About then time got distorted, events tumbled over one another, but it didn’t seem long before Deputy Roup came charging through the door with his gun on his hip, holster unsnapped.
I pointed at the thing in Saran wrap. He took a closer look, then stared at me. “What the hell, Mortimer?”
“Mort.”
“What—who—whose is it?”
“Mine, since it was sent to me.”
He stared at me. “I mean, whose hand was it?”
I indicated the note on the table. “Might be a clue there. You probably shouldn’t touch it though,” I added helpfully.
He glared at me, then squinted at the note, then at me. “What’s that mean?”
I nodded at the disgusting thing. “My guess—and this’s just a guess, mind you, so don’t get excited—that’s the shakin’ part of our missing senator, Harry J. Reinhart.” I let that gel for five seconds, then said, “Am I good, or what?”
I don’t think Roup cared for the comment, but he’d been a cop for thirty-plus years and he hadn’t eaten yet, so he called it in to the county mounties down in Reno, then we sat at an adjoining table and had breakfast. He and I did, anyway, the Hunter’s Special—three eggs any style, thick slab of ham, hash browns, buttered toast with jam, enough coffee to float a kayak. Sarah picked at a bowl of fruit with a greenish pallor on her face. Other than her shirt, she didn’t look much like the Holiday I’d come to know in the past . . . what? Ten hours? Jesus H. Christ, this gumshoe-dame thing was like riding a rocket sled.
Roup yawned. He caught my look.
“Long damn night,” he said. “Fire was reported in the hills up north, west of the highway. Travel trailer went up, eight or ten miles in from the road. Old rig, small, fourteen feet long. I was thinking it belonged to a hunter, but no truck was around, nothing to pull it, and it didn’t have plates, so now I don’t know. Thing’s probably cool enough now to go back, try to find a VIN number.” He yawned again.
Hank Waldo came in at 5:53 and had the waitress fill a thermos with coffee. Her hand shook, but she got the job done. Deputy Roup waved Hank over and he took a chair, sixty-six years old, grizzled, oil and dirt on his boots, hair white, nose bulbous, teeth yellow with age and neglect, half a dozen of them missing in front, which made him look like a pumpkin I’d carved when I was ten.
“Remember that Mercedes yesterday?” Roup asked him, hands cupped around his coffee mug. “Green SUV?”
Texaco Hank nodded. “Sure. Third or fourth time it’s been by this month.”
That got my attention. Made it more likely I’d seen it last night when I left the casino.
“You see a girl inside?” Roup asked. “Passenger side.”
At that, Sarah perked up, started listening. A girl?
Hank shrugged. “Saw one, yeah.”
“Remember her hair color? How old she was? Anything?”
“Don’t pay much notice to girls these days, but she looked like jailbait. Thing is, I ain’t shit for ages anymore. Edie over there”—he nodded toward the waitress—“she looks like jailbait to me, an’ she’s thirty-five.” He sipped his coffee, then his eyes got sly. “If I went over there and honked one of her hooters, you’d arrest me, wouldn’t you?”
“Probably have to, Hank. If she yelled and filed charges. Which I’m thinkin’ she would.”
“There you go. Jailbait, like I said.”
Deputy Roup grinned. “How about the woman with that girl? She would’ve been the one outside, pumping gas.”
Hank looked up at the ceiling, gave that some thought. “Had a city look to ’er, but who else’d drive a car like that?”
“How old was she?”
“Who knows? Coulda been thirty, forty. Tall lady, but prissy lookin’, if you know what I mean. Had that look anyways.”
“Do you have video surveillance at the station?” I asked.
Hank looked at me, then shook his head. “Nope. Got no use for useless complicated shit. Don’t have the time. Never needed nothin’ like it, neither.”
“Which way’d they go when they left?”
“Down south.”
Back toward Fernley, Reno, Las Vegas, Mexico—at about eight p.m., and I might’ve seen it at about ten thirty, same night, also headed south. Which didn’t make sense. Maybe he was mistaken, or maybe there was more than one dark Mercedes SUV in the area. Didn’t seem likely, but stuff happens.
“How about those other times you saw it?” I asked.
“North, south. Both ways. Passin’ through.” He looked up at a clock. “Well, gotta go. Probably got a line of trucks at the station. Usually do, mornings. Nice talkin’ to ya.” He took off. It was a one-minute walk to the station from the casino. I’d know where to find him if I wanted to talk to him again, which I thought was likely.
“Think that was Allie in the car?” Sarah asked. The pallor had evaporated and color was back in her face. She looked good, starting to draw stares again. We were waiting for Reno police but Corti’s was still open for business, only place in town that served food. The hand on the table, presumably the hand of an honest politician, had been covered with a tablecloth. Deputy Roup kept folks away from it.
I shrugged. “It’s possible.”
“That the girl in the picture you showed me last night?” Roup said. “That high school kid you asked about?”
“Uh-huh. Two years older now.”
“Well, then, I’m sorry I didn’t stop at the station yesterday, get a better look at her. And that SUV.”
Me, too.
Another fifteen minutes crept by.
It was an indication of who’s got the money that first on the scene was a helicopter—Channel 2 out of Reno. Second on the scene was another helicopter—Channel 8. Deputy Roup went outside to say “No comment” half a dozen times and keep cameras out of the restaurant, although reporters came in, ostensibly to get coffee. Took them less than five seconds to notice me, the guy who’d located missing persons left and right last July. People who’d ended up
