“That’s terrible,” Wanda said. “What happened?”
“Jake was a contract driver in Iraq and came home a little traumatized. Things got strained at home, you know.”
“I know. My sister’s son, Kyle, was over there with the marines. Still has nightmares.”
“I’m trying to find Logan and Jake. It’s possible they passed through Las Vegas and Jake may have sold, or traded, his rig. A Kenworth. Here’s a picture of him with it and here are copies of all the records.”
Wanda looked and started to nod, each nod getting bigger as she looked again at Logan’s picture, then at Jake and the rig again.
“This is all familiar. You know, I think we did do business with him. I think we did a trade for an older rig and some cash.” Wanda took one of the pages from the file and turned to the tall steel file cabinet behind her and opened the second drawer.
At that moment, the office door opened.
“Hello, folks, Karl Dixon. Owner operator. How can I help you?”
He quickly eyed Graham and Maggie.
As Maggie repeated her story, Dixon went behind the counter, placing himself between Wanda and the file cabinet, subtly bumping the door closed.
“I see, well, can you folks help me with some ID? Wanda must’ve told you we get all kinds of people telling all kinds of stories so they can get some kinda deal.”
He nodded at Maggie’s California driver’s license, but his head recoiled from Graham’s ID.
“A Canadian cop?” His feigned warmth dropped a degree. “Now I’m confused. Is there some reason for police from another country to be here?”
Graham casually explained the Tarver deaths, the insurance matter and the thread of the Conlins and how he and Maggie needed to talk to Jake.
“Just a matter of getting pointed in the right direc tion.”
Dixon took a second, then shot out his hand.
“We’d better help you out. May I have your file?”
Maggie handed it to him, but he did not turn to the file cabinet. Instead, he sat before a computer keyboard and screen.
“All of our records are accessed through here, includ ing vehicle databases. I’m sure if there’s something we can find it.”
“Thank you,” Maggie said.
Dixon was very smooth, Graham thought.
After ten full minutes of clicking and searching, Dixon shook his head and handed the file back to Maggie.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Conlin, but we’ve got nothing matching your information here. Did you try the depart ment of motor vehicles?”
“Wait, a sec. I don’t understand.” Maggie looked at Wanda. “You said they looked familiar. That you’d probably traded with my husband.”
“She was wrong,” Karl said.
“You didn’t look in the file cabinet,” Maggie said. “Everything’s in the computer. We get a lot of people with a lot of trucks. They tend to look the same.” “No, please. I have to find my son. Look some more. Please.”
“Maggie,” Graham said. “It was an obvious mis take.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Dixon said. “I wish we could help you. Fine-looking boy you got there, don’t you think, Wanda, honey?”
“He sure is.”
In the instant Wanda’s eyes met Maggie’s, some thing passed between the two women.
An ache. A plea. Fear.
Maggie didn’t understand and collected her file. “You folks have yourselves a nice day.” Dixon showed them his brown teeth in what he meant to be a smile.
After Graham and Maggie drove off, he turned to
Wanda.
“You disappoint me. I saw you going to the cabinet.” “Karl, she’s looking for her kid.”
“She was with a cop!”
“I didn’t know that at the time.”
Dixon grumbled something that sounded like
“dumb bitch” before extracting the keys to his Cadillac from his pants.
“I have to go to the bank, then I have to go to Frank’s.
Don’t know how long I’ll be. Think you can find your brain while I’m gone?”
The whole time Wanda watched him leave she kept turning a small card in her hand. The one Maggie
Conlin had left from her motel.
Maggie had penned her cell-phone number on it, too.
Wanda kept turning it over and over, running her finger along the edge, wishing it were a knife as Karl finally vanished.
57
Las Vegas, Nevada
From their booth in the family restaurant, Maggie bit back on her anger as she watched the sun set on the Las Vegas Strip traffic.
“I just know they were lying at Truck Land about
Jake.”
“Dixon’s got a lot to hide,” Graham said. “So how can you just give up?”
“Maggie, I explained all of this before we left Los
Angeles.”
“No, tell me. After coming this far, getting this close, how can you quit.”
Graham set his coffee down, glanced at their plane tickets for the morning. Hers for California. His for
Calgary.
“I am not quitting. I am out of my jurisdiction. Since we left Dixon’s place my boss has called me twice ordering me home. I’m not sure I still have a job.” “Make him understand how our cases are linked.” “It’s complicated. Listen, no one’s stepping back from your lead on Jake. I told you, I spent an hour with Casta at Las Vegas Metro, then I spoke to the FBI and I reached Vic Thompson. They can press for warrants to seize all of Dixon’s records. It’s only the beginning with him.”
“That could take weeks. It’s not a priority for them.
Besides, I bet Dixon’s good at hiding things.” Graham didn’t respond.
Frustration and fatigue had settled upon them like a losing streak. They left the restaurant and drove to their motel. Maggie watched the colossal hotels down the
Strip, gleaming in the twilight.
“Can I ask you something personal?” she said. “Sure.”
“Even if you don’t want to talk about it?” “You can ask.”
“How did your wife die?”
Graham took a few moments and he looked straight ahead.
“A car accident.”
Their rooms were separated by a few others on the motel’s upper level.
They overlooked the pool and offered a view of the Spring Mountains.
In his room, Graham had his TV turned low on CNN as he worked on his laptop. The pope’s visit to the United States dominated the news.
Graham read over his case notes. He was not ready to walk away from Tarver.
