“I don’t think so.”
I didn’t think so, either. Police were probably over there, too. I drove her straight to the Grand Sierra Resort, a hotel casino a few hundred yards off U.S. 395, formerly known as the MGM, Bally’s, and the Reno Hilton.
I toyed with the idea of taking her to my place, but the news hordes were probably camped out there by now—and K might still be there, which could be more than a little awkward. I’d screwed up once already, and like my car, my house didn’t have air conditioning, so I went to a neutral zone: big, anonymous, and chilled.
The Grand Sierra was the biggest hotel casino in Reno. White, monolithic, twenty-five stories tall with copper-tinted windows. It has two thousand rooms. A lake at the south side, formerly a gravel pit, had been turned into a driving range where folks in funny hats could whack golf balls at islands covered in Astroturf and fake palm trees.
We went inside, into the ever-present jangle of slots and money. I guided Dallas toward the hotel desk, which was the length of four shuffleboards set end to end along the west wall.
“Stay with me,” she said.
“Huh?”
“Tonight.” She stopped and looked at me. Her arms were folded across her chest as if she were cold. “I…I don’t want to be, you know…”
“Alone.” I was picking up speed.
“Yes.”
She wasn’t offering anything. She was taking, not giving. I knew that, and she knew I knew. That kind of understanding doesn’t grow on trees. IRS or not, she never should have divorced me. I wondered if Jonnie had known her a tenth as well, or cared a tenth as much. He’d always struck me as the kind of guy who couldn’t pass a mirror without giving it a wink and a loving smile.
“Sure. If you want,” I said.
“I want.”
Suited me. I didn’t have a house or a bed I could call my own, though what I did have was intriguing. But—c’est la vie. I signed us in as Mr. and Mrs. James Davis from Bakersfield while Dallas hung back, concealing her face as much as possible.
I got the key and we took an elevator to the eleventh floor, Room 1122, and managed to get inside without drawing a crowd.
Dallas napped, or tried to. I gazed out the window for a while, then risked a trip down to the mall in the building—a miniature city in its own right—bought us a change of underwear, toothbrushes, toothpaste, and Mad River, a John Sandford paperback, and hightailed it back to safety.
Dallas finally slept. Stress and pain left her face, and she looked younger, even more beautiful. I covered her with a light bedspread, then settled into a chair. I read, finally looking up when I realized it was getting dark out. I’d lost track of time. Sandford does that to me.
Thoughts of K drifted through. I imagined my possessions being carried out the door to a van, the most valuable of which was a six-year-old VCR with a drive mechanism that eats tapes on occasion. I was thinking about upgrading to DVD, but then what would I do with all those tapes in my closet?
I left Dallas a note telling her I’d be back soon, hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the door and locked up, elevatored down to the first floor, and strolled out to the Toyota. The sky was a dozen shades of fading rose and burgundy, the clouds dark gray, lined in gold and scarlet. It was warm out, but no longer stifling. Traffic whisked by on 395, west of the hotel.
I drove over to Ralston, eased down from the north and stopped a block and a half from my house. For a while I watched the street. No news vans, police, or cars with shadows shifting in them, but a few vehicles were parked along the street and there’s nothing more devious or patient than a serial killer or a hungry reporter.
The sky lost all color and went dark. City lights tinted the clouds a murky orange. I watched the street a while longer, then drove closer, parking two houses up from my place. I watched a few more minutes, then got bored. Hell with it. If a media ghoul got close enough, I’d bring up a bunch of obscure IRS regs, see if he or she had complied with laws most IRS agents have never heard of.
I got out and walked to the house. The lights were out, door locked. I opened up and went in.
“K?” I called.
Nothing. Dead air.
I turned on lights and looked around. No sign of her, but the bed was made. On the spread was a pile of clean clothes, neatly folded. My clothes. Jeans and underwear, T-shirts, socks. Gone was my pile of dirty laundry in the closet, and K’s clothing. And K.
A note lay atop my clothing. This time the writing was somewhat neater. It read:
We need 1% milk, bread, fresh fruit, toothpaste. Could you spare a little money? K.
She’d finished it off with a dumb-ass smiley face.
CHAPTER FIVE
WE NEED. I liked that. It showed a fair amount of spunk. I left her forty dollars and a note asking her to do the windows, then drove back to the Grand Sierra Resort.
Dallas was wallowing in the tub, awash in bubbles when I walked in. The tub was black with gold fixtures, big enough to include me and a sorority party. The air was humid and smelled of lilac.
I didn’t go near the bathroom until she called, and then I stood in the doorway, trying not to stare, at least in an obvious way.
“Do you love her?” she asked. “Is this a serious thing or what?”
“Love who?”
“Kay, silly.”
“Who said anything about K?”
“Your note. I read between the lines. Where else would you have gone, Mort?”
I shrugged. Greg should’ve hired her, not me.
“So, how was she?” Dallas asked. The bubbles hid much of her. Not
