The Other Side of Silence

by Bill Pronzini

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Vinson said, soberly this time. “Just about anything at all.”

  In the Jeep, Fallon tried Casey’s cell number again. Still out of service.

  He called her home number in San Diego. No answer.

  Vernon Young Realty would be open by now. He called there, on the chance that Vernon Young had heard from Casey, but the woman he spoke to said Mr. Young was out of the office. She didn’t know when he would return.

  He called Young’s home number. Answering machine.

  He listened again to the brief, anxious message from Sharon Rossi, left on his voice mail while he was talking to Sam Vinson. She hadn’t heard from him, would he please call her as soon as possible?

  Yes, but not yet. Not just yet.

  The Golden Horseshoe’s Poker Room, like the rest of the casino, had a Western motif—loosely patterned after the standard saloon sets in old TV shows like Gunsmoke or Bonanza. Green baize tables, crystal chandeliers, a long brass-railed bar with the painting of a nude on the wall above it. Strategically placed spittoons. Smoke-filled air. The soft pile carpeting and leather chairs spoiled the effect, but that was Vegas for you: all illusion, but none of it quite what it was intended to be. Elaborate, ornate, and phony as hell.

  This early in the day, only two of the tables had players. Omaha and Texas Hold ’Em games. Four men, one woman at the Texas Hold ’Em table. Fallon quick-scanned the men there and those at the other table as he walked by. Bobby J. wasn’t one of them; neither was Clem Vinson.

  He asked the bartender if Bobby J. had been in today. Head wag, and a bored “Haven’t seen him.”

  “What time does he usually show up?”

  “Couldn’t tell you, Mister. They come, they go, they win, they lose. I just pour the drinks.”

  Fallon turned into the Denny’s parking lot next to the Rest-a-While, parked toward the rear—out of sight of the motel office. There was a low retaining wall behind the ell on that side; he climbed over it, keeping his face averted just in case Max Arbogast happened to be looking out. Eight or nine cars occupied the room spaces, none of them a Mustang. He went straight to number 20, but even before he got there he knew this was another bust. A maid’s cart stood next to the open door of the adjacent unit and the whine of a vacuum cleaner came from inside. If Jablonsky had been hosting one of his drug parties for underage girls, the maid wouldn’t have been allowed in the vicinity.

  He was tempted to brace Arbogast again, but what would that buy him except the satisfaction of making the little bastard squirm? Arbogast wasn’t close to Bobby J.; he wouldn’t know where to find him on short notice. But he’d be on the phone trying to find him five seconds after Fallon left.

  Another drive-by on Sandstone Way. No Mustang or other vehicle on the property. No Bobby J., no Candy.

  Time to shift gears. It was early yet; take care of his other business, then come back to Jablonsky afterward.

  He parked around the corner and returned Sharon Rossi’s call. As soon as he identified himself, she said, “I’ve been waiting and waiting to hear from you. Have you located Spicer yet?”

  “Not on the phone, Mrs. Rossi.”

  “Then you have? Can’t you just tell me if—”

  “In person. Are you home?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I can be there in half an hour.”

  “. . . You’re back in Las Vegas, then.”

  “That’s right.”

  “We can’t meet here,” she said. “My husband came home this morning, he’s here now resting.”

  “What time did he come home?”

  “About two hours ago.”

  “Where did he go on his business trip?”

  “Where he usually goes. Chemco’s plant in Phoenix.”

  Phoenix. Only a little more than two hundred miles south of Laughlin. Fast, easy drive up and back in a rental car. There were also feeder flights between Sky Harbor International and the Laughlin-Bullhead City airport.

  Fallon said, “I’ll want to talk to him too.”

  “What? My God, what for?”

  “Some questions that need answering.”

  “About Spicer?” Her voice had risen a couple of octaves. “You’re not going to tell David about our arrangement? You can’t, he’ll be furious with me . . .”

  “You just let me handle it, Mrs. Rossi. I’ll keep you out of it as much as I can.”

  “But I don’t understand. What have you found out? Why won’t you—”

  “Half an hour,” Fallon said, and broke the connection.

  TWO

  THE GATES AT THE foot of the desert mesa were open, evidently left that way for him by Sharon Rossi. She was outside waiting when he drove onto the packed-sand parking area, came hurrying over as he stepped out of the Jeep. Dressed all in white again—peasant blouse, pleated skirt, sandals—but she didn’t look cool or self-possessed today. Anxiety had cut thin furrows into her artfully made-up face. There was angry determination in her, too; you could see it in the pinched corners of her mouth, the tightly set jawline.

  One other thing he noticed: the all-white outfit was loose-fitting, but not loose enough to conceal a handgun, even one as small as the .32 purse job she’d showed him on Sunday. She might have had it strapped to her thigh under the skirt, but he didn’t think so; she wasn’t the type. He’d have to watch her inside, though: the automatic could be stashed somewhere for easy access. He wasn’t taking chances with anybody now, not where weapons were concerned.

  She said, “So you’re here. Now tell me what you found out.”

  Fallon ignored that. “Where’s your husband?”

  “In our bedroom, dressing. He’s going to his office.”

  “Did you tell him I was coming?”

  “No. Not without some idea of what’s going on. I won’t be blindsided on this, Mr. Fallon, not in my own home.”

  “It won’t happen like that.”

  “So you say. Did you find Court Spicer?”

  He was going to gamble here too, cautiously, as he’d been prepared all day to do with Bobby Jablonsky. It was the only way he was likely to get fast and honest answers.

  He said, “Yes. I found him.”

  “The evidence we discussed? His hold over my husband?”

  “No. But that may not be an issue now.”

  “What does that mean, not an issue?”

  “I need to know some things before we go inside. Did you contact Co-River Management yourself yesterday?”

  The question caught her off-stride. “I don’t . . . no, of course not.”

  “Find out where Spicer’s been living any other way?”

  “No. How would I?”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “. . . Why do you want to know that?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Here. Right here.”

  “Alone?”

  “No. Lupe, our housekeeper, was home—she lives with us.”

  “Is she here now?”

  “No. I sent her out to do some shopping.”

  He’d been watching her closely. All he saw was anxious bewilderment.

  “All right, let’s go in. Tell your husband I have some important personal business to discuss with him. If you want to say I was here on Sunday, that’s up to you.”

  “What are you going to say to him?”

  “Depends on what he has to say to me. Either way, I won’t embarrass you.”

  “You’d better not,” she said coldly. “I trusted you—don’t betray that trust.”

  Inside, she took him into the sunken living room and left him there. The drapes were open over the windows overlooking the courtyard; sunlight streaming in laid bright gold patches across the tile floor. Fallon paced a little, waiting. Five minutes, no more, before he heard footsteps and Sharon Rossi brought her husband in.

  David Rossi was in his late forties, lanky, with thinning brush-cut hair and a long-chinned, ruddy, fr
eshly shaven face. The expression on it now was flat and neutral; if he played poker, he was probably good at it. He wore a light-colored suit and tie, expensive and perfectly tailored—the kind of outfit the high-level execs at Unidyne paraded around in. Corporate badges of success and power.

  Rossi said brusquely, without offering to shake hands, “I don’t know you, Mr . . . Fallon, is it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Personal business, my wife said. What does that mean, exactly?”

  “Court Spicer.”

  Rossi closed up, tight. You could see it happening, like watching a desert cactus flower fold its petals at sunset. But the poker face revealed nothing of what was happening behind it. He looked at Fallon, hard, for several seconds. Then he looked at his wife.

  “Sharon,” he said, “please leave us alone.”

  She said, “No. I want to hear what he has to say.”

  “Sharon . . .”

  “I know about Court Spicer, David.”

  “You know? What do you know?”

  “That you’ve been paying him money. That he has some kind of hold over you. I’m not blind and I’m not stupid.”

  Rossi said, “Oh Lord,” in a low, pained voice. Then, with a flare of anger, “Dammit, we’re not alone here.”

  “I already knew about it,” Fallon said.

  “You . . . How? How did you know?”

  Sharon Rossi gave Fallon a look of appeal. He said, “It doesn’t matter how I found out.”

  “What are you, another bloodsucker? Is that why you’re here?”

  “No.”

  “Spicer. Did he send you?”

  “Nobody sent me.”

  “Then why? What do you want? Who are you?”

  “A friend of Spicer’s ex-wife. He kidnapped their son four months ago.”

  “He . . . what?”

  “You didn’t know that?”

  “I didn’t even know he had a son.”

  “Eight and a half years old. The mother had custody and Spicer kidnapped him. I’ve been helping her try to find him.”

  “My God. He’s an even worse bastard than I thought.”

  “The last time you saw him was when?”

  “A week, two weeks, I don’t remember exactly.”

  “A week ago Sunday,” his wife said. “The last big jam.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Fallon said, “He came with a big man with a dragon tattoo on his right wrist. You remember him?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know who he is. I never saw him before. A lot of people come to my jams, they bring others with them . . .”

  “Have you talked to Spicer since then?”

  “No.”

  “You know he’s been living in the Laughlin area?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where, exactly? His address?”

  “No.”

  “Sure about that?”

  “You think he’d let me have his address? Not if you know him, you don’t. A mail drop, that’s all he gave me.”

  “Where were you between five and eight last night, Mr. Rossi?”

  Rossi said stiffly, “Why are you asking all these questions? What do you want from me?”

  “Answer the last one and I’ll tell you.”

  Sharon Rossi said, “Answer him, David.”

  “I was in Phoenix,” he said. “A business engagement. Drinks at five, dinner at seven. There were five of us. Would you like their names?”

  A man with Rossi’s money and corporate status could get five people to lie for him if he needed to, but Fallon didn’t think he was lying. Now was the time to make sure. Pull the pin on a verbal grenade.

  He said, “Spicer’s dead.”

  The explosion rocked them both. Shock is one of the hardest things to fake; the open mouths and staring eyes were genuine. The brief silence that followed had a charged quality.

  “Dead?” Rossi said numbly. “Dead?”

  His wife said, “How? What happened?”

  “Somebody killed him last night in the house he was renting.”

  “Somebody . . . you?”

  “No, not me. I wouldn’t be here telling you about it if I had.”

  Rossi moved over to one of the leather chairs, started to sit down, changed his mind, and went around and leaned on the back of it. “You thought it was me,” he said then.

  “I thought it could be,” Fallon said. “I don’t anymore. Whoever killed him took the boy and maybe the mother too. She was down there with me and she disappeared last night. You might’ve snatched the boy if he was a homicide witness. I couldn’t see any reason why you’d go after the mother, but I had to make sure.”

  Rossi didn’t seem to be listening now. Or to notice when his wife went over next to him and put her hand on his shoulder. His eyes had a unblinking, inward focus. “Dead,” he said. “Now I really am screwed.”

  “David, be quiet.”

  “They’ll find it. They’ll come after me.”

  “Be quiet! You said it yourself—we’re not alone.”

  Rossi said, “He already knows,” meaning Fallon.

  “No, he doesn’t, not everything.”

  “Screwed. They’ll put me in jail. A stupid accident three years ago and I’ll go to prison.”

  Sharon Rossi surprised Fallon by moving backward a step and then slapping her husband across the face, hard. The sound of it was like a pistol shot in the quiet room. Rossi recoiled, lifted a hand to his cheek, stared at her as if he couldn’t believe what she’d done.

  “All right, then,” she said in that coldly angry way of hers. “Go ahead, tell us both. What stupid accident? What did you do?”

  Rossi shook his head, but it wasn’t a refusal. Under that cool corporate façade, the man had a conscience that had been giving him hell for a long time. You could see it in his eyes, the grayish pallor that had replaced the ruddiness. Whatever he’d done, he was haunted by it.

  Sharon Rossi sensed it too. She glanced at Fallon, an unreadable look this time, then fixed her gaze on her husband again. “I’m tired of all the secrets and evasions, David. I have a right to know. Did you hurt somebody? Kill somebody? What?”

  “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “What wasn’t your fault?”

  Rossi didn’t answer until she jabbed him with the heel of her hand. Then he said in a halting voice, like a man confessing a mortal sin to a priest, “I had too much to drink that night, I don’t remember everything that happened. The woman . . . dark street . . . all of a sudden right there in my headlights, running like somebody was chasing her . . . she must have been drunk. I couldn’t stop in time. I swear to God it wasn’t my fault.”

  “Hit and run,” Sharon Rossi said. “You hit some woman and then drove away without reporting it.”

  “God help me, yes.”

  “Did you even stop to see how badly she was hurt?”

  “I stopped. She was . . . there wasn’t anything we could do. He said we had to get out of there before somebody came. I was confused, scared . . . I let him talk me into it.”

  “Spicer. He was in the car with you?”

  “There was a jam in South Vegas. I went alone, you didn’t want to go. It was late, four A.M., when it broke up. Spicer was there, he asked me for a ride to his hotel . . . Lord, if only I’d said no . . .”

  “You obviously had the damage to the car fixed. If he’d gone to the police later, it would have been your word against his. Unless he had some kind of evidence. Did he?”

  “Yes. Photographs. He took them with his cell phone camera. The woman, the blood, the damage, my license plate.” Rossi drew in a shuddery breath. “The police are sure to find them now that he’s dead . . .”

  “Not necessarily. It depends on where he kept them.” Sharon Rossi’s ice-gray eyes shifted to pin Fallon. “You know Spicer’s dead—if you didn’t kill him, that means you found him. Did you find anything else?”

  “There wasn’t anything else to find.”

&nb
sp; “You’re sure there were no photographs?”

  “Not anywhere you’d think to look.”

  “Did you notify the police that Spicer was dead?”

  Fallon said nothing.

  “No, you didn’t,” she said. “And you won’t say anything about a three-year-old accident, either, will you? Without evidence it would be your word against David’s and mine. You know that as well as I do.”

  “I know it.”

  “So you’re going to forget what you just heard and let my husband and me handle it. In return, we’ll forget you told us Spicer is dead and you didn’t report finding his body. Deal?”

  He didn’t have any choice. He’d satisfied himself that neither of them had anything to do with Spicer’s death, but he’d overestimated his ability to control the situation, let himself get backed into a moral corner. Maybe the police would find those photographs and maybe they wouldn’t; maybe David Rossi would continue to get away with a drunken, fatal hit-and-run. Either way there wasn’t a damn thing Fallon could do about it.

  “Deal,” he said.

  THREE

  HE DIDN’T LIKE HIMSELF much when he left the Rossi hacienda. Getting in deeper and deeper with every move he made. But it was too late for him to quit, even if he ended up hating himself. All he could think about was Casey and her son, out there somewhere, alive—they had to be alive. Nobody else was hunting for them. They didn’t have anybody else.

  Hey, Geena, he thought, how do you like this for a commitment? What would you say if you knew about it?

  Well, he had a pretty good idea what she’d say. Something like “This isn’t a commitment anymore, it’s an obsession.” Something like “You’re not as tough as you think you are.” Something like “Fools rush in. You’re a damned fool, Rick.” And she’d be right, according to her view of him and the world she lived in.

  But she’d be wrong, too. He might be a damned fool, but living in his world depended on finishing what he’d started.

  The Rossis were out of it now. Bobby Jablonsky was still his last best hope in Vegas. All he had to do was find him.