“What, a better job offer?”
“Not exactly. I don’t raid other establishments.”
“Yes, well, you can see that he’s not here and more than an hour and a half late. It’s not likely he’ll show tonight.”
“That’s too bad,” Fallon said. “I need to talk to him as soon as possible. You’re not going to send someone out to see if he’s home?”
“No.”
“Well, how about if I do it and let you know? I’m tired of just sitting around waiting. Only thing is, I’ll need his address. I don’t know where he lives.”
Haskell looked at him steadily for about ten seconds. Then, “What’s the name of the place you own in Vegas, Mr. Jackson?”
“Own a half interest in. The Star Lounge.” It was the first name that came into Fallon’s head. “On Flamingo.”
“Wait here.”
Haskell disappeared again through the door. Going to his office to check up on Sam Jackson? If that was it, Fallon could maneuver his way out of the Star Lounge lie, but he wouldn’t get the address. Long shot anyway. But worth it under the circumstances.
Haskell was back-too quickly for him to have done any checking. Fallon relaxed, keeping his expression neutral. He was about to get lucky after all.
“Courtney lives at 60 Desert Rose Lane in Bullhead City,” Haskell said. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you where that is or how to get there.”
“No problem. My car has GPS.”
Haskell handed him a card. “My office number is on there. Let me know, will you? Or if you find Courtney, tell him to call me. And he’d better have a damn good excuse.”
“I’ll do all I can to track him down, Mr. Haskell. You can count on that.”
In the Jeep on the way up Casino Drive he called Casey’s cell number to tell her why he’d been delayed, that he’d gotten Spicer’s address. But she didn’t answer. Why would she have her phone switched off? Accident, maybe, or because she was trying to get some rest. She was expecting him to come back there, not to call.
Behind him to the north, as he crossed the bridge into Arizona, the carnival dazzle of lights and neon colors cast by the Laughlin casinos stained the night sky, turned the surface of the Colorado into a distorted reflector dominated by crimson, as if the river had been fouled with currents of blood. By comparison, Bullhead City seemed sedately lit. There wasn’t much traffic over here. Monday evening quiet. All the night action, all the noise, belonged to the Nevada side.
The Jeep’s GPS led him down Highway 95 to Silver Creek Road, then through a series of secondary streets into a housing development so new that some homes were still under construction. Sunrise Acres, according to a sign- the same tract that Co-River Management had featured in its wall decorations. Stucco-and-tile-roofed homes of various sizes on large lots. Even out here in desert country, lease and rental prices would be substantial. Spicer wouldn’t be able to afford one of these places on the scale salary the Wagonwheel paid a lounge act. His high-living expenses had to be underwritten by David Rossi.
Desert Rose Lane was a short dead-end street, three two-story houses on each side. A couple of them looked as though they might be unoccupied, and only two of the others showed lights, the first on the left coming in, the second on the right at the far end.
Fallon relaxed a little when he saw that number 60 was the lighted one at the end. Somebody was there, Spicer or possibly a guard on Kevin; the lights, and the bulky shape of an SUV in the driveway, told him that.
He parked in front of the dark house next door. Before leaving the motel earlier, he’d locked the unloaded Ruger in the console storage compartment; he took it out, slid it inside his belt under the light jacket he wore. A loaded weapon, even if you didn’t intend to use it, was a foolish risk with a young boy on the premises. Running a bluff with an unloaded gun went against his army training, but if taking action was necessary, it was better than relying solely on hand-to-hand combat techniques. Whoever was inside the house wasn’t likely to answer the door packing heat.
He locked the Jeep, walked slowly to number 60. The spicy scent of sage was strong in the warm darkness. The first thing he saw as he neared the front porch was the thin wedge of light that lay across the tiles. It came through a crack between the door and the jamb: the door was open inward a few inches. Funny. Why leave it open like that, even in what was probably a safe neighborhood?
The doorbell was a vertical strip of lighted plastic; Fallon pushed it and listened to chimes roll out within. Half a minute passed with no response. He thumbed the strip again. Still no response.
He leaned close to the crack in the door. The silence inside and out now seemed acute, charged. He could feel the muscles across his shoulders pulling together, knotting-the same physical reaction he’d had that time in Cochise County, before kicking in the door of a hotel room where a drunken soldier had been holding a woman against her will.
One more push on the doorbell. When that didn’t bring anybody, he drew the Ruger and used the back of his left hand to nudge the door open halfway. Foyer, palely lit by a suspended fixture. He leaned his head inside and called out, “Courtney! Steve Courtney!”
The words echoed faintly, died into more heavy silence.
Enter uninvited and technically he’d be committing criminal trespass. But the door was open and it shouldn’t be, and the lights were on and they shouldn’t be if there was nobody in the house. He couldn’t just walk away now.
He called the Courtney name again, then went in and nudged the door closed with his shoulder.
The living room and dining room that opened off of the foyer were both fully furnished. Lease or rental, maybe even one of the tract’s original model homes. As often as Spicer traveled from gig to gig, he wouldn’t have bought a place like this if he could have afforded it.
Fallon moved cautiously through the downstairs rooms. No sign of anybody. But when he went upstairs to where the bedrooms were, into the hall that bisected the house-
Man on the hallway floor.
Fallon stopped, staring down at him. The back of his scalp crawled.
Dead man. Curled up fetally on his side, both hands pressed under his sternum. Blood and scorch marks on his white shirtfront. Eyes open and staring sightlessly, mouth in a rictus, blood and dried spittle staining the dyed brown goatee.
Court Spicer.
FOUR
FALLON’S FIRST THOUGHT WAS of the boy. He ran along the hall, shouldering open doors and flicking lights on briefly to scan the interiors. The door standing ajar at the far end had a pair of hasps screwed to it and its frame, an open padlock and a key on a chain hanging from one. A bedside lamp was lit inside, but the room, like all the others, was empty.
Kevin’s room.
Kevin’s prison cell.
Single bed, nightstand, dresser, TV set. Bookcase with a row of thick paperback books. The only window shuttered and padlocked and probably nailed down. Signs of hasty packing: dresser drawers pulled out, closet mostly empty, a couple of items of boys’ clothing forgotten on the floor.
Gone. Taken away by whoever killed Spicer.
Fallon ran back to where the dead man lay, dropped to one knee without touching him. Shock still had hold of him. He’d seen corpses before; you can’t grow up in East L.A. and spend four years as an army MP, even on stateside duty, without coming face-to-face with violent death. But this was something outside his experience, as inexplicable as it was unexpected.
