by J. R. Rain
I let her keep talking. She seemed to be on a roll.
“So the question is: what happened to his cell phone?”
“The million dollar question,” I said.
Chapter Forty
After my meeting with Patricia, I bought myself a 12-pack of Bud and checked into the Desert Moon Motel near Barstow’s big outlet mall, which, coincidentally, had prices similar to regular malls.
The motel room was ordinary, although this one came with a bonus double bed and a lot of stuffy air. Now forced to make a decision, I stood in front of the double beds, thinking. Finally, with the air conditioner only managing to sputter semi-cool air, I opted for the bed closest to the window.
Once settled, I had Domino’s deliver a large cheeseburger pizza. I found a college football game and drank much of the beer and eventually ate the whole pizza, tossing the empty box on the carpet between the two beds, along with the empty beer cans. Gluttony at its best. The game droned on. I drank on. Cindy called a few times and each time I tried to hide the fact that I had beer breath, until I remembered she was a hundred miles away. Still, I think she knew, although she didn’t say anything.
Just watching the game was making my leg hurt. So I turned it off and limped across the room and over to the window and looked out across the black expanse of desert. The motel was on the fringes of town. I cranked open the window. A hot wind touched my sweating face. The wind was infused with sage and desert lavender and probably muskrat turds. I pulled up a chair, put my feet up on the windowsill and cracked open another beer.
I awoke the next morning in the same straight-back chair with the window open and the air conditioner chugging away, still holding a half-full can of beer.
So I finished the beer, looked at my watch. It was just before 9:00 AM. The Rawhide museum opened at 10:00. I had just enough time for a McDonald’s McGriddle!
I found Jarred’s address in the Barstow phone book. He lived in a condominium off of Somerset Street, in what would be considered downtown Barstow. At half past ten, I parked across the street.
My windows were down and my shades were on. The day was blistering. Heat waves rose off my hood. There was another sausage McGriddle in the bag for the ride home. I could hardly wait. Hope it didn’t spoil in the heat. A chance I was willing to take.
I stepped out into the heat, opened my trunk and returned to my front seat with a plastic case. From the case, I lifted out what locksmiths call a pick gun. Next, I pulled on some latex gloves.
With the pick gun in hand, I got out of the car again and crossed the street. The sidewalks were empty. People were at work or indoors with their AC’s running.
On the bottom floor, I found the unit I was looking for and knocked.
I listened, my senses alive and crackling. I could have heard a desert muskrat scratch its balls.
Nothing. No desert muskrats and no yipping dog, either.
Good.
Nowadays, pick guns are the way to go for any locksmith. They operate on the laws of physics: action verses reaction, using the transfer of energy to compromise most locks. At the door, I slipped a slim needle into the keyhole and pulled the pick gun trigger, releasing the internal hammer, which caused the needle to snap upward, throwing the top pins away from the bottom pins. Now I adjusted the thumbwheel, then the tension wrench-and heard a satisfying click.
I turned the doorknob and stepped inside.
Chapter Forty-one
The condo was stifling, and very still, which led me to believe it was empty. I clicked the door shut behind me, turned, and found myself standing in the living room. A massive mahogany entertainment center was to my immediate right. There was an old couch in front of me, and the kitchen was to my left. Sweat immediately trickled down my sides. The air was thick and hard to breathe. I considered opening the freezer door and sticking my head inside.
Nervous excitement fluttered in my stomach. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for, but finding Willie’s cell phone would be a start.
The living room was cluttered with fast food wrappers. Hell, there were fast food wrappers on top of fast food wrappers. In New York, rats would have had a field day in here. But out here in the desert, the remains of his meals had gone to a regiment of ants.
I stepped over the trail of ants and headed to the first bedroom. The room itself was a disaster, clothes everywhere. Ironically, the hamper was empty. Jarred must have been a lousy shot. The bed was so unmade it appeared to have never been made. Three of the five drawers in his dresser were empty. The other two were full of socks and boxers. I looked under the bed. More clothes.
Next was the adjoining bathroom. The light and fan were both still on, and the air was thick with mildew, despite the fan. Water pooled in the center of the bathroom floor. Five or six colognes lined the cabinet below the mirror; three of them toppled over on their sides. The lower half of the mirror was filmy with dried water spots. Shaving scum lined the sink bowl. On the other side of the mirror was a rusted fingernail clipper, Band-aides and wrinkle cream. Maybe it was a man’s wrinkle cream.
The second bedroom was used as an office, and apparently it was Jarred’s Holy of Holies. Utterly immaculate. Hell, it even looked freshly vacuumed. His computer was on a desk in one corner of the room. I considered going through his computer files, but doubted I would find the cell phone there. Piles of research books were stacked next to his printer, along with dozens of manila folders. A trashcan next to the desk was filled to overflowing with wadded paper. I un-wadded a few. These appeared to be false starts to the history he was writing on Rawhide. From what I could tell, he had a fair command of the English language, although he used too many commas for my taste. I opened the cupboard above his computer desk. It was mostly empty, other than a small pile of blank CD-ROMs ready to be burned.
I left the study and went back through the kitchen and out through the sliding glass door to the backyard. It wasn’t a real backyard. It was a condo backyard, with just enough dirt and grass to give the impression of a backyard. Parallel brick fences ran from the sides of the condo to an attached building. I crossed the yard in three strides and stepped into the semi-attached garage.
I flipped a light switch, and a dusty bulb over the doorway sputtered to life.
The garage was mostly empty, apparently primarily used to house Jarred’s truck. There was a washer and a dryer and a folded up ping-pong table. The table was covered with cobwebs. Damn waste. Next to the ping-pong table was a dartboard bristling with plastic red and yellow fletches. Boxes were stacked here and there.
I decided to check the boxes stacked here, rather than there, and within minutes sweat was dripping steadily from my brow and I felt as if I were being slowly cooked to death in this sweat box of a garage. I imagined my corpse being found hours from now, baked to perfection.
Most of the boxes were filled with books. Others were home to black widow spiders. I shuddered. Enough with the spiders, already. I stood there in the garage, hands on hips, wondering if I was barking up the wrong Joshua tree.
Maybe Willie Clarke really did run out of gas. And maybe Jarred had nothing to do with it.
Maybe.
I needed a better plan. There were too many boxes. And certainly too many spiders. If Jarred had indeed sabotaged Willie’s truck, how would he have done it?
Standing in the middle of the garage, I closed my eyes. Sweat trickled down my spine. Hell, sweat trickled down everywhere.
I pictured Jarred heading back up to Willie’s truck. Pictured Jarred using the keys to unlock Willie’s truck door. Pictured Jarred stealing the bottles of water and cell phone. Pictured Jarred using a siphon hose, sucking on one end, getting the gas flowing, and nervously standing there in the desert while the precious fuel pumped out. Pictured Jarred using some of the water from the bottles to clean out the siphon hose. Pictured Jarred putting the empty bottles and the hose and a cell phone into a…what?
I opened my eyes.
A gym bag. At least, that
’s what I would have used.
I would have ditched the gym bag in the desert, but Jarred had Patricia with him. So the gym bag probably went home with him. Where it has stayed because the last thing Jarred expected was a search of his home.
I scanned the garage again. There, on some plastic storage shelves in the far corner, was a red gym bag.
I sucked in some air and, mentally preparing myself for the possibility of more black widows, crossed the length of the garage, pulled down the gym bag. I set it on some boxes and opened it.
Inside were two empty one-gallon bottles of Arrowhead water, a five-foot length of garden hose cut on both ends, and a cell phone. I flipped open the cell phone, turned it on, waited. Music chimed. It still had one bar of battery power left.
Using my own phone, I dialed Willie Clark’s number. My finger shook while I dialed. When finished, I pressed send. More shaking. I sucked in some hot air, waited.
Waited.
The phone in my hand came to life, vibrating and ringing.
Chapter Forty-two
I met Detective Sherbet at a McDonald’s in downtown Fullerton across the street from the local junior college. The Fighting Hornets, or something. Half the customers who weren’t Fighting Hornets were fighting mothers with kids. I came back carrying a tray filled with burgers and fries and sugar cookies to the table we had staked out in the corner of the dining area.
“Sugar cookies?” said Sherbet.
“With sprinkles,” I said. “The sprinkles, of course, do not imply I am a homosexual.”
Sherbet started on the fries. He ate three at a time, mashing them together to form one huge super fry. Grease glistened between his thumb and forefingers.
“Why would you say something like that?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Seems to be a concern of yours.”
He shook his head. “Now don’t go bringing up my kid again.”
“How’s the kid?”
“Asshole,” he said. “The kid’s just fine. In fact, I gave up his neighborhood singing and dancing recital this evening to meet you, so this better be good.”
“Singing recital?”
Sherbet shrugged, looked a little embarrassed. “It’s a sort of one-man show. Or a one-kid show. And the kid’s pretty good. Draws a fairly large neighborhood crowd. Stages it in our garage. He bakes cookies with his mother all afternoon, and serves them to anyone who shows up. It’s quite a production.”
“He’ll be disappointed you’re not there.”
Sherbet stopped eating. “Yeah, he will be.”
“Maybe I should make this quick,” I said.
He sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe you should.”
“You love that kid.”
“Yup.”
“Even though he’s not like you.”
“I do. Would be easier if he were more like me.”
“It’s okay that he’s not. Still your boy.”
Sherbet was about to speak when I jumped in. “Let me guess: you want to change the subject.”
“Lord, yes.” His fries were gone, and he started in on the Big Mac. “So what do you have for me?”
“I might just have a killer for you,” I said. In fact, I knew I had a killer for him, but I couldn’t let on to Sherbet that I had broken into Jarred’s condo. My search was illegal and would raise questions about evidence tampering. Jarred could walk. And I could lose my P.I. license.
“Okay, I’m interested,” he said. “Tell me about it.”
So I did.
Sherbet listened silently, working on his Big Mac, taking surprisingly delicate bites for someone who ate his fries three at a time. When I was done, he snorted. “Even though this Jarred went back for some water, doesn’t mean he sabotaged the vehicle.”
“Sure,” I said. “But it gives Jarred opportunity. And since Willie Clarke was later found without his water, or his cell phone for that matter, there is some room for doubt.”
Sherbet mulled this over, staring at me, chewing. The detective had me by about twenty years, but his face was smooth, nearly wrinkle free. His eyes never stopped working, as if he were continually sizing me up. There was grease on his chin, which caught some of the light and gleamed brilliantly.
“Sure, I’ll give you that. If this kid, Willie, brings some water out, there should be some evidence of the bottles. I can tell you there was none. Kid brings his cell phone, he should have it; he didn’t. Kid buys gas, he should have some; he didn’t.” Sherbet paused. “Don’t forget he was also found nearly ten miles from his truck. Could have tossed both the empty water bottles and the dead cell phone, and ten miles of desert is a lot of heat and sand to search for a fucking cell phone and some plastic water containers.”
“Two gallons of water should have gotten him to the main road,” I said. “Or at least kept him alive long enough for a passing vehicle to spot him.”
“Sure, if he didn’t get lost first and waste the water.”
“We are going in circles,” I said. “Dancing.”
“We are not dancing,” he said defensively. “What else do you have?”
“The way Jarred appeared that Saturday morning unannounced. The way he changed his tune once he returned from Willie’s truck. The way he refused to go back to see if Willie was okay.” I was leaning forward, my food completely forgotten. A few tables down a student was doing homework with some headphones on, a white cord attached to an iPod sitting on his table. “Taken individually, yes, sounds like I’m reaching for straws. Taken as a whole, we might have something here.”
“Okay, so we might have something here. What’s Jarred’s motive for sabotage and murder?”
I shrugged. “Notoriety and prestige.”
“Notoriety and prestige?” he said dubiously. A crumb had fallen from his mouth and disappeared into his thick arm hair. I wondered how many other crumbs had been lost in there. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Not to you or me, but to Jarred it makes perfect sense. He is a young historian with something to prove. He staked out Rawhide as his very own. He was going to make a name for himself there, even if that name was only known in very limited circles.”
“Have you been to Rawhide?”
“Yes.”
“It ain’t much.”
“No. But it’s untapped history.”
Sherbet was done eating. He wadded up the Big Mac wrapper, sat back and folded his arms over his rotund belly. The plastic bench creaked under his weight. “So he offs his competitor.”
“Yes.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“I want you to dust Willie Clarke’s truck for prints.”
He shook his great head. “Of course there will be prints, Knighthorse. Jarred admitted to going back for water. They’re probably all over the doors.”
“Sure,” I said.
Sherbet thought about it some more, and then the light went on. “The gas cap.”
“Bingo,” I said.
Chapter Forty-three
I was on my back doing crunches behind my desk when the cell rang. Not missing a beat, I reached inside my pocket, removed the phone and flipped it open.
“Knighthorse.”
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” said Sherbet.
“I’m doing crunches.”
“Crunches?”
“It’s not easy being beautiful.”
He ignored me. “We got the search warrant.”
I stopped crunching, lay flat on the floor. “Go on.”
“Jarred’s prints were all over that goddamn gas cap, not to mention along the center console.”
“Where the cell phone might have been located.”
“Exactly.”
“So when are you going in?” I asked.
“Tonight, when he gets home. He needs to be there for the search to be valid.”
“Of course.”
“But you knew that,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Sorry. I forget some privat
e dicks know their shit.”
“This one does.”
He was quiet. I waited. I could hear him breathing.
“And Knighthorse?”
“Yes.”
“Please tell me we won’t find your prints at the condo.”
“You won’t find my prints at the condo.”
“Good. Have you been there?”
“In passing.”
Sherbet paused. If I listened closely enough I could hear his mustache lifting and falling with each breath. “In your expert opinion, Knighthorse, is there anywhere in particular we should look once we get there?”
“If I were conducting the search, I would focus on the garage. Of course, that’s just my expert opinion.”
“Of course,” he said. “Anything else?”
“I figure if he siphoned the gas, he would need a hose, and if he stole the water jugs, he would need somewhere to stash them.”
“Like a bag?”
“Would be my guess.”
Chapter Forty-four
Sanchez, Jesus and I were at a Baskin Robbins near Anaheim Stadium, or whatever the stadium is called these days. I had printed out three free child scoop coupons from the internet, courtesy of a major web page celebrating its fifth anniversary. We waited twenty minutes in line along with dozens of other customers, each holding similarly printed coupons. Sanchez folded his up and put it in his pocket. I think he was embarrassed. I didn’t care. Free ice cream!
Afterward, sitting at a heavily dented metallic table, Sanchez examined his child scoop of rocky road, holding the cone daintily between his thumb and forefinger. “We spent twenty minutes in line for this?”
“Yeah,” I said, “Isn’t it great?”
Sanchez snorted.
Jesus said, “I think it’s cool.”
“Good kid,” I said. “Besides, beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I’m not a beggar,” said Sanchez. “I happen to have a real job with a steady income.”
