“What do you think?”
“Hey, I haven’t showered all day. This morning at school I took a fluid dynamics test and a structures test, then spent the afternoon looking up civil engineering case law crapola in the library.”
“Fluid dynamics. And structures.”
“Advanced trusses, if you want to know. So it’s been a long day and I feel gritty. I’m going to take a shower, if that’s all right with you.”
“That’s fine. Terrific, actually. But we’ve got some logistics to figure out here.” I got the room key off the table, just in case.
“Yeah, like what?” She ran the zipper down on her jeans and started to work them over her hips. More skin started to show.
“We’ll figure it out later.” I opened the door and stepped out into the night.
I could explain all this to Jeri, no problem. She was an adult, a reasonable person, sophisticated. She would understand. No gas in town, we were lucky to get that one room, not my fault it had only one bed. Given all the facts, she wouldn’t have a problem with any of this. None at all.
Then again, given the facts of the situation she might shove my head through the nearest available knothole and discuss this with me on the other side. We’d known each other for less than seven weeks, not a long time to end up engaged, not enough time to have learned all the little quirks and expectations of the other, especially a little quirk like Holiday.
I sat at the bar in the casino, trying not to imagine Holiday wet, scrubbing off the day’s grit in the shower.
Dave strolled over. “Man, that was quick.”
“You think? How ’bout another beer? Same thing.”
He ran a tap and slid the glass in front of me. “On the house. First prize. You deserve it.”
“You have no idea.” I raised the glass to him, then drained half before setting it down.
A big guy in a flannel shirt, blue jeans, and boots came in, took a stool next to mine. About sixty, weathered, full head of gray hair, barrel chest. He had an automatic on his hip, looked like a 1911 .45—a serious gun. He tapped the bar with a finger, signaling for his usual. Dave poured him a whiskey, neat.
You’ve got to admire a guy who can hold his liquor and fire a weapon of that size. I thought about getting up and putting a dozen people between him and me.
“Oughta show the sheriff here that picture,” Dave said.
The guy turned to me. “Deputy sheriff. County sheriff’s down in Reno.” He stuck out a big calloused hand. “Mike Roup, Deppity.”
“Mort, PI.”
We shook. His hand felt like old leather.
“Mort,” he said, giving me a closer look. “Mortimer Angel. I’ll be a son of a gun. You’re the guy found those heads down in Reno a month or two ago.”
“Guilty as charged.” I like to say that, add a little uncertainty to the conversation.
He laughed, hit his drink, then glanced at Dave. “What picture?”
I showed him Allie’s high school photo. He gave it a good long look, fifteen, twenty seconds, then he set it on the bar between us. “How old’s the picture? What’s her name?”
“Allie. Allison Dellario. Picture might be two years old. About that. You seen her around?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Over at the Texaco this evening. Would’ve been about seven-thirty, maybe eight. Closer to eight, I’d say. Girl in a Mercedes SUV, passenger seat. Blond girl, anyway. Young like that. But it was getting on toward dark, and I was just passing by in the cruiser, comin’ in from Empire. I got maybe a one-second look, if that, but it could’ve been her.”
“She was in the passenger seat?”
“Uh-huh. Lady was outside, pumping gas. Older, looked to be in her mid to late thirties. Taller than average, seemed like. Slender. Shoulder-length dark hair. Dark pants, light-colored windbreaker.”
“Pretty decent description.”
“Don’t see many hundred-thousand-dollar SUVs ’round here. It was this year’s model, too. I pay attention, keep my eyes open. That’s a lot of what I do around here.”
“They still in town?”
“Nope. I’d know it if they were. Town here has about as many people as a crowded Burger King. Few more than that right now, though, with all the hunters.”
“What color SUV?”
“Dark green. Real nice color. Forest-green but with a kind of metallic sheen to it. Thing was a G550. Big-ass engine. Probably couldn’t catch it in my cruiser if we both went flat out. All I’ve got is two hundred sixty-five horsepower.”
“Did you see which way they went when they left?”
“Nope. Hank might’ve.”
“Hank?”
“Guy owns the Texaco. Hank Waldo.”
“Speaking of which. I don’t suppose there’s any chance I could get some gas over there?”
“Tonight?” He laughed. “About now, Hank’ll be passed out in his trailer, or gettin’ that way. Be surprised if he can stand up.”
“Figures. Evening’s been like that.”
Dave spoke up. “If you got yourself some gas and took off, my faith in humanity would drop to absolute fuckin’ zero.”
Mike Roup gave Dave a look. “Yeah? Why’s that?”
“You oughta see what he’s got over in nineteen. Which makes me wonder what the hell you’re doing here,” he said, staring at me like I was the world’s dumbest shit.
“What if she’s my sister?” I said.
“Oh, Christ, don’t tell me that. Do not tell me that. I’d have to go out back and shoot myself.”
Corti’s was set up like a sports bar, restaurant, and casino, all in one. Four televisions were on, only one with sound. The one over the bar was silent, but I saw a clip of Senator Reinhart getting out of a limo on his way into his Las Vegas campaign headquarters. For a moment I thought he’d turned up, but then a talking head belonging to Rachel Valencia, Channel 4, mouthed words from a teleprompter while the words STILL MISSING flashed on a screen behind her. So a presidential candidate and the nation’s one honest senator
