“That’s the one.”
Was that a gleam of respect I saw in his eyes? I’d like to think so. On the other hand, Ms. Estes tried without success to hide a moue of disapproval, as if she’d discovered a desiccated roach in her Cheerios right before that first spoonful. Fairchild, of course, being a true detective, wanted more.
“In what capacity were you two there?” he asked, which told me he hadn’t gotten his quota of beauty sleep that morning.
I gave that two seconds’ thought, said, “About a gallon,” and stood up. “We done here?”
Burnley stuck his notebook in a pocket. “Guess so. Unless . . .” He turned to Estes. “You got anything?”
She pursed her lips and was thinking about it when a deputy—not Roup—came over and whispered something in Burnley’s ear.
“Well, shit,” Burnley said. “This stinkin’ job doesn’t pay nearly enough.” At which point he stared at the recorder then turned it off. “This is not for public consumption,” he said. “But fingerprints confirm that the hand in that package does in fact belong to Senator Reinhart. So this day—no, this month—is now pure dogshit.”
Sarah and I were instructed to say nothing but “no comment” to reporters, which would incite them to no end and make the two of us look guilty as hell about something. It might also make us look like an “item,” which would boost my recognition quotient around the country. If Reinhart were still alive, I could whip his sorry ass in a presidential primary. His wife—Julia—was a good-looking woman twenty-six years his junior, but in that T-shirt, about to get national exposure, Holiday as the next First Lady would be unbeatable. If, of course, we were an item.
The written statements and the preliminary questioning over with, Sarah and I were allowed to drive back to Reno in the same car, alone. Fairchild might have suggested it. I wouldn’t put it past him. Sarah and I had told our stories. Now, if either story changed, they’d nail us to the wall. That might have been his hope. I was making him look bad, finding missing persons right and left.
I drove. Three county cars were ahead of us, six behind, no lights, no sirens. Earlier, when the name Harry Reinhart had come up, they’d scrambled like B-52s in a nuclear alert, but now it was just a casual run back to Reno. I’d gassed up the Audi at the Texaco station. I gave Hank my cell number, told him to call if he saw that Mercedes again, or the girl, or, in fact, any girl that might fit Allie’s description. What better person to keep an eye out for a girl than an alcoholic who doesn’t much notice “the girls” anymore?
By ten thirty we were on the road, empty desert on both sides, a caravan of white cars front and back, the Audi—still fire-engine red—looking like a ruby in a cheap bracelet.
“Sorry about last night,” Sarah said.
“What about it?”
“You know. All the hassle.”
I shrugged that off. “No sweat. It made for an interesting night.”
“ ‘Interesting.’ That’s a tepid word.”
“How about memorable? That better?”
She smiled. “Really?”
“Hell, yes. I hope never to repeat it.”
Silence for two miles. Then: “It was that bad, huh?”
“Well, no. It was . . . different.”
She leaned her head back, eyes closed. “Anyway, I’m glad we didn’t end up sleeping in the car. That would’ve sucked.”
We weren’t done yet. This time the interrogation took place at the Washoe County jail. For the record, their rooms are ventilated better than those at RPD. The one-way mirrors are cleaner, too.
Due to the nature of the victim, the questioning was handled by the FBI, although Sheriff Burnley and Carla Estes were also present.
“Who is Abe Handy?” asked a humorless, no-nonsense agent introduced as Agent Morrison, referring to the return address on the FedEx package. Humorless, I figured, because I had to tell him Abe undoubtedly referred to Abe Lincoln, and when that didn’t register, I said Honest Abe? And when he didn’t get that, I had to tell him that Reinhart’s hand was billed as the hand of an honest politician, but that theory and practice might have little in common in this case—this guy was like trying to hold a conversation with a can of paint. And Handy? He wanted to know about that. Well, Agent Morrison, if you’ll remember there was a hand in that package—sonofabitch. The guy probably had to have every joke in A Charlie Brown Christmas spelled out to him.
“How about that address, Hacksaw Road?” he asked.
Even Estes rolled her eyes.
“Think about it,” I said. “It’ll come to you. Maybe.”
But I wasn’t about to explain it. If I did, he might think all this tricky insider knowledge was proof of wrongdoing. Agent Morrison made IRS agents look like revelers at a New Year’s party.
Then came the questions, a few hundred of them, but Sarah’s story and mine hadn’t changed, so they cut us loose at four twenty that afternoon. They test-fired my gun then gave it back, reluctantly, since I had a carry permit, and they had nothing to compare the slugs to. Yet. Sarah drove me to my house on Ralston, which was a bust due to eight media vans parked out front—eight of them, a new record—and three cop cars and a forensics van. Turns out, you can’t find part of a presidential candidate without attracting attention. My neighbors would probably circulate a petition to have me removed by Monday.
“Where to now?” Sarah asked. I slunk down in the Audi as she went past the house, turned left at the corner.
“Dunno.”
“How about my place?”
Now there was a sterling idea. “No way.”
“Why not? I’ve got a nice apartment just the other side of the university. It’s only about a mile away.”
I thought about that. Knowing where she lived might be useful. I didn’t know why, but being a damn good detective, I decided not to turn down free information.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay, great.”
Down University Terrace, across Virginia Street to Ninth, then Evans, around the ring road that circles
