by J. R. Rain
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 private 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.”
“Steady income is overrated. Where’s the adventure?”
Sanchez shook his head. “The kid moved.”
“Which kid?”
“The last kid on the list.”
“But we saw him just last week at church.”
“Yeah, well, now he lives in Florida with his grandparents.”
I looked at Jesus, who was just finishing off his single mint and chip child scoop. “So you ran him out of town,” I said to him.
Jesus shrugged. He was concentrating on the last of his ice cream. “I still owe him. He can run but he can’t hide.”
I said to Sanchez, “Are we buying plane tickets to Florida?”
“No. We’re going to let this one slide.”
“Big of you,” I said.
“I still owe him,” said Jesus.
“Not so big of him,” I said.
“Hey, I’m only twelve.”
“And what have you learned from all of this?” I asked.
Jesus shrugged, and started crunching on the waffle cone. I had finished mine in precisely three bites, as had Sanchez, who dropped his big hand on his kid’s shoulders. “Answer him.”
“One girlfriend at a time,” said Jesus. He sounded as if this were a terrible punishment.
I said, “You do realize there are some guys who go their entire junior high and high school years without having a single girlfriend?”
“I know. I feel sorry for them.” Jesus looked at me, grinning. “I mean, I feel sorry for you.”
I looked at Sanchez. “You told him?”
“Hey, I was trying to make the same point. You just happened to come up.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, I used you because the kid happens to look up to you,” said Sanchez. “Why, I’ll never know.”
Jesus said, “You really never had a single girlfriend?”
“Girls are trouble,” I said. “Besides, I had plenty in college.”
“But I think girls are fun—”
“Not too much fun,” said Sanchez, looking at his kid.
“No, dad.”
“I was busy in high school,” I said.
“What could be more important than girls?”
“Football.”
“I played football in high school, too,” said Sanchez, shrugging. “And I had girlfriends. No big deal.”
“I took football seriously.”
“So did I.”
“I wanted to play in the pros,” I said. “I had a plan. Girls would just get in the way.”
“But that’s the idea,” said Sanchez. “Girls are made to get in the way. Sometimes it’s nice when they get in the way.”
“Right on, dad,” said Jesus. He raised his hand. “High five.”
Sanchez left him hanging. “But you made an exception for Cindy.”
I said, “Cindy just happened to be the most special girl in the world.”
“I think Cindy’s hot,” said Jesus, and Sanchez elbowed his kid hard enough to nearly knock him out of his seat.
“So do I,” I said. “So do I.”
Chapter Forty-five
I was in my office with my feet up on my antique mahogany desk, careful of the gold-tooled leather top, re-reading Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra, when two things happened simultaneously: Jarred appeared in my office doorway pointing a rifle at my forehead, and my desk phone started ringing.
I did what any rational human being would in the presence of a ringing phone. I answered it.
Sherbet was on the other line. “We’re outside Jarred’s condo. He never showed.”
“No shit,” I said.
Jarred kicked the door shut behind him and stepped deeper into my office. He quickly scanned the office, keeping the rifle on me. It was an old fashioned Colt .22. The kind one would find in a place like Rawhide, which is probably where Jarred got it.
Sherbet asked, “Any idea where he might be?”
“A fairly good one,” I said.
“Then where is he?”
“Take a guess.”
Jarred was walking around the desk, keeping the rifle on my face.
“He’s with you,” Sherbet said.
“Good guess.”
“You need help?”
“Probably not.”
“But it wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
“If you insist,” I said.
“I’ll send a car around.”
At that moment, Jarred yanked the phone cord out of the wall. The line went dead. “Have a good day,” I said, and hung up.
“Who the fuck was that?”
“Grandma,” I said. “She tends to worry about me.”
“She should worry about you, because you are fucked, Knighthorse. Fucked. Do you understand me? Fucked!”
“If I’m hearing you correctly,” I said, “I appear to be fucked.”
“Put your hands flat on the desk where I can see them.”
He caught me. I was inching toward my desk drawer, where I kept my Browning. I sighed, rested both hands on the tooled leather top of the desk.
“The oils from my palms might stain the tooled leather top of my desk.”
“Fuck your desk.”
Jarred had a sort of wild-eyed look about him. The sort of look my teammates had before big games, a look fueled by a lot of adrenaline and nerves and the certainty that you were going to hurt a lot of people in a few hours. Or be hurt. Jarred was still wearing his Rawhide-issued red cowboy shirt and jeans. He was sweating through his cowboy shirt. Must have gotten himself pretty worked up on the drive out here. His thinning hair was disheveled and his glasses had slid to the tip of his sweating nose. He didn’t push them back up.
“They were waiting for me outside my condo,” he said, spitting the words at me.
“They?”
He shoved the gun in my face, just inches from my nose. I could smell the gun oil, could see faint scratches along the steel barrel. “Don’t fuck with me, Knighthorse. The cops. The cops were waiting for me.” He snapped the gun away and started pacing in front of my desk, keeping the gun loosely on me. Jarred looked insane. He was sweating profusely now. Swallowing repeatedly. “Patty told me you spoke to her the other day. She must have told you something.”
“She told me you went back to the truck for water.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“Except we have your prints on the gas cap, Jarred.”
“What do you mean?”
“We know you sabotaged the truck.”
He looked at me from over his glasses. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose, landed on my tooled leather. I would have to wipe that clean later. For now, I had bigger fish to fry.
“Give me the gun, Jarred.”
“I can’t.”
“If you shoot me, you get the death penalty.”
“Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.”
I shrugged. “Where you stand now, a good lawyer talks
the D.A. down to second degree murder.”
Jarred was shaking. I could literally see the sweat spreading from under his armpits.
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Say that to Willie Clarke.”
Jarred dropped into the client chair opposite me. The gun was pointed away from me. If I wanted to, I could lunge across the desk and wrestle it away from him. I wasn’t in the lunging mood. Besides, I didn’t think it would come to that.
“I didn’t mean to kill him.”
I said nothing.
“I just did it to scare him away, you know?” He paused, ran his hand through his hair. “I gambled on Rawhide. I visited there as a kid and fell in love with it. It stayed with me all these years.”
“Maybe it’s the cowboy in you.”
He ignored me. I was used to being ignored. He continued. “So when I was casting around for a theme for my masters, Rawhide naturally came to mind. It was a good fit. I had a true love for American history, in particular Western history. I did some research and discovered nothing of any significance had been done on the town, and I knew I had found my purpose. I sold my condo in Boston, moved out west. I’ve poured my heart and soul into that little town.”
“And then in waltzes Willie Clarke.”
Jarred instinctively gripped the weapon in his lap. “He was fresh out of graduate school, but there was a sort of—”
“Cockiness?” I offered.
“Yes. A cockiness to him that I found infuriating. Which is probably why I don’t like you.”
“Sometimes I don’t like me, either.”
“Seriously?”
“No; I love me.”
Jarred rolled his eyes. I think he might have thought about swinging his gun up to my face again, but decided against it. “Willie sounded so confident, so fucking sure of himself. As if he really thought he could unearth Sly’s identity.”
“Can’t have that.”
“Sly was mine,” he hissed.
“If anyone was going to discover Sly’s identity,” I said, helping, “it would be you.”
His eyes sparkled. “Yes! Exactly. Sly’s one of the West’s most intriguing mysteries.”
