“You say so, South Carolina DMV doesn’t say so. They say I can go fry my Yankee ass. Though they said it in a nice polite Southern way.”
“Classified plate number is usually undercover cops,” I said.
“Un huh.”
“Okay,” I said.
I listened to the faint hollow silence on the wire for a while.
“Okay,” I said again.
Farrell waited.
“I got something you’re going to love too,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Olivia Nelson’s father is alive.”
“Yeah?”
“Control yourself,” I said.
“Tripp said her parents were dead,” Farrell said.
“Right,” I said. “Why would he lie?”
“Maybe he didn’t lie,” I said. “Maybe she told him they were.”
“Why would she lie?”
“Maybe she thought they were dead,” I said.
“Will you fucking stop it,” Farrell said. “If her father’s alive and we were told he died, somebody lied.”
“Yowsah,” I said.
Through the window of my hotel room I could see the blue Buick, motionless under the heavy trees, across the street from the hotel.
“You going to see him?”
“Yowsah.”
“You going to stop talking like the fucking end man in a minstrel show?”
“Sho ‘nuff, Mr. Bones,” I said. “Soon’s ah do sumpin ’bout this guy that’s tailing me.”
“Why don’t you just ignore him?” Farrell said.
“Well, for one thing, it’s an open tail. Unless he’s the worst cop in the old Confederacy, he means me to see him.”
“Which means he’s trying to scare you?” Farrell said.
“Yeah. I want to know why. And who.”
“You find out, let me know,” Farrell said.
“Sure,” I said. “‘Less of course it’s classified.”
chapter sixteen
MY RENTAL FORD was parked in the lot at the rear right corner of the hotel. I went out the front door and headed for it. The guy in the Buick could see me. And he had positioned himself so that if I drove off he could follow. Tailing somebody is much easier if you don’t mind them knowing.
As I started up the Ford, I could see a little puff of heat come from the tailpipe of the Buick. I pulled out of the driveway of the hotel parking lot, swung around the corner, and parked directly behind the Buick with my engine idling. Nothing happened. I couldn’t see the interior of the Buick because of the darkly tinted glass. I sat. Across the street the Blue Tick hound mooched around the corner of the hotel and sat on the top step of the veranda with his forefeet on the next step down. Sedale came out after a while and gave the dog something to eat. It kept its position, its jaw working on the scrap. Sedale picked up a broom and began to sweep the veranda. The place looked clean, but I suspected it was something Sedale did when things were slow, to keep from hanging in the lobby and chatting with the desk clerk.
The Buick sat. There was a slight tremor to its back end and a faint hint of heat shimmering from its tailpipe. I thought about whether Brooks Robinson or Mike Schmidt should be third baseman on Spenser’s all-time all-star team. I was leaning toward Schmidt. Of course Billy Cox could pick it with anybody, but Schmidt had the power numbers. On the other hand, so did Eddie Matthews. In front of me the Buick slid into gear and pulled away from the curb. I followed. The Buick turned left at the end of the short street, then a sharp right, slowed at a green light, and then floored it as the light turned. I ran the red light behind him, and stayed with him as he went down an alley behind a Kroger’s supermarket, and kept him in sight as he exceeded the speed limit heading out the County Road.
When we hit Route 20, he headed east, toward Columbia, going around eighty-five. The rental Ford bucked a little, but it hung with him. After ten miles of this, the Buick U-turned in an Official Vehicles Only turnaround, and headed back west, toward Augusta. I did the same. We slowed after a few minutes at a long upgrade. There was a ten-wheeler in the right-hand lane, and a white Cadillac in the left lane, traveling at the same speed as the tractor. They stayed in tandem, at about forty miles an hour. We were stuck behind them. We chased along at that rate for maybe five minutes. The Buick kept honking its horn, but the Cadillac never budged. There was no sign, in the Caddy, of the driver’s head above the front seat. This is not usually a good omen.
At the next exit the Buick turned off, roared down the ramp, turned right toward Eureka. I followed and almost rolled past him. He had pulled in off the highway onto a gravel service road. I actually passed it before I got a flash
