looking for Spicer, but he’d never once used his own name and most of the inquiries had been in Vegas. The only ones in Laughlin who knew were the two women at Co-River Management and the night shift manager at the Sunset Lounge. They could describe him, but that was all and it wasn’t much. There was nothing distinctive or memorable about his looks. Average. His description fit ten thousand other guys.
The manager, Haskell, would remember giving him Steven Courtney’s address and probably pass that information on to the police. But there was a way for Fallon to cover himself on that, up to a point.
The card Haskell had given him was in his shirt pocket; he fished it out, punched up the number. While it was ringing, he had a few bad seconds trying to remember the phony name he’d used, finally retrieved it just before Haskell came on the line.
“This is Sam Jackson, Mr. Haskell, the lounge owner from Vegas. Has Steven Courtney shown up or called in?”
“Neither one. You didn’t find him, I take it?”
“Afraid not. His car is in his driveway, but the house is dark and nobody answers the door. I thought maybe he’d finally shown up there. Now… well, he’s out of luck on that business matter I was telling you about. I’m heading back to Vegas early tomorrow morning.”
“He’s out of luck here, too,” Haskell said. “If you want to hire him, he’ll be available come tomorrow.”
“No, thanks. I don’t want no-show performers working for me any more than you do.”
Okay. Covered at least until the police checked on Sam Jackson and found out he and the Star Lounge didn’t exist.
How long before somebody found Spicer’s body? It might be days; no one from the Wagonwheel was likely to go out there to check on him. And when the body was discovered, the victim was Steven Courtney, according to his driver’s license and everybody who’d known him down here. In a homicide case the law usually checked the victim’s fingerprints, but there was a chance small-town law might not bother, and if they did, that Spicer’s fingerprints weren’t on file anywhere. A chance that the law would never connect Steven Courtney and Court Spicer until somebody made the connection for them.
So time was on Fallon’s side. Enough time to find out what had happened to Casey and her son.
Final decision made, right or wrong. He was in too deep to get out of this mess any other way. Besides, she was still his responsibility. Quit on her now and he’d be quitting on himself.
Fallon gathered his gear, stowed it in the Jeep, checked out. Casey still hadn’t contacted him. Wouldn’t or couldn’t. Wherever she was, wherever the boy was, it wasn’t Laughlin or Bullhead City.
Five minutes later he was on Highway 95, heading north. He had to start someplace, and the best and closest option was Vegas.
PART IV. LAS VEGAS
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.”
