Dave was at the bar when I went in. Cheryl was there, too, so I was careful since there was a grenade in the room and I didn’t know if anyone had pulled the pin.
Evidently not. Dave sent a dark draft my way, and I ordered up a medium-rare sirloin with a baked potato and a salad. I ate at the bar where I could keep an eye on the TV and keep the beer current and cold.
“Where’s the little lady?” Dave asked, wiping a glass.
“Reno.”
“Long way from here.”
“About nine minutes in that rocket car Andy Green drove in the Black Rock up here in ’97. Seven hundred sixty-three miles an hour.”
“Fast, yeah, but that thing doesn’t corner worth a shit.”
“Good point.”
“Still looking for that girl? What’s her name?”
“Allie. And, yes.”
“No one like that’s been in here lately.”
“Not sure I’d expect her to. She might’ve been in a Mercedes SUV, here in Gerlach and around.” I didn’t want to give away that Bend sighting. “I’ve been watching the highway from outside my motel room.”
“Yeah? I’d rather watch granite decompose.”
“Gettin’ that way myself,” I said as I downed the last bite of steak and pushed my plate away.
Another clip of Reinhart was on the TV. When a presidential candidate’s shaking hand turns up without the candidate, it makes for a real fine story, one with legs. Reinhart was still missing so it was looking like he was out of the race, although if he showed up he could count on the sympathy vote. I got another glimpse of Julia Reinhart, dodging cameras, dodging questions. Jayson Wexel got a solid thirty-second mention. The FBI was calling his death a murder now, and yellow-journalistic speculation sells beer and cars. Reinhart and Wexel had probably stabbed five hundred people in the back over the years, so the FBI ought to be hip-deep in suspects by now. I wondered if it was smart for Jeri, Ma, me, and now Sarah, to keep that green SUV away from them. Ma might have a point about it being our tree to cut down, but that slippery Mercedes was getting to be damned annoying.
Cheryl shoved a sarsaparilla in front of me and nodded at the chandelier.
“Rain check,” I said. “Pulled a muscle in my shoulder.”
“Well, shit.”
I got another draft and headed off to my room. I took a shower and dried while watching the television, then sat in bed for an hour reading my Lescroart novel, found out Lescroart is pronounced Les-kwah, then hit the lights and passed out.
The next morning I was halfway through a stack of pancakes with sausages and scrambled eggs when Deputy Roup came in, sat at my table, and ordered up another Hunter’s Special.
“Back again?” he said.
“Yep. Real nice place you got here, Deputy.”
“You’ve been a hell of a boon to the local economy, Angel.”
“Always glad to help out.”
“City council’s thinkin’ of hiring you to stick around and find more body parts. Turn folks here into millionaires.”
“This place is a city, huh?”
“We might be shy a few people, but we can call it any doggone thing we want. Still looking for that SUV?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t know if this’ll help, but a white Mercedes G550 went through here four or five days ago.”
I paused with a load of pancake on my fork. “White?”
“Unless my eyes’re goin’.”
“Which direction?”
“South. Toward Reno.”
“Right on through? Didn’t stop for gas?”
“I asked Hank. He would’ve seen it if it had.”
“Did you see who was driving?”
“A woman. Not old, not young. In her thirties, I’d say. Brown hair, shoulder-length or longer, dark glasses. That’s about it. All I’m getting are two-second looks. I still don’t see myself pulling folks over without some sort of a reason.”
White, not green.
“Same year as the green, huh?” I said.
“Uh-huh. We don’t get a lot of 550s through here, but now you got me looking.”
Another Mercedes SUV. It came from somewhere up north. I checked my watch. 8:40 a.m. Bend was a long way off, over three hundred miles, but if I pushed it I could be up there by one thirty. I could have phoned around, tried to find a car painter or body shop in Alturas or Bend that had recently painted a green SUV white, which might be a stretch, but I thought it was worth looking into. A lot better than watching granite decompose. I gave Jeri a call, told her about the white SUV, told her what I wanted to do.
“Wait a few minutes, Mort. Stay there. I’ll call you right back.”
“What’s up?”
“Just wait.” Then she was gone.
I got myself another cup of coffee and stared at the TV above the bar. Terrorists had blown up more stuff in France. Animals. I don’t think they’re politically motivated at all. That’s just an excuse. They’re delinquents—ninth-century bad boys who get off humping camels and blowing stuff up. If they finally got what they say they want, they’d still hump camels, blow stuff up, and use Allah as an excuse. Low-life barbarians, but dangerous with twentieth-century technology.
My cell phone rang just as Ma Clary came in the door. I stared at her thinking sonofabitch, then said into the phone, “Hey, guess what, Jeri, Ma just walked in.”
“Really? Now there’s a coincidence for you.”
“Tell me about it.”
Ma pulled out a chair and sat at the table, gave Deputy Roup a smile. “Tell you about what?” she asked me.
“Nothin’, Ma. I am a leaf in the wind.”
Ma turned away from me. “Deppity Roup. How’re you doin’, doll?”
“Jest fine, Ma. How ’bout yourself?”
“What’s going on?” Jeri said in my ear.
“Not sure. It might be old home week. You sent Ma up?”
“She wanted to get out. She thought she’d help you ask around Gerlach, but now it looks like you two oughta go up to Bend, check around, see about that white SUV. She’ll be really good at that.”
Ma ordered a beer from a waitress about nineteen years old then lit up a cigarette, blew smoke skyward.
“Gotta
