Kayla turned to me. “What was it you wanted to know, Mort?”
I looked at Helen. “Something happened, almost forty years ago.”
“Oh. That was you on the phone. Forty years?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Stephen is only forty-five himself, Mr. Angel.”
“Probably doesn’t matter. Most likely it’d be in your records.”
“What did you want to know?”
“Just…the terms of the arrangement that has permitted Edna Woolley to live in Jonnie’s house all these years.”
“Oh. That. We wouldn’t have information of that kind here in the office. Not after such a long time.”
“Where would it be?” Kayla asked.
“Kaplan Security Services, out in Stead, if it exists at all. They maintain secure vaults for paper storage. Fireproof and all that.”
“Could we get the records?”
“Not right away. They’re closed weekends. I could phone on Monday, let them know I need access. If it’s important,” she added.
Dead end, at least for a while.
“I don’t suppose you would know anything about it? I mean, personally?” Kayla asked. “Before the records were stored.”
“I’m sorry, no. I never saw the documents. Although…”
“Yes?” Kayla prompted.
“Well…Emmaline Dorman, Frank Oleson’s secretary back then. She trained me, years ago. I imagine she would have seen them. She’s retired, though. Has been for, oh, gosh, eighteen years now.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“Oh, yes. Austin.”
“Austin?”
For a moment she didn’t understand Kayla’s confusion, then she said, “Oh, there’s a Texas Austin too, isn’t there? I meant the Austin here in Nevada.”
In the middle of nowhere on U.S. 50. Literally in the middle, if Nevada is nowhere, which is arguable—right in the geographic center of the state that’s been slated to take the nation’s nuclear waste, because one look at a map and it’s obvious that Nevada is the perfect place for gambling, whorehouses, and DNA-altering radioactivity.
“She had a brother there,” Helen said. “But I heard he died a few years ago. Her husband too, poor thing. I’ve got Emmaline’s address here somewhere if that’d help.”
Kayla got it, then looked at me. “Want to go?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
TO AUSTIN? IN the heat of summer? Hell, no.
I gave Kayla a shrug.
“Okay, great,” she said.
My fault. I should have known. Never send a woman a mixed message. It will be interpreted accordingly, one of the ways they seize control. On the other hand, a trip to Austin would get us out of Reno where we might get a little breathing room. The media would never track down this Austin connection, such as it was. If it gave us a day of peace, it would be worth it.
Back in the VW, Kayla said, “Do we need anything at your place before we go?”
“Got m’ wig right here, ma’am,” I said in John Wayne’s voice, picking it up and twirling it on one finger.
She rolled her eyes. “Is that a no?”
“Yep. It’s a no.”
More eye rolling. “What about money? In case we end up having to spend the night.”
“Now there’s a thought-provoking thought.”
“Uh-huh. So…what if, Mort?”
“I’ve got one of those things you’ve avoided all your life, sugar. A hated MasterCard.”
“Oh, goodie. Maxed out?”
“Not a dime on it. And it’s got a limit of two thousand dollars, too.” Which not only shows how little I’d used it, but also showed how little the folks at MasterCard trusted me.
“Whoopee, we’re rich.”
* * *
We. She had an interesting way with words.
It wasn’t until one thirty that we got on Interstate 80, headed east. I’d insisted on an oil change for the VW, something Kayla hadn’t had done since she’d left New York. The night before, with Kayla beside me in bed, July had slipped quietly into August. This time of year Highway 50 would be an empty, sun-scorched stretch of heat mirages and misery. Boy Scout that I am, I wanted to minimize the risk of having a breakdown. That antique air-cooled engine was risk enough. Then I got hungry and we had sandwiches at Carrows, I in my wig, she in a smile as she stared at it. And I called Dallas on my cell phone, told her what I was up to. I. Me. I was going to Austin.
“Is K going with you?” she asked, right off.
You can’t slip anything by them. They are so much smarter than we are. Making us look like we’re in charge is only a game to them, something to alleviate boredom. They probably laugh their heads off when they’re alone.
“Uh-huh.”
“Have fun, Mort.”
“This’s detective work, Dal.” And it was against Jeri’s express orders, too, but…what the hell, all I did was work for her, after a fashion. Something that could change as easily as the weather.
“Of course it is. Call me when you get back?”
“Yeah.” I shut the phone, ending the call.
We didn’t get to Fallon until nearly three. Then the real Highway 50 began, two lanes of shimmering blacktop, scoped out by floating buzzards, like riding toward the end of the world. The pavement would be up around a hundred eighty degrees. You could roast a steer on it.
The Volkswagen didn’t have air-conditioning. With the windows open, hot air buffeted through. Kayla had the top two buttons of her shirt undone. She told me to take the wheel, and I held it while she untucked her shirt, unbuttoned the lower two buttons, then knotted the loose ends under her breasts.
“Watch the road,” she said.
“What for? The sonofabitch is naked—I mean empty.”
She grinned. “Watch the road, you fool.”
She took over the wheel, and I played it cool, not looking at her belly for at least two minutes, which took all my self-control. You see stomachs like that only in your dreams, and then only if you’re damn good at it.
East of the junction of Route 839, two jets from the naval air station at Fallon swooped down and dropped bombs on invisible targets, white bursts of light, smoke plumes, snarls of thunder. What else would you
