Chapter 3
Cleora sat quietly next to me as I navigated the Impala through the confines of Las Vegas and onto the highway. We were making good time. There wasn’t much traffic; no surprise considering that it was Sunday morning. Those of faith were sitting in the pews of their church of choice while us sinners were nursing hangovers. I only felt a little bleary-eyed while my passenger would let out an occasional involuntary whimper of pain from the effects of her late night job. Looking at her, one would never guess what she did for a living. Her hair was wrapped up in baseball cap while her makeup was carefully applied. She was wearing a gray sweatshirt and a pair of black yoga pants, looking more like college student or a young mother out on errands. Our conversation had been stilted; almost formal. I wondered why until I was taken with an idea.
“It doesn’t matter,” I started out after a long dry spell of talk.
“What doesn’t?”
“I mean I don’t care that you work as a dancer. It didn’t bother me when I dated Melodie and it certainly doesn’t bother me now.”
She gave me a sidelong glance. “It isn’t you, Devon, it’s me. I feel so damn immoral every time I go home and see my kid. She thinks I’m a model doing photographs for a fashion magazine. At least that’s what I told her.”
I kept my eyes on the road as I responded. “Don’t let it get to you. I mean you are doing what you can to provide for her. That’s all that matters in the end.”
“Melodie told me that you were a funny man.”
“I assume you two weren’t discussing my sense of humor. Are there any other personality traits of mine that you two discussed?” There was a moment of silence. I gave her a quick look and saw that she was blushing. As Melodie said, the good girl act can only go so far.
When she finally responded, her voice was uneven. “She said you were good in bed. But she also said you were kind and generous, or that you could be if you were in the right mood. Otherwise you were a quiet bastard, to use her own words, who wouldn’t care if the world ended today.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said dryly.
We were out of Las Vegas proper. The casinos, hotels, and restaurants gave way to strip malls and houses packed together so closely that the owners were sitting in each other’s laps. I suppose such an arrangement was slightly better than living in the average apartment, but for the cost it hardly seemed worth the effort.
As we got closer to Henderson, Cleora became more animated, telling me where to turn. It was obvious that she was excited to see her daughter. I took an exit and then we went down a crowded side road and, at her direction, parked in front of a modest ranch home. It was an odd little place with pale green siding on top and a basement covered in red brick that just poked halfway out of the ground. There was a sorry looking cactus garden and set of concrete steps that led up to the front door. Parked in the driveway was an old blue Dodge Minivan with peeling paint. They certainly weren’t living big here, but by the condition of the neighboring homes, neither was anyone else.
With Cleora taking the lead, we went inside. In front of the television, which was turned off, were three children noisily playing a board game. After seeing us, a cute blonde separated herself and went running to Cleora and hugged her tightly. This was Madison, her daughter. The two other children, a boy named Will and a girl named April, were pointed out. They didn’t seem to care that I was there; I was just another adult to be ignored.
The furnishing here - a brown cloth sofa, floor lamp, a recliner, and coffee – looked decidedly abused, as did the carpeting underfoot. There was the smell of cooking in the air and the air-conditioning, a requirement in a desert state like Nevada, seemed to push the atmosphere around more than cool it. To the left, a hallway disappeared where the bedrooms and bathroom would be. At the back was a wide opening where the sound of running water and the clank of dishes being washed could be heard.
Cleora’s sister Kim came in. She was wearing a pair of loose gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt that had been adorned with some type of food stain. Her skin was pale and her hair was brown. She was sloppier looking than her sibling; which wasn’t surprising considering she was a frazzled mother chasing after three children. But the brown eyes revealed an innate kindness that hadn’t been totally crushed by the demands put on her. A long vacation and a few weeks of working out would put a new spring into her step. But it would be several more years of parenting before she could indulge herself in such a fashion.
After the introductions were made, the adults retreated into the kitchen, leaving the children to their fun. Kim busied herself making a pot of coffee while Cleora and I found place to sit at the table. I inwardly cringed at the dirty linoleum floor and the pile of smelly dishes that hadn’t been cleaned yet. We were soon all sitting together, drinking out of mismatched mugs.
Before I had a chance to talk, Kim asked, “Do you work with my sister?”
“No,” I replied. “We have a common friend. I just happened to be going this way and offered her a ride.”
“I see,” she said. “I don’t like what Amy, excuse me, Cleora, does for a living, so I’m glad she’s not hanging out with some lecherous old man. At least you look normal.”
“Looks can be deceiving, but I have no evil designs on your sister.” That explanation seemed to satisfy her.
Cleora, looking embarrassed, asked “Do we still have mom’s laptop?”
Kim answered, “I think so. Check in my bedroom. It should be on the side table, under the alarm clock.”
Putting her coffee cup down, Cleora left. Kim and I stared at each other.
She said, “A man could do a lot worse than her.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t see a ring on your finger, and Cleora is quite beautiful. She’s just had a run of bad luck when it comes to men. Maybe you can change that.”
“Unlike Keith Miller?”
She looked at me with surprise. “So she told you about him?
“About everything there is to know, unless you can tell me more.”
“I’m not sure if I should, but there isn’t much to say except that Cleora really loved him. At the time she was so vulnerable that any man could come along and sweep her off her feet. It was just too bad that it had to be Keith. He was all fast talk and busy hands. He couldn’t even stop touching me and I’m nothing great to look at. Keith used her and treated her bad. I mean bad. She’ll say otherwise, but she cried and cried the day he left. She really did love him, even though he was a creep. And then to make matters worse, Cleora saw him with some rich woman. That just reopened all those old wounds that were just starting to heal up. Keith is probably shacked up together with his new woman while he robs her blind. Just like he robbed us.”
“So you think your father really did get rich in Afghanistan?”
She shrugged. “It seems that way.”
Cleora came back into the kitchen, lugging a black laptop. She set it down in front of me. She then plugged the power supply into the wall and we waited as it booted up.
I asked, “Do either of you know someone who served with your father? Preferably local?”
“Are you with the police?” Kim asked, finally getting suspicious enough of my questions to ask.
“No,” I replied. “But I am here to help you and your sister.”
The tightness in her jaw finally relaxed enough so she could answer. “There is a Bob Peabody. He was my father’s commanding officer. He came to the funeral. I don’t know exactly where he lives but I’m sure you could find out.”
I took out my smartphone and made a note of the name. The computer, an older model, finally finished booting up. I started a browser and, at Cleora’s suggestion, opened a bookmarked email site. Luckily the password defaulted. The first page displayed nothing but spam entries. I clicked backward in time until I reached some personal messages.
“Can I
keep this for a few days?” I asked. “It is going to take some time to search through and find the information I need. I’m hoping to get some more names of the men your father served with.”
The two sisters looked momentarily at each other. “I guess so,” Kim finally answered.
I shut the computer off, got up and began to wind the power cord up. I said, “I’m heading back to Vegas. Do you want a ride back, Cleora?”
She shook her head. “No, I still want to spend some time with Madison.”
“I’ll take her back,” Kim said.
Laptop tucked under my arm, I made my leave. I smiled at the kids who were now busy watching some cartoon. Other than a shy smile from Madison, they didn’t pay any attention to me once I was out of their field of vision. Typical.
Before going back to the car, I headed around the side and went to the rear of the house. There was a cramped backyard with a swing set with a broken chain. The patio was made of flagstones fitted sloppily together; obviously the work of an amateur. One of them looked more offset than the others. Setting the computer down, I managed to pry and pull it up. Underneath was an empty hole that went down a few feet. I let the flagstone drop back into place. There was no clue here but it did collaborate Cleora’s story. I left.
It was nearing lunch now so I stopped at a local grocery store and got a chicken salad to go. I also stocked up on some bottled water, a few snacks, and a magazine about stereo equipment. After eating the quick lunch in the parking lot, I started driving again, heading into the heart of the downtown. Traffic was picking up with a slew of tourists eager to rejoin the eternal party of Vegas.
Skirting past the casinos, I drove to the Eastgate condominiums, a tall but narrow building made of glass and metal. In the front there was a circular driveway that was edged with flowers. The driveway led to the parking lot below. A fountain made out of red tiles sprayed up a column of water. There was no doorman. There was an open spot on the street, so I parked the car, but at such an angle that I couldn’t be immediately seen by anyone leaving. I opened up the laptop, turned it on, and began fiddling with the electric switches of the car seat until I got found a comfortable position.
The first rule of doing a stakeout is not to be noticed. It’s okay to be seen, but the watcher can’t stick out like a sore thumb. Swinging a camera around with a telephoto lens is a surefire way to have your cover blown. Instead any passerby would see a random nobody going through email on his computer or reading a magazine; perfectly reasonable activities in these days of self-absorption. I began paging through the emails. After many pages of spam, shared recipes, and weather alerts, I finally hit the years when Bill Kinney was serving in Afghanistan. I took a pad of paper from the glove box and began to take notes.
Kinney was no lengthy writer, but his terse descriptions of the war were interesting. He wrote of the cold nights, bad food, the customs of the locals, the fortitude of the enemy, the firefights, and the loneliness he felt without his wife and daughters. Luckily the Green Berets were a tight group, so there were only a few names mentioned over and over. As I worked, I would occasionally glance at the building to see who was coming and going. There wasn’t much to see – an elderly couple driving out in a red Infiniti, a pizza delivery, and a middle-aged blonde walking her dog. An hour later and I was done reading emails. By then I had gotten a pretty good idea of what Bill Kinney was like: a man with enough bravado but with an underlying insecurity that he was worthless and unloved. That was nothing new. I also had a list of eight additional names to investigate. With any luck, a few of them would be in the area. If not, it would be time to do some traveling.
I was stuck reading the magazine. The sun was really blazing high in the sky now. Even with windows down, I was hot, my brow dripping with sweat. Every few minutes I had to start the car, turn on the air conditioning, roll up the windows, and bask in the greatest invention of mankind.
It was nearing four o’clock and I was about to give up for the day when I saw a car coming out of the underground garage. It was a newer BMW 3-Series with silver paint and a black convertible top that was laced up. There was a flash of red hair. I caught a glimpse of a woman: attractive but distracted. The car turned, heading in the same direction as the nose of my Impala was pointing. I started the engine and began to follow her.
There is usually an art to the one man tail, a ballet of hiding behind other cars and staying far back as possible. There was, however, no need for any of these precautions since the driver of the BMW was weaving erratically like a drunk. It was so bad that I feared that a wandering police patrol would pick her up. Luckily she only went a few blocks before turning sloppily into the parking lot of liquor store. The car came to a sudden stop and took up two spaces. I kept on going. After taking the first corner, I parked the car and trotted back to the liquor store. That only took me a few minutes. The car was still there but the driver was gone.
I walked into the liquor store, pausing to look at some magazines near the front. I could see a redhead in a sleeveless white dress shouting at a dark-skinned man with thick black hair behind the counter.
She said, “I’ve got the money. Give me the bottle!”
He had a thick accent, probably Indian. “I am sorry, I cannot.”
“I’m the fucking customer.”
“You must leave, madam, or I will have to call the police.”
I had to do something before things got out of control. I took a few steps toward them. I said, “I’m sorry, I’ll take care of this.”
She didn’t even have time to protest as I grabbed her by the arm and hustled her out of the store. She was too drunk to resist. Instead she stumbled along, taking much of my strength to keep her upright. When we got to her car, she rested sloppily against the passenger side fender, staring crazily at me and not knowing what to do. I pulled the purse off of her shoulder and began to root through it. I found a set of keys with an attached remote. Using it, I unlocked the doors. She was still too shocked to say anything as I stuffed her inside the car and then clicked the seat belt in place. I got into the other side, started up the engine, and soon had us heading back to Eastgate.
You could feel the tension in the air. Fear had finally pierced that drunken haze. She was pulling away, fumbling to open the door. She was about to scream.
I said as calmly as I could, “You’re lucky that I came along or else you could have been arrested.”
“Are you kidnapping me?” she demanded, fighting to sound as sober as possible. It was a good fight but one that she ultimately lost since her words were still slurred and almost incomprehensible. But at least she stopped fidgeting so much.
“No, I’m a friend,” I said as disarmingly as possible.
“I don’t know you,” she spat back, now becoming angry once again.
I gave the woman a glance, finally getting a good look at her. She was tall and thin, but not quite willowy. The blaze of long sweeping red hair looked natural with the kind of shadings that don’t come out of a bottle. There were faint freckles under her eyes, which were green, and the skin tone was pale Irish. She was wearing a white dress that looked to be made by some upscale designer. The shoes were open toe heels. She had on red nail polish that was starting to show some chipping. A woman like her could have looked like a million dollars if she wasn’t a lush.
“You know me now. I’ve Devon Pierce. I want to talk to you about Keith Miller.”
Her eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped open, revealing some good dental work. All of the fight was out of her now. “Keith?” she managed to sputter out. “What about him?”
I didn’t answer. Instead I turned the BMW onto the Eastgate driveway and pulled up to the garage gate. There must have been some type of electronic pass inside the car, for it automatically swung open.
“What spot is yours?” I asked as I drove into the parking garage.
“Five-oh-two,” she
answered numbly.
I found the spot and gently eased the car between the lines. Around us were several cars: all foreign and expensive. I shut the engine off and the handed her the keys. She held them in her hand like they were about to bite her. She was shaking hard.
I said, “I’m not going to hurt you. I just have some questions. I want to know where I can find Keith.”
Her eyes looked dully at me as if remembering some terrible pain. She looked sick, like she was about to draw her last breath. The words fell out of her mouth and hung in the air like butterflies. “I need to get upstairs. I need your help.”
Taking the keys from her hand, I opened my door and pulled myself out. I wrangled her out of the car. Together we walked like a pair of drunks trying to fight our way to the top of the stairs. She gave a violent shudder, turned her head and retched, splashing a trail of watery vomit on the concrete floor. It smelled of vodka and bile. We kept on going until we reached the elevator. It took forever for the car to come down. She was weeping now, her head tucked inside the crook of my shoulder. I could only hope that we didn’t run into anyone else. The doors opened. The elevator was empty. I dragged her inside and leaned her against the wall. As I reached over and hit the button for the fifth floor, she collapsed. The doors shut and we started upward with a jerk.
After a few moments, the elevator stopped and the doors opened. The wide hallway here was lit with ceiling lamps that were made to look antique. The floor had thick burgundy carpeting, and the walls were decorated with expensive wallpaper, and the ceilings had heavy trim pieces made of dark wood. I took her by the arms and dragged her out of the elevator. Two doors down and I found the door to her condominium. I tried several of the keys on the ring and one finally fit. I opened the door and soon had her safely inside. I let out a sigh of relief.
The interior smelled strongly of stale cigarettes and the sour stink of spilled beer. It was dark inside. Letting the woman rest on the floor, I hit the light switch on the wall and made a quick tour of the place, just to make sure that no one else was here. In the living room the furnishings were all Arts and Crafts antiques – the real thing, not modern reproductions – sitting on white wall-to-wall carpeting. In front of the sofa was a coffee table that was littered with empty bottles and overfilled ashtrays. Jagged broken glass rested on the floor; apparently smashed when someone had thrown a glass into an oil painting on the wall.
Down a short hallway there was a bathroom, the countertop crammed with makeup. The shower door hung open. Piles of clothes were on the floor. It smelled of sickness.
Next was a small office that looked quite tidy in comparison to the rest of the place. Rows of leather-bound books sat nestled inside of shelves. There was a shiny white Macintosh computer resting on a desk with a leather chair. It looked like the sort of place that real work could get done.
Moving on, I found the master bedroom. It had a large antique bed, a Stickley dresser and matching side tables with stained-glass lamps. It reminded me of my own bedroom. She obviously had good taste. The blankets and sheets of the bed looked to have been thrown around by a madman. The bare mattress had a bloodstain and I could see a pair of handcuff hanging from the headboard. I shook my head, wondering what sort of horrible act had gone on in here.
I heard a door shut and that horrendous sound of someone vomiting. Leaving the bedroom, I saw that the bathroom door had been shut. I waited there until there was the sound of the toilet flushing. I knocked on the door.
“Are you okay in there?”
It took her a few moments to respond. “Who is it?” was the answer. She sounded ragged and forlorn through the thin door.
“You remember, I’m Devon. I’m the guy who dragged you up here.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“Pauline Wise. I’m afraid you aren’t seeing me at my best.” And then she began to laugh. It wasn’t the sort that was pleasant and filled with humor. Instead there was an unpleasant hysterical edge that was unsettling to my ears. It went on for far too long and seemed like it would never stop.
I tried the door. It was locked. I put my shoulder into it. The thin wood splintered and gave away. I could see Pauline lying on the floor, looking as if she was having a fit. Reaching into the room, I unlocked the door from the inside and entered. If I had been in a movie, I would have slapped her on the cheek to snap her out of it. But that could possibly make things worse. It’s also a rule of mine to never strike a woman. Instead I found a grimy washcloth and began to bath her face with cold water. I whispered in her ear, repeating that everything was going to be okay. Soon her laughter became a sob and then a torrent of tears.
It was hard going, but I managed to pick her up off of the floor. Cradling her like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold, I brought her to the office, the only place that had no stench of memories best forgotten. I put her on the carpeting and then went to the bedroom, where I found an extra pillow and blanket inside the closet. I took these back to the office and made sure she was comfortable. Those green eyes were looking past me, staring at the ceiling as if seeing some grand vision. And then they fluttered shut. She began to lightly snore.
By this time I was feeling pretty wretched myself. I went to the kitchen and found that the cupboards and refrigerator were empty of food. I found a glass in the sink of dirty dishes, cleaned it off, and poured some water into it. I drank deeply, thinking of what I had to do next.
I reached for the cellphone in my pocket and looked over my list of contacts. Against my better judgment, I called Leo Sutton.
The Color of Sin Page 3
