But Connolly dismissed him with a wave of his hand, still thinking. “Okay, he gets the car here and someone else gets him back on the Hill. You agree he’s on the Hill?”
“I’d say it was indicated,” Holliday said, a cop giving testimony.
“So why leave the keys? Why not just throw them away?”
Holliday sighed and took out a cigarette. “Yeah, why not? I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe just force of habit, you know? You don’t throw keys away-what for? You don’t want them on you, but you don’t know if you’re going to need them again either.”
“You think he was going to use the car?”
“No, I was thinking of something else.” He looked up, searching the canyon rim with a turn of his head. “Must have been pretty dark when he parked it here, right? So he can’t tell if it’s been hid real good. I mean, that time of night, you can’t see anything. So I think-it’s just a guess, now-that he wanted to take another look in the day, see what he could see. What if you look down from up there,” he said, pointing to the rim, “and there’s this shiny new car. Even just a piece of it. You’d have to move it, make sure it was really out of sight. So he might’ve left the keys just in case. ‘Course, he never thought you boys would be shooting up the place.”
“He’s on the Hill,” Connolly said.
“Yes, he is,” Holliday said quietly. “Or was.”
“He’d be taking a hell of a chance, coming back for the car.”
“Mister, he took a hell of a chance when he murdered a man.”
As a V-E celebration, he took Mills to dinner in Santa Fe, following Holliday’s car down the back road, past Bandelier and the Rio Grande Valley and the humpy stretches of twisted pinon and red earth. The plaza was crowded, the sleepy square awake with people waving little flags and drinking openly, shouting victory with the bells of the cathedral. It was early, but La Fonda was packed, and they spent an hour at the bar before they could get a table.
“Do you really think he’s FBI?” Connolly said, indicating the bartender.
“That’s what they say. Makes a great martini, though,” Mills said, sipping at the rim of the wide glass.
“Maybe he’ll go legit after the war. A good bartender’s never out of work.”
“The FBI always finds something for them to do.”
“What about you?”
“After? A nice house on the North Shore. Nice office with a window. Wacker Drive, I think. How does that sound?”
“Nice.”
“Yeah, I know, dull as hell. Christ, it’s something, isn’t it, to think this might be the most exciting time of your life? And all I did was not get shot.”
Dinner arrived, a broad platter of chiles rellenos, and Mills ordered another martini.
“You could catch a murderer,” Connolly said. “That’s exciting.”
“You catch him.”
“He’s on the Hill,” Connolly said slowly.
“I know. I figured, what with the car and all.” He ate.
“That what you and Holliday were talking about?”
Connolly nodded.
“You think he’s still up there?”
“Yes.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“No, why should it?”
“It scares the hell out of me. Did it ever occur to you that if he did it once, he’d do it again?”
“But we don’t know why he did it.”
“The motive’s easier this time. You get away with murder and some guy tracks you down to nail you for it. So you nail him first. You’d have to.”
“Two guys tracking you,” Connolly said, looking at him.
“That’s what I mean. I’ve never been a target before.”
“Do you want to be reassigned?” Connolly asked seriously.
Mills went back to his food. “No, that’s all right.” He smiled. “You’ve got me interested now. Just watch my back, will you? Be nice to get back to old Winnetka in one piece.”
“He doesn’t know,” Connolly said. “He doesn’t know I know he’s there.”
Mills raised his eyes again. “He knows you’re looking.”
So they celebrated the end of the Third Reich with martinis and chiles rellenos, as if the war had caught them posted somewhere overseas. Afterward, pressured to give up the table, they walked out into the plaza, where people were shouting in Spanish, slightly rowdy but good-natured. It was beginning to get dark, the warm pink and coral of the adobes fading back to earth.
“Do me a favor,” Connolly said. “Let’s drive down to San Isidro.”
“There’s nothing to see there. They’ve been all over it a hundred times.”
“I know. I just want to be able to picture it in my mind. Indulge me, okay?”
“For a change.”
It was slow going over the Cerrillos bridge, with the streets still filled with pockets of celebration parties, but they thinned as the road headed south, past gas stations and quiet houses. There were a few cars in the alley next to the church and, inside, the glow of candles and the sound of voices. Mills idled the car across the street, watching Connolly study the building.
“Seen enough?”
“Let’s go in for a minute. They must be saying mass. They do this every night?”
“No, we checked. Probably a celebration. For the war.”
“Not very many cars.”
“People walk. It’s a neighborhood church. Only the tourists drive out here.”
Connolly frowned, brooding, then shook the thought away and entered the church. It was crowded inside, rows of women with shawls over their heads and men holding hats. The small lights of votive candles licked against the whitewashed walls, and the reredos, intricate and dark during the day, glowed now as if it were simmering on a low flame. At the altar end of the narrow room, carved wooden saints, crude and bright with paint, looked down on the congregation like primitive Aztec gargoyles. A priest was speaking in Spanish at the lectern. Connolly felt he had literally stepped back in time. The faithful had gathered like this for centuries, fingering rosaries, praying for rain, while the rest of the world went to hell. But these were the people who had beat the Nazis too. In the room there must be Gold Star mothers. He wondered if they sent telegrams in Spanish or if the bad news was the piece of yellow paper itself, the army messenger. From the outside their lives seemed timelessly simple, hoarding squash and chiles, sticky candy on name days, but they had driven tanks and thrown grenades at scared, frozen teenagers who were trying to kill them. All those mad northern people who wanted-what? More room to breathe, or something like that. Now a victory in Europe. And they had walked here. Only the tourists drove.
Connolly stepped back out the door, feeling like an intruder. San Isidro had nothing to do with them. He asked Mills to head for the Alameda, trying to imagine that other drive as they passed the quiet streets. It was dark in the ribbon of park along the river, but a few people were out strolling, lit by passing headlights. He saw one couple kissing against a tree. Mills parked the car by the murder scene without being asked, and they sat looking at the bushes.
“There are people,” Connolly said finally. “Why bring him somewhere where there are people?”
“There weren’t,” Mills answered. “It was late. It was raining.”
“But he couldn’t be sure.”
“Maybe he drove around until the coast was clear.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s a park. You mind your own business, especially at night. Look at those guys.” He nodded toward a man walking unsteadily, propping up a drunk friend under his arm. “Who’s to say he isn’t dead? Who’s going to ask?”
“You have an answer for everything,” Connolly said.
“Let’s go home, Mike. There’s nothing here.”
