He asked the bartender if Bobby J. had been in today. Head wag, and a bored “Haven’t seen him.”
“What time does he usually show up?”
“Couldn’t tell you, Mister. They come, they go, they win, they lose. I just pour the drinks.”
Fallon turned into the Denny’s parking lot next to the Rest-a-While, parked toward the rear-out of sight of the motel office. There was a low retaining wall behind the ell on that side; he climbed over it, keeping his face averted just in case Max Arbogast happened to be looking out. Eight or nine cars occupied the room spaces, none of them a Mustang. He went straight to number 20, but even before he got there he knew this was another bust. A maid’s cart stood next to the open door of the adjacent unit and the whine of a vacuum cleaner came from inside. If Jablonsky had been hosting one of his drug parties for underage girls, the maid wouldn’t have been allowed in the vicinity.
He was tempted to brace Arbogast again, but what would that buy him except the satisfaction of making the little bastard squirm? Arbogast wasn’t close to Bobby J.; he wouldn’t know where to find him on short notice. But he’d be on the phone trying to find him five seconds after Fallon left.
Another drive-by on Sandstone Way. No Mustang or other vehicle on the property. No Bobby J., no Candy.
Time to shift gears. It was early yet; take care of his other business, then come back to Jablonsky afterward.
He parked around the corner and returned Sharon Rossi’s call. As soon as he identified himself, she said, “I’ve been waiting and waiting to hear from you. Have you located Spicer yet?”
“Not on the phone, Mrs. Rossi.”
“Then you have? Can’t you just tell me if-”
“In person. Are you home?”
“Yes, but-”
“I can be there in half an hour.”
“… You’re back in Las Vegas, then.”
“That’s right.”
“We can’t meet here,” she said. “My husband came home this morning, he’s here now resting.”
“What time did he come home?”
“About two hours ago.”
“Where did he go on his business trip?”
“Where he usually goes. Chemco’s plant in Phoenix.”
Phoenix. Only a little more than two hundred miles south of Laughlin. Fast, easy drive up and back in a rental car. There were also feeder flights between Sky Harbor International and the Laughlin-Bullhead City airport.
Fallon said, “I’ll want to talk to him too.”
“What? My God, what for?”
“Some questions that need answering.”
“About Spicer?” Her voice had risen a couple of octaves. “You’re not going to tell David about our arrangement? You can’t, he’ll be furious with me…”
“You just let me handle it, Mrs. Rossi. I’ll keep you out of it as much as I can.”
“But I don’t understand. What have you found out? Why won’t you-”
“Half an hour,” Fallon said, and broke the connection.
TWO
THE GATES AT THE foot of the desert mesa were open, evidently left that way for him by Sharon Rossi. She was outside waiting when he drove onto the packed-sand parking area, came hurrying over as he stepped out of the Jeep. Dressed all in white again-peasant blouse, pleated skirt, sandals-but she didn’t look cool or self-possessed today. Anxiety had cut thin furrows into her artfully made-up face. There was angry determination in her, too; you could see it in the pinched corners of her mouth, the tightly set jawline.
One other thing he noticed: the all-white outfit was loose-fitting, but not loose enough to conceal a handgun, even one as small as the.32 purse job she’d showed him on Sunday. She might have had it strapped to her thigh under the skirt, but he didn’t think so; she wasn’t the type. He’d have to watch her inside, though: the automatic could be stashed somewhere for easy access. He wasn’t taking chances with anybody now, not where weapons were concerned.
She said, “So you’re here. Now tell me what you found out.”
Fallon ignored that. “Where’s your husband?”
“In our bedroom, dressing. He’s going to his office.”
“Did you tell him I was coming?”
“No. Not without some idea of what’s going on. I won’t be blindsided on this, Mr. Fallon, not in my own home.”
“It won’t happen like that.”
“So you say.
He was going to gamble here too, cautiously, as he’d been prepared all day to do with Bobby Jablonsky. It was the only way he was likely to get fast and honest answers.
He said, “Yes. I found him.”
“The evidence we discussed? His hold over my husband?”
“No. But that may not be an issue now.”
“What does that mean, not an issue?”
“I need to know some things before we go inside. Did you contact Co-River Management yourself yesterday?”
The question caught her off-stride. “I don’t… no, of course not.”
“Find out where Spicer’s been living any other way?”
“No. How would I?”
“Where were you last night?”
“… Why do you want to know that?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Here. Right here.”
“Alone?”
“No. Lupe, our housekeeper, was home-she lives with us.”
“Is she here now?”
“No. I sent her out to do some shopping.”
He’d been watching her closely. All he saw was anxious bewilderment.
“All right, let’s go in. Tell your husband I have some important personal business to discuss with him. If you want to say I was here on Sunday, that’s up to you.”
“What are you going to say to him?”
“Depends on what he has to say to me. Either way, I won’t embarrass you.”
“You’d better not,” she said coldly. “I trusted you-don’t betray that trust.”
Inside, she took him into the sunken living room and left him there. The drapes were open over the windows overlooking the courtyard; sunlight streaming in laid bright gold patches across the tile floor. Fallon paced a little, waiting. Five minutes, no more, before he heard footsteps and Sharon Rossi brought her husband in.
David Rossi was in his late forties, lanky, with thinning brush-cut hair and a long-chinned, ruddy, freshly shaven face. The expression on it now was flat and neutral; if he played poker, he was probably good at it. He wore a light-colored suit and tie, expensive and perfectly tailored-the kind of outfit the high-level execs at Unidyne paraded around in. Corporate badges of success and power.
Rossi said brusquely, without offering to shake hands, “I don’t know you, Mr… Fallon, is it?”
