The miles were rough. Another six miles from the highway we reached the tire shredder. Except it was . . . shredded, more or less. The entire thing had been pulled out of the ground, dragged to one side. The hole it left was filled in with dirt, which made it just another minor bump in the road.
“Must’ve been an earthquake,” I said. “Bad one. Not long ago, either.”
In fact, given two or three uninterrupted hours, I think I could have jacked the mechanism out of the ground with chains, short sturdy I-beams, and a couple of 20-ton hydraulic jacks.
A sign on a post by the defunct shredder read:
PRIVATE
Edward L. Jacobson Addiction Treatment Center
By appointment only
KEEP OUT
Trespassers will be prosecuted
“Addiction treatment, sure,” Lucy said. “People roofying each other. Easy to get addicted to that kind of kiddin’ around.”
“Anyway, we won’t have to walk in.”
“And I was so looking forward to the exercise in this heat.”
“Hop out. I’ll meet you up at the house.”
She slugged my arm. “Drive, Daddy.”
The road, such as it was, entered a narrow dry arroyo of weathered basalt that wound up into the mountains. We gained a thousand feet of elevation in two and a half miles before the road began to level out. Small rocks pinged up into the wheel wells. A plume of fine brown dust followed us up the hillside. Around an outcropping of rock, we stopped at another fence with a gate across the road. The gate had been left open. Two gates and a tire shredder so far. A sign on this gate read:
VISITORS MUST CHECK IN AT THE RECEPTION AREA.
Patients may be walking around the facility. If you have no business here, you may be liable for damages of up to $250,000 for loss of treatment to patients.
“They take their Rohypnol seriously here,” Lucy said.
“Wouldn’t you?”
I drove on, ignoring the quarter-million-dollar scare tactic. A faint odor riding a gentle breeze gave me a sense of déjà vu, but I couldn’t place it.
Half a mile farther, Jo-X’s hideout came into view. By now the odor was much stronger, the chemical smell of ash. The house was a low rambling structure, sandstone colored, with big picture windows and a four-foot decorative adobe fence around the perimeter of the building that encompassed little courtyards.
I spotted a broken window with soot on the outside wall above it. More windows, more soot. I was in the fifth grade the first time I encountered a house that had burned down. It was half a mile from my house. A friend of mine and I went through it a week later. The odor of fried insulation, plastic, wood, metal, electronics, and wallboard is distinctive. And rank.
“Fire,” Lucy said.
“Days old.” No smoke was coming from the house, just the smell.
“Probably has something to do with that tire shredder thing someone tore out of the ground.”
“You’re gonna be a first-rate gumshoe in no time, kiddo.”
She stuck her tongue out at me. It made her look sixteen, which was scary.
The driveway curved around to the right and ended at a six-car unattached garage. In front of the garage was a blue Focus and a red Chevy Cruze.
Looked like a party was in progress. Perfect.
I drifted the Mustang beside the Cruze and cut the engine. Shanna and Ignacio were by the front door, or what remained of what I assumed had once been the front door, now ash on hinges.
“Hola,” I called out cheerfully, wondering what the hell was going on. “Barbeque get out of hand?”
“You’re late,” Vince said. “The canapés are all gone and all we got left is a warm six-pack of O’Douls.”
I was liking the Wharf Rat more every time I ran into him.
“You know this character?” I said to Shanna.
“Yeah, sure. His name is Bill.”
“Bill Hogan, right?”
She frowned at me. “That’s right. So?”
“So you’re aware that he’s the guy who scared Danya away from your house the day Jo-X turned up in your garage.”
She stared at Ignacio. “You didn’t say anything about that.”
Vince shrugged.
“He has CIA-like following skills,” I informed her.
“Following skills?”
“He followed you all the way from Vegas to Tonopah, and Danya from Tonopah to Reno. Later he followed you and Danya from Reno to Caliente. And,” I added to give the party a boost, “his name isn’t Bill. It’s Vincent Ignacio, Celebrity News.” I smiled at him. “Just gettin’ it all out in the open so we can get things figured out.”
“Yeah, thanks a bunch.” He didn’t look happy.
“No problem, Vinny.”
“Jesus H. Christ, the tabloid guy.” Shanna backed away from him.
“Just the tabloid guy,” I said. “Christ was someone else.”
Lucy snickered.
I nodded at the house. “How’s it look inside? Ready for a party now that everyone’s here except Danya?”
Shanna was in her summer usual: jogging shorts and a halter top with prominent nipple bumps. Vince’s chin came about to her cleavage, which meant this might be the best day of his life—until Lucy and I showed up, that is.
“Merry Maids would be a plus,” Vince said, recovering. “And new furniture, electricity, and water. And a ceiling.”
Shanna still wasn’t through with him. “How do you live with yourself, creep, working for a toilet-paper rag?”
Creep. She and Danya had been talking.
Vince’s face turned a shade of pink. I didn’t think tabloid rats had any internal mechanism that allowed them to feel shame. Or maybe it wasn’t shame. It might have been a natural reaction to the lights coming on, like roaches scurrying into dark corners. But that may have been uncharitable of me, especially since Vince and I appeared to be approaching buddyhood, almost on a first-name basis.
“Good stuff,” I said. “Bigfoot loose in Manhattan’s subways. 7-Eleven spotted on the far side of the moon. You and Danya are serious front-page material.”
“Well, fuck,” Shanna growled. “The fuckin’ News.”
“Language,” Lucy said.
Then, of course, Vince stepped in it, which is what tabloid rodents do. His eyes shifted to Lucy, taking on a kind of glow. “You’re Lucy Landry, right?” Couldn’t resist showing off.
