeches rose from inside her house, followed by a long wailing shriek. A girl about five came running out in her pajamas, yowling. “Mommy, Mommy, Conner hit me, he hit me with a spoon, he hurt me!”

“I’ll hurt him,” the woman said grimly. “I’ll blister his little ass for him.”

“Blister his ass, blister his ass!”

“Shut your mouth. You sound like the slut next door.” She took the little girl’s hand, led her inside without another word to Fallon.

Casino Slot Machine Repair was open for business when Fallon pulled into the lot. The only vehicle parked there was a van with the name of the business lettered on the sides. He slotted the Jeep next to it, went inside to the offkey clang of a bell above the door.

Cluttered showroom, heavy with the smell of machine oil. Rows of electronic and mechanical slots and video poker machines lined two walls. Restored and for sale, according to placards on each, their cases polished, their glassed-in faces making the room bright with color even though they were unlit. A combination workroom and warehouse, visible through an open set of doors, took up most of the rear of the building-the place where Bobby J. and Yellow Beard had waited in ambush.

A man in overalls, wiping his hands on a greasy towel, appeared from the workroom. Midforties, fair-haired, clean-shaven except for a Fu Manchu mustache. And big-almost as big as Yellow Beard. He looked at Fallon in a neutral way before he said, “Sam Vinson, at your service. What can I do for you? Repair problem?”

“No. I-”

“Looking to buy, then? I just finished restoring a real nice ’64 Bally Star Special, one of the first electro-mechanical hopper pay slots. Perfect condition. Make you a good price on it.”

“No thanks. I’m looking for Bobby Jablonsky.”

“Bobby J.?” Nothing changed in Vinson’s expression. “Well, then, you’ve come to the wrong place. Jablonsky don’t work here.”

“Friend of yours, though, isn’t he?”

“Not me. My brother Clem.”

Clem Vinson-Yellow Beard. The resemblance was plain enough. “Clem work here with you?”

“Sometimes. Not today.”

“Where would I find him?”

“At his other job, probably. Golden Horseshoe in Glitter Gulch. Maintenance staff.”

“I hear Bobby J. plays some poker at the Golden Horseshoe.”

“Some poker? He’s a hound, man-always in a Texas Hold ’Em game, day or night. Clem, too, when he can afford it.” Vinson paused, as if he’d had a sudden thought. “Say, you wouldn’t be a bill collector?”

“Not me. No way.”

“Then how come you’re so interested in Bobby J.?”

Fallon gave him the business proposition line, and Vinson laughed. “Well, if there’s money in it, Bobby J.’s your man. He’s open to just about anything that’ll support his poker habit.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Oh, yeah,” Vinson said, soberly this time. “Just about anything at all.”

In the Jeep, Fallon tried Casey’s cell number again. Still out of service.

He called her home number in San Diego. No answer.

Vernon Young Realty would be open by now. He called there, on the chance that Vernon Young had heard from Casey, but the woman he spoke to said Mr. Young was out of the office. She didn’t know when he would return.

He called Young’s home number. Answering machine.

He listened again to the brief, anxious message from Sharon Rossi, left on his voice mail while he was talking to Sam Vinson. She hadn’t heard from him, would he please call her as soon as possible?

Yes, but not yet. Not just yet.

The Golden Horseshoe’s Poker Room, like the rest of the casino, had a Western motif-loosely patterned after the standard saloon sets in old TV shows like Gunsmoke or Bonanza. Green baize tables, crystal chandeliers, a long brass-railed bar with the painting of a nude on the wall above it. Strategically placed spittoons. Smoke-filled air. The soft pile carpeting and leather chairs spoiled the effect, but that was Vegas for you: all illusion, but none of it quite what it was intended to be. Elaborate, ornate, and phony as hell.

This early in the day, only two of the tables had players. Omaha and Texas Hold ’Em games. Four men, one woman at the Texas Hold ’Em table. Fallon quick-scanned the men there and those at the other table as he walked by. Bobby J. wasn’t one of them; neither was Clem Vinson.

He asked the bartender if Bobby J. had been in today. Head wag, and a bored “Haven’t seen him.”

“What time does he usually show up?”

“Couldn’t tell you, Mister. They come, they go, they win, they lose. I just pour the drinks.”

Fallon turned into the Denny’s parking lot next to the Rest-a-While, parked toward the rear-out of sight of the motel office. There was a low retaining wall behind the ell on that side; he climbed over it, keeping his face averted just in case Max Arbogast happened to be looking out. Eight or nine cars occupied the room spaces, none of them a Mustang. He went straight to number 20, but even before he got there he knew this was another bust. A maid’s cart stood next to the open door of the adjacent unit and the whine of a vacuum cleaner came from inside. If Jablonsky had been hosting one of his drug parties for underage girls, the maid wouldn’t have been allowed in the vicinity.

He was tempted to brace Arbogast again, but what would that buy him except the satisfaction of making the little bastard squirm? Arbogast wasn’t close to Bobby J.; he wouldn’t know where to find him on short notice. But he’d be on the phone trying to find him five seconds after Fallon left.

Another drive-by on Sandstone Way. No Mustang or other vehicle on the property. No Bobby J., no Candy.

Time to shift gears. It was early yet; take care of his other business, then come back to Jablonsky afterward.

He parked around the corner and returned Sharon Rossi’s call. As soon as he identified himself, she said, “I’ve been waiting and waiting to hear from you. Have you located Spicer yet?”

“Not on the phone, Mrs. Rossi.”

“Then you have? Can’t you just tell me if-”

“In person. Are you home?”

“Yes, but-”

“I can be there in half an hour.”

“… You’re back in Las Vegas, then.”

“That’s right.”

“We can’t meet here,” she said. “My husband came home this morning, he’s here now resting.”

“What time did he come home?”

“About two hours ago.”

“Where did he go on his business trip?”

“Where he usually goes. Chemco’s plant in Phoenix.”

Phoenix. Only a little more than two hundred miles south of Laughlin. Fast, easy drive up and back in a rental car. There were also feeder flights between Sky Harbor International and the Laughlin-Bullhead City airport.

Fallon said, “I’ll want to talk to him too.”

“What? My God, what for?”

“Some questions that need answering.”

“About Spicer?” Her voice had risen a couple of octaves. “You’re not going to tell David about our arrangement? You can’t, he’ll be furious with me…”

“You just let me handle it, Mrs. Rossi. I’ll keep you out of it as much as I can.”

“But I don’t understand. What have you found out? Why won’t you-”

“Half an hour,” Fallon said, and broke the connection.

TWO

THE GATES AT THE foot of the desert mesa were open, evidently left that way for him by Sharon Rossi. She was outside waiting when he drove onto the packed-sand parking area, came hurrying over as he stepped out of the Jeep. Dressed all in white again-peasant blouse, pleated skirt, sandals-but she didn’t look cool or self-possessed today. Anxiety had cut thin furrows into her artfully made-up face. There was angry determination in her, too; you could see it in the pinched corners of her mouth, the tightly set jawline.

One other thing he noticed: the all-white outfit was loose-fitting, but not loose enough to conceal a handgun, even one as small as the.32 purse job she’d showed him on Sunday. She might have had it strapped to her thigh under the skirt, but he didn’t think so; she wasn’t the type. He’d have to watch her inside, though: the automatic could be stashed somewhere for easy access. He wasn’t taking chances with anybody now, not where weapons were concerned.

She said, “So you’re here. Now tell me what you found out.”

Fallon ignored that. “Where’s your husband?”

“In our bedroom, dressing. He’s going to his office.”

“Did you tell him I was coming?”

“No. Not without some idea of what’s going on. I won’t be blindsided on this, Mr. Fallon, not in my own home.”

“It won’t happen like that.”

“So you say. Did you find Court Spicer?”

He was going to gamble here too, cautiously, as he’d been prepared all day to do with Bobby Jablonsky. It was the only way he was likely to get fast and honest answers.

He said, “Yes. I found him.”

“The evidence we discussed? His hold over my husband?”

“No. But that may not be an issue now.”

“What does that mean, not an issue?”

“I need to know some things before we go inside. Did you contact Co-River Management yourself yesterday?”

The question caught her off-stride. “I don’t… no, of course not.”

“Find out where Spicer’s been living any other way?”

“No. How would I?”

“Where were you last night?”

“… Why do you want to know that?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Here. Right here.”

“Alone?”

“No. Lupe, our housekeeper, was home-she lives with us.”

“Is she here now?”

“No. I sent her out to do some shopping.”

He’d been watching her closely. All he saw was anxious bewilderment.

“All right, let’s go in. Tell your husband I have some important personal business to discuss with him. If you want to say I was here on Sunday, that’s up to you.”

“What are you going to say to him?”

“Depends on what he has to say to me. Either way, I won’t embarrass you.”

“You’d better not,” she said coldly. “I trusted you-don’t betray that trust.”

Inside, she took him into the sunken living room and left him there. The drapes were open over the windows overlooking the courtyard; sunlight streaming in laid bright gold patches across the tile floor. Fallon paced a little, waiting. Five minutes, no more, before he heard footsteps and Sharon Rossi brought her husband in.

David Rossi was in his late forties, lanky, with thinning brush-cut hair and a long-chinned, ruddy, freshly shaven face. The expression on it now was flat and neutral; if he played poker, he was probably good at it. He wore a light-colored suit and tie, expensive and perfectly tailored-the kind of outfit the high-level execs at Unidyne paraded around in. Corporate badges of success and power.

Rossi said brusquely, without offering to shake hands, “I don’t know you, Mr… Fallon, is it?”

“That’s right.”

“Personal business, my wife said. What does that mean, exactly?”

“Court Spicer.”

Rossi closed up, tight. You could see it happening, like watching a desert cactus flower fold its petals at sunset. But the poker face revealed nothing of what was happening behind it. He looked at Fallon, hard, for several seconds. Then he looked at his wife.

“Sharon,” he said, “please leave us alone.”

She said, “No. I want to hear what he has to say.”

“Sharon…”

“I know about Court Spicer, David.”

“You know? What do you know?”

“That you’ve been paying him money. That he has some kind of hold over you. I’m not blind and I’m not stupid.”

Rossi said, “Oh Lord,” in a low, pained voice. Then, with a flare of anger, “Dammit, we’re not alone here.”

“I already knew about it,” Fallon said.

“You… How? How did you know?”

Sharon Rossi gave Fallon a look of appeal. He said, “It doesn’t matter how I found out.”

“What are you, another bloodsucker? Is that why you’re here?”

“No.”

“Spicer. Did he send you?”

“Nobody sent me.”

“Then why? What do you want? Who are you?”

“A friend of Spicer’s ex-wife. He kidnapped their son four months ago.”

“He… what?”

“You didn’t know that?”

“I didn’t even know he had a son.”

“Eight and a half years old. The mother had custody and Spicer kidnapped him. I’ve been helping her try to find him.”

“My God. He’s an even worse bastard than I thought.”

“The last time you saw him was when?”

“A week, two weeks, I don’t remember exactly.”

“A week ago Sunday,” his wife said. “The last big jam.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Fallon said, “He came with a big man with a dragon tattoo on his right wrist. You remember him?”

“Yes, but I don’t know who he is. I never saw him before. A lot of people come to my jams, they bring others with them…”

“Have you talked to Spicer since then?”

“No.”

“You know he’s been living in the Laughlin area?”

“Yes.”

“Where, exactly? His address?”

“No.”

“Sure about that?”

“You think he’d let me have his address? Not if you know him, you don’t. A mail drop, that’s all he gave me.”

“Where were you between five and eight last night, Mr. Rossi?”

Rossi said stiffly, “Why are you asking all these questions? What do you want from me?”

“Answer the last one and I’ll tell you.”

Sharon Rossi said, “Answer him, David.”

“I was in Phoenix,” he said. “A business engagement. Drinks at five, dinner at seven. There were five of us. Would you like their names?”

A man with Rossi’s money and corporate status could get five people to lie for him if he needed to, but Fallon didn’t think he was lying. Now was the time to make sure. Pull the pin on a verbal grenade.

He said, “Spicer’s dead.”

The explosion rocked them both. Shock is one of the hardest things to fake; the open mouths and staring eyes were genuine. The brief silence that followed had a charged quality.

“Dead?” Rossi said numbly. “Dead?”

His wife said, “How? What happened?”

“Somebody killed him last night in the house he was renting.”

“Somebody… you?”

“No, not me. I wouldn’t be here telling you about it if I had.”

Rossi moved over to one of the leather chairs, started to sit down, changed his mind, and went around and leaned on the back of it. “You thought it was me,” he said then.

“I thought it could be,” Fallon said. “I don’t anymore. Whoever killed him took the boy and maybe the mother too. She was down there with me and she disappeared last night. You might’ve snatched the boy if he was a homicide witness. I couldn’t see any reason why you’d go after the mother, but I had to make sure.”

Rossi didn’t seem to be listening now. Or to notice when his wife went over next to him and put her hand on his shoulder. His eyes had a unblinking, inward focus. “Dead,” he said. “Now I really am screwed.”

“David, be quiet.”

“They’ll find it. They’ll come after me.”

“Be quiet! You said it yourself-we’re not alone.”

Rossi said, “He already knows,” meaning Fallon.

“No, he doesn’t, not everything.”

“Screwed. They’ll put me in jail. A stupid accident three years ago and I’ll go to prison.”

Sharon Rossi surprised Fallon by moving backward a step and then slapping her husband across the face, hard. The sound of it was like a pistol shot in the quiet room. Rossi recoiled, lifted a hand to his cheek, stared at her as if he couldn’t believe what she’d done.

“All right, then,” she said in that coldly angry way of hers. “Go ahead, tell us both. What stupid accident? What did you do?”

Rossi shook his head, but it wasn’t a refusal. Under that cool corporate façade, the man had a conscience that had been giving him hell for a long time. You could see it in his eyes, the grayish pallor that had replaced the ruddiness. Whatever he’d done, he was haunted by it.

Sharon Rossi sensed it too. She glanced at Fallon, an unreadable look this time, then fixed her gaze on her husband again. “I’m tired of all the secrets and evasions, David. I have a right to know. Did you hurt somebody? Kill somebody? What?”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“What wasn’t your fault?”

Rossi didn’t answer until she jabbed him with the heel of her hand. Then he said in a halting voice, like a man confessing a mortal sin to a priest, “I had too much to drink that night, I don’t remember everything that happened. The woman… dark street… all of a sudden right there in my headlights, running like somebody was chasing her… she must have been drunk. I couldn’t stop in time. I swear to God it wasn’t my fault.”

“Hit and run,” Sharon Rossi said. “You hit some woman and then drove away without reporting it.”

“God help me, yes.”

“Did you even stop to see how badly she was hurt?”

“I stopped. She was… there wasn’t anything we could do. He said we had to get out of there before somebody came. I was confused, scared… I let him talk me into it.”

“Spicer. He was in the car with you?”

“There was a jam in South Vegas. I went alone, you didn’t want to go. It was late, four A.M., when it broke up. Spicer was there, he asked me for a ride to his hotel… Lord, if only I’d said no…”

“You obviously had the damage to the car fixed. If he’d gone to the police later, it would have been your word against his. Unless he had some kind of evidence. Did he?”

“Yes. Photographs. He took them with his cell phone camera. The woman, the blood, the damage, my license plate.” Rossi drew in a shuddery breath. “The police are sure to find them now that he’s dead…”

“Not necessarily. It depends on where he kept them.” Sharon Rossi’s ice-gray eyes shifted to pin Fallon. “You know Spicer’s dead-if you didn’t kill him, that means you found him. Did you find anything else?”

“There wasn’t anything else to find.”

“You’re sure there were no photographs?”

“Not anywhere you’d think to look.”

“Did you notify the police that Spicer was dead?”

Fallon said nothing.

“No, you didn’t,” she said. “And you won’t say anything about a three-year-old accident, either, will you? Without evidence it would be your word against David’s and mine. You know that as well as I do.”

“I know it.”

“So you’re going to forget what you just heard and let my husband and me handle it. In return, we’ll forget you told us Spicer is dead and you didn’t report finding his body. Deal?”

He didn’t have any choice. He’d satisfied himself that neither of them had anything to do with Spicer’s death, but he’d overestimated his ability to control the situation, let himself get backed into a moral corner. Maybe the police would find those photographs and maybe they wouldn’t; maybe David Rossi would continue to get away with a drunken, fatal hit-and-run. Either way there wasn’t a damn thing Fallon could do about it.

“Deal,” he said.

THREE

HE DIDN’T LIKE HIMSELF much when he left the Rossi hacienda. Getting in deeper and deeper with every move he made. But it was too late for him to quit, even if he ended up hating himself. All he could think about was Casey and her son, out there somewhere, alive-they had to be alive. Nobody else was hunting for them. They didn’t have anybody else.

Hey, Geena, he thought, how do you like this for a commitment? What would you say if you knew about it?

Well, he had a pretty good idea what she’d say. Something like “This isn’t a commitment anymore, it’s an obsession.” Something like “You’re not as tough as you think you are.” Something like “Fools rush in. You’re a damned fool, Rick.” And she’d be right, according to her view of him and the world she lived in.

But she’d be wrong, too. He might be a damned fool, but living in his world depended on finishing what he’d started.

The Rossis were out of it now. Bobby Jablonsky was still his last best hope in Vegas. All he had to do was find him.

He made another trip to Sandstone Way. Still nobody there.

Where was Jablonsky? Somewhere down in the Laughlin area? Candy should be home, even if he wasn’t. One o’clock now. Maybe she’d gone to the Golden Horseshoe early. Maybe Bobby J. was there playing poker by now.

Wrong on both counts. Neither of them was at the casino. Nobody he talked to had seen them yet today.

On the run?

Fallon rejected the thought immediately. From what he knew of the man, Bobby J. wasn’t the type to panic. Even the commission of a homicide wouldn’t be enough to prod him into running. His dealings with Spicer had been covert; he’d know it was unlikely that he’d come under suspicion once the body was found. He’d just cover his tracks and go on home as if nothing had happened.

He was around Vegas somewhere. Keep looking in the same places and sooner or later he’d turn up.

Midafternoon.

Fallon had been traveling the desert-eater’s veins and arteries for nearly three hours, covering the same ground. Sandstone Way, Cheyenne Street and Casino Slot Machine Repair, Glitter Gulch and another quick check-in at the Golden Horseshoe. Still no Bobby J.

His nerves had always been good. Tense situations didn’t bother him. If anything, he functioned better under pressure, focused on a single objective. But this was a new experience, more urgent than any except Timmy’s fall and fatal injury, and there hadn’t been anything he could do about that. Passivity ran against his grain. And that was what all this futile running around amounted to-doing nothing, putting himself and his emotions on hold.

Three thirty-five. Sandstone Way again.

And this time, finally, there was a car in the cracked asphalt driveway.

Not Bobby J.’s Mustang-the light-colored four-door he’d seen parked there on Sunday night.

Candy’s wheels.

She took her time answering the door. The reason was that she’d been getting ready for work at the Golden Horseshoe. Putting on makeup: she had a mascara brush in one hand, and she was wearing a thin blue robe with a towel draped around her neck. She scowled at Fallon and said angrily, “What the hell’s the idea leaning on the bell like that?”

“Are you Candy Barr?”

“Goddamn salesman,” she said, and started to close the door.

He jammed his shoulder and leg against it, shoved hard enough to send her backpedaling. She caught herself as he stepped inside and threw the door shut behind him. He said, “Don’t scream. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He could have saved his breath; she wasn’t the screaming type. A fighter. She came rushing back toward him, her eyes flashing. Her fingernails were long and painted blood-red and she’d have gone straight for his face and eyes if he hadn’t shown her the Ruger, drawn the hammer back with an audible click.

It stopped her cold. Her mouth opened, snapped shut. She began to breathe heavily through her nose, staring at the gun.

“What do you want?” The words came out scratchy but with more anger than fear.

“Bobby J.”

“Yeah,” she said, “that figures. He’s not here.”

“Where he is?”

“How should I know? I’m not his keeper.”

“Anybody else in the house besides you?”

“Nobody else lives here.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“No. Just me.”

“Let’s go make sure.”

He moved forward, gesturing with the Ruger. She backed up, finally turned as he came close, and walked away slowly with her head tilted around so she could watch him. The room they were in, the living room, was shabbily furnished but kept neater than he would have expected. The kitchen, a dining alcove, two bedrooms, a bathroom, a utility room, a tiny back porch-all empty. The only one that had a disordered look was the last, the bedroom she shared with Jablonsky: unmade bed, her skimpy costume laid out on it, and a vanity table cluttered with tubes and bottles of makeup.

She said, “You satisfied now?”

“Bobby J. bring anybody here last night?”

“Like who?”

“A woman and a young boy.”

“A kid? Bobby J.?” Her laugh was bleak, humorless. “He hates kids.”

“I’ll bet he does. Answer the question.”

“No. The answer is no.”

Fallon took a long look at her. Typical Vegas showgirl with the requisite attributes. Midtwenties. Dyed red hair, long and pinned up now for her French can-can routine. The kind of round face and round, topheavy body that was attractive now but that would run to fat by the time she was forty. The hazel eyes were hard and cynical. Same with the wide mouth. She’d seen a lot and done a lot in her twenty-five years, and not much of it had made her happy. Plaything for users and abusers like Bobby J.

The front of her robe had gaped open, exposing most of one heavy, freckled breast; she made no effort to close it. She saw him looking and misinterpreted his appraisal. “Go ahead and stare, asshole. You try doing anything more, I’ll yank your balls out by the roots, gun or no gun.”

“Bobby J.’s the rapist, not me.”

“… What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Casey Dunbar.”

The name bounced right off of her. “Who?”

“So he didn’t tell you about his deal with Spicer.”

Another bounce. “Who the hell is Spicer?”

“Come on, Candy. Court Spicer-Bobby J. must have mentioned him.”

“Bobby J. doesn’t tell me his business.”

“Unless it has to do with teenage runaways and the Rest-a-While Motel.”

“… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Fallon said, “Where was he last night around five o’clock?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“He wasn’t here, was he.”

“Who knows? I was working last night. Who are you, man? What do you want with Bobby J.?”

“I want to know where he was last night.”

“I told you, I don’t know. Playing poker. Out trolling for pussy with one of his buddies. Jerking off in the Bellagio lobby. I don’t know!”

“Last time you saw him-when?”

“I don’t remember. He comes, he goes, I don’t keep track.”

She wasn’t afraid of Fallon, but the Ruger was a hefty piece of artillery and it made her nervous. She kept alternating her gaze between it and him. Deliberately he lowered the hammer, then cocked it again. “When, Candy?”

“Oh, shit, all right. Yesterday around noon.”

“He call you any time after that?”

“No.”

“Where were you all day?”

“Out eating-I don’t cook. Shopping. Getting my hair done. Hanging out with a girlfriend. You think I just sit around here and wait for Bobby J.?”

Fallon said, “There a weapon in the house?”

“Weapon? You mean a gun?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me, Candy. If there’s one here, you’d better tell me. Don’t make me lock you in a closet and ransack the place to find it.”

Her tongue ran a wet circuit of her lips while she made up her mind. “Under the mattress, right side-his side.”

The piece was tucked in between the mattress and box springs. Saturday night special, rounds in every chamber. Fallon sniffed the barrel. Not fired recently. Or cleaned recently; there was no odor of gun oil. He emptied the cartridges onto the rumpled top sheet, put the gun back where he’d found it and the loads into his jacket pocket.

“That the only one?”

“One’s all you need for protection.”

“Sure. Protection. Bobby J. keep another piece in that Mustang of his?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“But you’re not sure.”

“Never sure of anything with him.”

Fallon asked, “Where’s your phone?”

“We don’t have a phone.”

“Not a land line, maybe. Cell phone.”

“Yeah, well, whatever.”

“Where do you keep it?”

“Purse. On the vanity.”

He moved over there, opened the purse with his free hand, rummaged around inside until he found her cell phone. Then he gestured again with the Ruger and they went back into the living room, where he tossed the phone onto an ugly plaid couch.

“Sit down there,” he said, “and call Bobby J. And don’t try to tell me he doesn’t have a cell. I know he does.”

“Call him and say what?”

“Tell him to come home right away. Tell him you just got here and there was a break-in while you were out and the house has been trashed.”

“That won’t get him here. He doesn’t give a shit about this place.”

“Then tell him something that will get him here.”

“Like what? I can’t think of anything.”

“I can,” Fallon said. “You’ve got a hot new teenage runaway on the hook and he’d better come quick before she wiggles off. You brought her home and she’s here waiting.”

“He won’t believe that. I don’t have anything to do with that part of his life. A party once in a while, sure, but that’s all.”

Now she was lying. “Everybody in Vegas is into one scam or another, and you’re no exception. Call him, Candy, and make it sound right.”

“What if he doesn’t answer?”

“Leave a short message, tell him to call back ASAP. Either way, don’t say anything to warn him.”

“Or else what?”

“You don’t want to find out.”

“What’re you gonna do to him? Beat him up? Kill him?”

He looked at her without answering.

“What’d he do to you, anyway?”

He didn’t answer that, either.

She said, “What about me? What’re you gonna do to me?”

“Nothing, if you cooperate.”

He watched her think it over. Then, “Fuck it. You know what? I don’t really care what you do to him. He treats me like crap most of the time. Maybe he deserves a taste of what it’s like.”

“Go ahead, make the call.”

She made it. Bobby J. didn’t answer; the call went to his voice mail. She left the message he’d told her to, brief and terse.

When she broke the connection, he said, “Now call the Golden Horseshoe, tell them you won’t be in tonight. Make up an excuse.”

“Hey, listen, they don’t like us calling in at the last minute. You want me to lose my job?”

“Just keep doing what you’re told.”

She grumbled some more but she did it. “Now what?”

“Now we wait for Bobby J. to call.”

“For how long? It might be hours before he checks his messages. Once he went off someplace and didn’t call for three damn days…”

“Hours, days, it doesn’t matter,” Fallon said. “As long as it takes.”

Candy was a poor waiter. She fidgeted on the couch, she got up and walked around, she threw dagger glares at him every couple of minutes. Once, after an hour, she unleashed a tirade of four-letter words that he didn’t respond to. He sat in the same place with the Ruger on his lap, watching her, the tension in him tamped down under a layer of cold patience. For the most part he kept his mind blank, and when he did think, it wasn’t about her or Jablonsky. Casey and Kevin. Timmy. Death Valley and the desert solitude.

Two hours.

The windows were curtained and as dusk settled outside, the room darkened. He told Candy to turn on a couple of lamps. When she’d done that, she stood scowling down at him, her arms folded across her heavy breasts. The robe was still open, showing more freckled white flesh.

“I need a drink,” she said. “Steady my nerves.”

“It’s your house. Help yourself.”

“Liquor’s out in the kitchen.”

“So’s the back door.”

“Come with me then, for Chrissake-”

Her cell phone rang.

The sudden fluttery ringtone made her jump. She looked at Fallon, did the lip-licking thing again, and flipped it open. Bobby J. The conversation lasted less than a minute. Fallon stood close to her, holding the Ruger where she could see it, to make sure she’d didn’t try to warn Jablonsky.

“He’s coming,” she said.

“Alone?”

“Yeah. Alone.”

“Where was he calling from?”

“Golden Horseshoe. Finally checked his goddamn messages when he saw I wasn’t there.”

Fallon took the phone from her, made sure it was switched off, then slid it into the pocket with the cartridges from the Saturday night special. “Shouldn’t take him more than half an hour.”

“So what when he gets here? You start shooting up the place?”

“It’s not going to be like that. As long as you keep your mouth shut when he comes in.”

Twenty-seven minutes had ticked off on Fallon’s watch when headlights flashed across the dark front window and he heard the Mustang slide noisily into the driveway. He said to Candy, “Stay there and keep still,” and got up and moved over at an angle between her and the door.

Hard steps on the porch. The door opened inward, toward where Fallon was standing so that the man coming in didn’t see him until he was three paces inside and flinging the door shut behind him. His eyes picked out Candy on the couch, shifted, and when he saw Fallon he froze.

Fallon thumbed the Ruger to full cock. “Guess who, Bobby J.,” he said.

FOUR

UP CLOSE, IN A lighted room, Bobby J. was pretty much what Fallon had expected. Squat and blocky in slacks and a white T-shirt that showed off his pecs and the fire-breathing dragon tattoo that covered his right wrist and extended a couple of inches up his hairy forearm. Ice-blue eyes, empty except for a predatory cunning-the eyes of a man who cared about no one but himself, who was capable of any act that benefited or protected Bobby Jablonsky. Flat, hard features. The kind of aggressive, tough-guy look and manner that attracted women like Candy.

Outwardly he reminded Fallon of a kick-ass drill sergeant he’d known at Fort Benning, a career soldier who had been in Nam and talked about killing men as casually and dispassionately as an exterminator talked about killing bugs. Every grunt who’d encountered him feared his wrath and hated his guts. The difference between the sergeant and Jablonsky was on the inside. The sergeant had discipline, moral fiber, the stones and steel it took to lead men and fight battles. Bobby J. was all hardshell belligerence, powerful only when he had the upper hand; down deep where it counted, he was a coward. You could break him if you handled him right. You couldn’t have broken the sergeant with a sledgehammer.

The Ruger didn’t seem to scare Jablonsky, but he respected it enough not to make any stupid moves. He stood flatfooted, hating Fallon with those empty eyes. Fallon gave it back to him, just as hard and implacable.

“What the fuck you doing in my house?” Growly tough-guy voice to go with the tough-guy demeanor.

“It’s not your house.”

Candy said from the couch, “I couldn’t help it, Bobby. He just came busting in with that gun-”

“How long’s he been here?”

“I don’t know, three hours. More.”

“He do anything to you?”

“No. Just looked around and made me call you.”

Jablonsky said to Fallon, “How’d you find out where I live?”

“It wasn’t hard. I know a lot about you.”

“Yeah? What do you know?”

“I know about your deal with Court Spicer, for one thing. I know you were down in Laughlin and Bullhead City last night.”

“Wrong, man. I ain’t been down there in months.”

“He said you raped somebody,” Candy said. “Is that right? Did you?”

“No. What’d you tell him about me?”

“Nothing. He wanted to know where you were last night, I told him I don’t have a clue. Out raping somebody else, for all I know.”

“Shut your mouth,” Bobby J. said to her, and then to Fallon, “You’re not a cop. Who the hell are you? What you want with me?”

“Payback for what you did to Spicer’s ex-wife and son-”

“I never done nothing to that kid.”

“-and for what you and Clem Vinson were planning to do to me Sunday night.”

“How’d you know-” The shape of his expression changed; he rotated the cat’s-eye ring on his finger, closed the hand into a fist. “Yeah. That stupid Arbogast.”

Fallon let him believe it.

Candy said, “What’s this about you and Clem?”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”

“Fuck you, Bobby.”

“Say that once more and I’ll kick your face in.”

Fallon said, “You like to beat up on women, don’t you? Makes you feel like a big man.”

“Yeah, the way you feel with that gun in your hand. Put it down, then we’ll find out who’s the big man.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” Fallon glanced at Candy. “You keep a flashlight in the house?”

“… Flashlight? Why?”

“Go get it. And don’t come back with anything else.”

She got up, glared at Bobby J., and disappeared into the kitchen.

Jablonsky said, “You want to run your mouth to me, all right, but don’t say nothing more in front of her.”

“I don’t intend to.”

In half a minute Candy was back with a short, stubby flashlight. He motioned for her to come around behind the couch, took the light from her, motioned for her to sit down again. The beam was strong and steady when he switched it on to test it. He shoved it into his empty jacket pocket.

“Okay,” he said to Bobby J. “Now we go for a ride.”

“What the hell you mean, a ride? Where?”

“You’ll find out.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, man.”

“Yes, you are. Give me any trouble, I’ll blow a hole in your kneecap. You can’t even imagine the pain.”

“You wouldn’t do that. Not with a cannon like that, in this neighborhood.”

No, he wouldn’t, but Bobby J. didn’t know that. “Try me,” he said.

Poker player, Jablonsky, but that didn’t mean he was good at reading bluffs. And even if he had been, he wouldn’t take the risk. He ran his will up against Fallon’s for less than a minute before backing down. He shrugged and said sullenly, trying to save face, “You’re calling the shots-for now.”

Candy said, “What about me?”

“You stay here,” Fallon said.

“What, tied up, locked in a closet?”

“Neither one. You could go to one of the neighbors and call the police, but if that was an option you’d’ve done it when I sent you for the flashlight. So you’ll just stay here.”

“Why won’t I call the cops?”

“Tell her why, Bobby J.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jablonsky said to the woman. “Do what he says. I’ll take care of Slick here.”

“Couple of macho jerks,” she said contemptuously. She wasn’t afraid for herself any longer, or for Bobby J. She didn’t even look at him as he went out into the cool night with Fallon behind him.

“We’ll take your Mustang. You drive. Keep to the legal speed limit.”

“Where the hell we going?”

“Head over to West Charleston.”

The Mustang was in good shape. Refurbished interior to match the original upholstery, engine tuned, clutch tight, four-speed transmission in perfect sync. Jablonsky handled it with a kind of fierce, angry pride, slamming through the gears but not popping the clutch to make the tires squeal.

When they reached Charleston, Fallon told him to turn west and keep going. Bobby J. wanted to know how far. He didn’t get an answer.

Neither of them had anything to say until they neared the outer rim of the city. From there, you could see distant black cut-out shapes jutting high and ragged across the clear night sky-the Spring Mountains. Between the mountains and the Vegas perimeter was open desert, the Mojave outback.

“What the hell?” Bobby J. said.

“Just keep on toward Red Rock Canyon.”

“You can’t get in there this time of night-”

“That’s not where we’re going.”

When they’d gone a few miles into the outback, there was almost no traffic. They rolled past thick stands of Joshua trees backdropped by the sheer Spring Mountain walls. There was a three-quarter moon on the rise and in its pale light the misshapen trees had a grotesque, otherworldly aspect.

Bobby J. said, “How much farther, for Chrissake?” For the first time there was an undertone of scare in his voice.

“Not far. There’s an old mining road that angles off to the north.” Fallon remembered it from one of his hiking trips out here. “Take that when we get to it.”

“What for? What’re you gonna do?”

“Maybe the same thing you and Clem Vinson were planning at the slot machine repair place.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Wasn’t anybody there but me.”

“You’re a lousy liar, Bobby. I was there, I followed you when you left in Vinson’s SUV. That’s how I found out where you live.”

“Jesus.” Then, “We weren’t gonna do anything to you. Just talk, that’s all. Private talk.”

“That’s what we’re going to have, a private talk.”

“Didn’t have to come out in the desert for that.”

“Sure we did.”

“Why?”

Fallon didn’t answer that.

After a few seconds Jablonsky said, “Who the hell are you, Slick? What’s your connection with the Dunbar woman?”

“What’s yours with Court Spicer?”

“Spicer. Listen-”

“There’s the road. Make the turn.”

It was more of a rutted track than a road, barely discernible, snaking off toward the looming black mountains and the remains of a long-abandoned gold mine. The Mustang jounced and rattled, making the headlights dance eerily over the deformed shapes of the Joshuas and clusters of creosote bushes and crawls of cholla cactus that flanked both sides of the track. Bobby J. said once, “Car’s too low-slung for this kind of road. We’ll blow a tire, tear up the undercarriage.” Fallon said nothing, alternately watching Jablonsky and the terrain, waiting for the right spot.

They’d gone between two and three miles when the track hooked sharply up over a sandhill and down into another dense Joshua thicket. Good a place as any. The Mustang’s headlights seemed smothered by the branches and their bayonet-shaped leaves; they weren’t likely to be seen by anyone passing on the Red Rock Canyon highway.

“Stop here,” he said.

Jablonsky muttered something unintelligible, but he did as he was told. The car settled and the beams held steady on the narrow ruts ahead.

“Shut off the engine but leave the lights on. Then get out and stand in front of the car where I can see you.”

“This is bullshit.”

“You heard me. Do it.”

Bobby J. silenced the engine, but instead of getting out he eased around on the seat, both hands opening and closing around the steering wheel. Fallon could feel the shrewd measuring look, could almost hear the wheels turning inside the man’s head.

He was on the verge of a warning when Jablonsky made his move. Hit the light switch, swaddling the Mustang in a blanket of darkness, and lunged sideways, clawing at the Ruger.

Fallon did the opposite of what he’d been expected to do. He moved into the lunge instead of away from it, jabbing his bent and stiffened left arm upward, at the same time bringing the gun in under the groping hand. His elbow caught Bobby J. squarely in the middle of his face; the Ruger’s muzzle slammed into his body just below the breastbone. He heard cartilage break mushily, felt a thin spray of blood against the back of his hand. Jablonsky shrieked and jackknifed forward into the wheel, his chin cracking against the horn and unleashing a brief racket.

Fallon said, “Try that again, you’re a dead man,” and jabbed harder with the gun barrel.

“My nose!” Strangled voice, thick with pain. “You broke my fucking nose!”

“Put the lights back on.”

Bobby J. fumbled for the switch. Headlight beams cut through the darkness again, dashboard lights let Fallon see the blocky shape next to him. Jablonsky was still bent forward around the gun, his right hand splayed tight against his face. Blood gleamed black as oil in the dash glow.

“Get out of the car. Now!”

No argument, no hesitation. Bobby J. did some more fumbling, got the door open. He was halfway out when Fallon pulled the Ruger away from his midsection and shoved him, hard, with the other hand. Jablonsky staggered out, lost his balance and slid down on all fours. In less than five seconds, Fallon was out on the passenger side, leaning across the hood with the revolver extended.

But there was no more fight in Bobby J. He kept on kneeling on the hardpan, supporting himself with his left hand, his right once more pressed tight against his fractured nose. The sound of his breathing was loud, ragged, punctuated by little whistling grunts.

“Get up. Walk out on the road and stand in the headlights.”

Jablonsky struggled to follow the order. It was ten seconds before he could lift himself upright; his steps were wobbly as he moved into the headlight glare.

“That’s far enough. Face the car and stay put.”

Watching him, Fallon leaned back into the car long enough to take the keys from the ignition and wipe the blood-spray from his hand on the seat-back. Then he moved ahead to stand next to the front bumper. The night was soundless now, that sweet desert stillness; the fast-cooling air smelled of sage, creosote, ancient earth and rock. Above, the sky was powdered with moonlight and flecked with stars bright as crystal. On the track ahead Bobby J. stood swaying, fingering his nose, his face drawn in, tight and blood-smeared, around his shielding hand.

Fallon said, “Take off your clothes.”

“… What?”

“You heard me. Strip. Everything off.”

“You’re crazy, man. You’re fucking nuts.”

He extended the Ruger in the radius of light from the headlamps. “You think a busted nose hurts? A shattered kneecap’s ten times worse.”

Jablonsky lowered his hand; splotches of blood glistened on the tattoo as if it was the dragon that had been wounded. Angrily he ripped off his jacket and shirt, threw them down. Pants next. Boots, socks. Underwear. He stood glaring and whitely naked in the yellow-white cones.

“Kick everything over this way except your undershirt. You can keep that for your nose.”

“Goddamn faggot, huh? Like looking at a big hunk of meat?” The words were meant to be cutting and defiant; they came out sounding like a pathetic schoolyard taunt.

“Do what you’re told. All right, now back up a few more steps.”

“What’s the idea?” Jablonsky said, backing.

The idea was simple. An old military tactic that had been used for centuries before Guantánamo and Abu Ghraib. Strip a prisoner naked in front of a fully dressed interrogator, make him feel defenseless and humiliated, and you gain a strong psychological advantage: a naked man doesn’t lie easily or well, particularly one with an injury that he’d brought on himself. Fallon didn’t believe in torture on principle, but these were special circumstances. And Bobby J. was a pig.

“That’s far enough. Now we’ll have our talk.”

“Talk? Like this?”

“Why did you kill Court Spicer?”

Jablonsky stopped mopping blood with the undershirt. “Why did I- Jesus Christ! Spicer’s dead ?”

“You know he is.”

“Like hell I do. When? What happened?”

“Last night. Shot in his rented house in Bullhead City.”

“And you think I did it?”

“Pretty good bet.”

“No way! I done a lot of things, but I never shot nobody. I don’t even own a gun.”

“I’ll say it again, Jablonsky: you’re a lousy liar. I found the Saturday night special under your mattress.”

“… Yeah, all right, but I never fired it, not one time.”

“What about your other piece?”

“I don’t have another piece.”

“Small caliber, twenty-two or thirty-two.”

“No. I never owned one of those.”

Fallon said, “We’ll see about that. Don’t move.”

He backed up around the open passenger door, slid into the bucket on one hip. The glove compartment was locked; the ignition key unlocked it. He shined the flashlight inside. Pint bottle of sloe gin. Unopened packet of condoms. Handful of papers that he held up one at a time for brief looks, keeping Bobby J. in sight with his other eye. Registration. Insurance card. Unpaid parking tickets.

No gun. No drugs, either.

Fallon lifted himself out again, shut the door, and backpedaled to the rear. He unlocked the trunk, aimed the flash beam in there. The trunk floor was covered with a rubber mat; nothing on it that could be dried blood, and no signs of recent cleaning. Spare tire. Jack. Toolbox. He opened the box, felt around inside. Just tools-no sidearm. The only other object in the trunk was a gray, rough-weave blanket. He pulled it out, shook it open, ran the light over it. Dirt, but no stains.

He switched off the flash, tossed it into the trunk. Then, leaving the lid up, he went to stand again at the front fender.

Bobby J. said, “I told you I got no other gun.”

“That’s not all I was looking for.”

“What the hell else?”

“Evidence that Casey Dunbar and her son were in the car, alive or dead.”

“Oh, man, you really are nuts. I haven’t seen her since…”

“Since you raped her at the Rest-a-While.”

“It wasn’t rape. She asked for it. And I never even laid eyes on that kid of hers.”

“The boy was in the house when Spicer was shot. He’s missing now. So’s his mother. Whoever killed Spicer kidnapped one or both of them.”

“It wasn’t me!”

A thin, raw wind was blowing now, kicking up little whorls of sand that glinted mica-like in the headlights. You could see Bobby J. shiver when the wind gusted, but he didn’t wrap his arms around himself. To him, it would have been a sign of weakness. The blood had stopped running out of his nose, but there were streaks of it like Indian warpaint on his cheeks, his bare chest.

“I’m being straight with you,” he said, “I swear to God. Let me put my clothes back on, all right? I’m freezing here.”

“No. You weren’t home last night. Where were you?”

“Losing three bills playing Texas Hold ’Em. Javelina Casino in Hender-son, from around five until after midnight.”

“People there know you? Players, dealers?”

Bobby J. jumped all over that. “Yeah, sure, they know me. Dealer’s name is Ruiz, Hector Ruiz. Ask him, he’ll tell you.”

“Where’d you go after you quit playing poker?”

“With a woman, to her place. Annie Harris, blackjack dealer at the Javelina.” Pain and cold had put a whine in the growly voice. “Ask her, she’ll tell you.”

Fallon said, “Tell me about you and Spicer. How the two of you hooked up. What kind of deal you had with him.”

“He put the word out he needed some new ID. I heard about it, got in touch. I got connections, I know people do that kind of work.”

“When was that?”

“Five, six months ago.”

“Where’d you deliver the ID to him? Laughlin? His place in Bullhead City?”

“No. Here in Vegas. I never saw him down there. Didn’t have no idea where he was living.”

“What else you do for him? Help him work his blackmail scam?”

“Blackmail? Christ, I don’t know nothing about blackmail. I didn’t see him again till ten days ago. He called me up, said he was going to a party at some rich guy’s place in Henderson. Said meet him there, he had a proposition for me.”

“Beating up and raping his ex-wife.”

“No. Knock her around a little, deliver a message to lay off trying to find him. The other thing… she asked for it, I told you that-”

“Shut up,” Fallon said. “No more lies.”

A long way off, a coyote bayed; the sudden sound made Bobby J. twitch and shiver again.

“How much did Spicer pay you?”

“A thousand. He said ask her for another two K, she’d bring it. You want it back? I still got most of it stashed away-”

“He knew he’d been traced to Vegas. How?”

“Private cop she hired asking questions. Some musician he knows told him about it.”

“Did he know the private cop? Have any contact with him?”

“Didn’t say nothing about that. Just deliver the message, that’s all.”

“After you delivered it-then what? You see him again?”

“No. Talked on the phone a couple of times.”

“After I showed up using his name?”

“Yeah. He thought you must be another private cop.”

“Make you a proposition to take care of me too?”

“No. That thing Sunday night… my idea. Just a talk, like I said. Find out who you were, convince you to lay off.”

“Beat me up. Dump me somewhere. Then hit Spicer up for more money.”

“No! I told you-”

Fallon said, “Back up a few more paces.”

“Why? What happens now?”

“Back up.”

Jablonsky obeyed haltingly. Fallon moved forward into the light, bent to scoop up the pile of clothing and boots.

“You gonna let me get dressed?”

“No.”

“Come on, man, I told you everything I know. I got to get to a doctor…”

“No.”

“Hey, come on! I told you everything I know…”

Fallon retreated to the trunk, threw the armload inside. Before he slammed the lid, he removed the dirty blanket. He went around to the driver’s side, tossed the blanket onto the sandy ground. Then he opened the driver’s door.

“Hey,” Jablonsky said, “hey, you ain’t gonna just leave me here with a busted nose and a lousy blanket? I’ll freeze to death out here!”

No, he wouldn’t. The blanket and the long walk would keep him warm enough. Once he got to the highway, a police patrol or Good Samaritan would come along and he could make up a story about being robbed and stripped and beaten up and his car stolen at gunpoint.

Fallon got into the Mustang, fired it up. Over the engine roar he heard Bobby J. yell, “Motherfucker! I’ll get you for this!”

Like hell he would.

He backed up until he came to a hardpan area at the foot of the sandhill where he could turn around. The last he saw of Bobby J., the last he ever wanted to see of him, Jablonsky had picked up the blanket and was swirling it around himself like a wounded albino bat with dirty gray wings.

FIVE

FRUSTRATION CHEWED ON FALLON again as he drove back into Vegas. Bobby Jablonsky was a liar, a pimp, a rapist, an all-around sleaze-bag, and there wasn’t much doubt that he had the capacity for cold-blooded murder under the right circumstances, but he hadn’t shot Court Spicer. Or taken Kevin. Or been responsible for Casey’s disappearance. He wasn’t bright enough to fake his surprise. He hadn’t been scared enough for a coward guilty of homicide. And he wouldn’t have thrown out all those alibi names so readily if he hadn’t been where he claimed he was last night. Another girlfriend might lie for him, but not a Texas Hold ’Em dealer or a roomful of poker players at a Henderson casino.

Fallon retraced Bobby J.’s route back to Sandstone Street, nosed the Mustang to the curb around the corner behind where he’d parked the Jeep. Left it unlocked, with the keyring dangling from the ignition, Candy’s cell phone on the seat, and the Saturday night special cartridges strewn on the floor. As he drove away, he had an image of Jablonsky, wrapped in that blanket, hoofing it alone out there in the cold desert night. The image gave him no satisfaction. Bad night for Bobby J., but it was a lot less punishment than he deserved.

Well, that could be remedied. Maybe there was nothing Fallon could do about David Rossi’s hit-and-run felony, but Jablonsky was a different story. When he found Casey and her son, and he was his own free man again, he’d put an anonymous flea in the ear of the Vegas cops: Bobby J., Max Arbogast, the teenage drug parties at the Rest-a-While. That way, his conscience wouldn’t bother him so much and he’d sleep better at night.

By the time he reached his motel, he’d decided something else, too. There were no answers in Vegas. Wherever Casey and the boy were, it wasn’t here, any more than it was in Laughlin or Bullhead City.

One other place to look.

And one other possibility for the shooter. It had come to him out in the desert while he was questioning Bobby J.-a name he’d have considered before if he hadn’t been so focused on Jablonsky and the Rossis.

The private detective, Sam Ulbrich.