“I figure she got hold of a key somehow.”
“You figure.”
I shrugged. “How else? There’s no trail of soot leading from the chimney.”
Russ aimed a grin at Day. “Private dick, huh? Cracker Jack prizes are better than when I was a kid.”
I said, “You find out who she is, let me know. Until then, you and I are dead even.”
“Jesus H. Christ.” He ran fingers through his hair. “Okay, let’s go over it again. Start with that station wagon you almost made that news lady roll on Sierra Street. I kinda like that part.”
* * *
In spite of my probable danger to society, I was back on the street by four p.m. My stints at police headquarters were getting longer, however. Not a good sign. One day they would roll over into the next and that would be that. Perpetual interrogation, case closed. Until the next head was found, that is, but that might take a while with me out of action.
Dallas was back at the Grand Sierra. She’d known nothing about Greg’s death or how we’d found him. All she gave them was background information, how Greg and I were related, how long she’d known him, how well he and I appeared to get along, that sort of thing. Dale had been sprung earlier too, sometime around noon. I had no idea where she was.
The police had picked up my Toyota at the Grand Sierra and gone over it with tweezers, a vacuum, and, I imagined, a portable electron microscope. They found nothing. It was waiting in the inferno of the back lot of the station for me, windows rolled up nice and tight like before.
Maybe Russ was feeling sorry for me, because he had a car run interference as I left, jamming up a battalion of news vans and wagons from all over the West Coast, and one from the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. The story wasn’t getting any less interesting with time. I expected to see a Tass van any moment now. No doubt Muscovites enjoyed a circus as much as anyone.
Going home was out of the question. Dropping by the office didn’t seem like a swift idea either. I didn’t know if there was an office, as such, anymore, or if I was still employed, or if Dale, who had an investigator’s license, whereas I didn’t, could or would keep the place open. All told, I didn’t know shit, which was par.
My jaundice-yellow Toyota was becoming a liability, however. If I kept circling around, I’d draw a following of media trolls.
I pulled into the Circus Circus parking garage and stuck the car in a dark slot way up on the fifth floor, put on my moustache and hat and hiked over to the Green Room at the Golden Goose where the relative lack of lighting might give me a few hours’ peace and quiet. And where, with luck, I might get a decent buzz on. This whole thing was going too damn fast. Alcohol has a tendency to slow things down, or bring it to a complete halt. Either way, I figured I’d come out ahead.
With all that figuring, however, I hadn’t counted on O’Roarke.
“Nice goin’, spitfire,” he said. The laconic son of a bitch.
“Stuff it.”
He slid a bottle of Pete’s Wicked Ale across the bar toward me. “On the house, Sherlock.”
“Can it.”
“Real nice moustache, that.”
I touched it. “Yeah? How ’bout the hat?”
“That’s nice too. Porkpie, right?”
“Right.”
“Nice. Wish I had one.”
Goddamn if that girl from the other night didn’t pop in and sit down next to me. Holiday. She looked fresh, just starting out, still sleek as an otter, size six, small waist, nice everything. Still hooking, God love her. At least she still had a job.
She shot me a smile. “Hi, there, good-lookin’.”
“Hi, yourself, kiddo.” I took off the hat and stuck my moustache on a jar of beer nuts. “About that howling mirror—”
“Oh, shit,” she yelped. “You!” She leapt up. “Glue a fuckin’ rat to the sonofabitch!” She left.
Glue a rat to the sonofabitch. To the mirror, presumably. Which, obviously, would alter the air flow. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Sometimes the simplest solutions are the most elusive. I looked over at O’Roarke. “She’s a rocket scientist, not a hooker.”
“There’s no such thing as rocket scientists,” he said. “Engineers design rockets. And put the fuzz back on. You’re scaring customers.” He nodded toward two elderly ladies off to my right who were staring nervously in my direction.
“Ever have one of those weeks?” I jammed the moustache to my upper lip again and gave the ladies a reassuring smile.
“What’s the problem?” he said. “You’re a celebrity, Great Gumshoe. You found our missing mayor and district attorney. You’re a household name all across the Land of the Free.”
“Yeah?” I said. “So’s Ty-D-Bol.”
* * *
When I’d had enough beers to be only slightly less coherent than usual, I dug out my cell phone and dialed my sister, Ellen, Greg’s mother. Like it or not, it was something I had to do. The call went to voice mail. Ellen is a certified public accountant. I’d forgotten that she was out of town, in Denver at what had to be the world’s most boring convention—three hundred CPAs droning about the latest in spreadsheet techniques. I dialed her house number and spoke for a long minute with Maxwell Rudd, my brother-in-law, which in times past has been like holding a conversation with a computerized insurance salesman.
Like me, Gregory’s father was under the influence, a state in which I’d never seen him. I liked him better for that wordless display of emotion. He hadn’t told Ellen yet, but he was working himself up to it. He would have to do it soon or she’d hear about it on TV. I commiserated, told him I’d try to phone Ellen later, then hung up, had another beer, then another, then blissfully lost count, like those savages who have no words for numbers greater than three.
It was dark when I left and
