THEY LEFT FOR LAUGHLIN early Monday morning. Fallon would have preferred to make the drive alone, but Casey wasn’t having any of that. Not that he blamed her. If her son was somewhere in the Laughlin area, she needed to be there when he was found. Compromise: she’d agreed to stay in the background, let him handle things in his own way. She followed him to McCarran International and left the Toyota in long-term parking, and they went together in the Jeep.
Laughlin was ninety-five miles south of Vegas, on the Nevada side of the Colorado River boundary with Arizona. The state’s newest gambling hot spot, with a string of big hotel and casino resorts along the riverfront. Another desert-consuming creature spreading out on both the Laughlin side and across the river in Bullhead City, where most of the casino service people lived. Fifty thousand population in the area now and more coming in all the time, for the gambling and the related jobs, the fishing and boating on the Colorado and Lake Mohave, the lure of desert-country retirement living. And every day, more open space disappeared and the creature spread closer to Spirit Mountain on the east, the gold-and-silver-bearing hills beyond Bullhead City-wilderness areas that Fallon had explored when he was stationed at Fort Huachuca, and again on a packing trip with Geena not long after they were married.
Casey had wanted to leave right away last night, as soon as he told her Sharon Rossi’s news, but he’d talked her out of it. There was no good reason to make the long drive until daylight; their only lead was Co-River Management, and whatever kind of business it was, it was bound to be closed at night. Only the casinos ran twenty-four hours.
She’d been upbeat and animated then-a glimpse into the kind of woman she must have been once, before the deterioration of her marriage and the loss of her son and the rape and beating that had driven her to attempted suicide. Animated, trusting, likable. Attractive, too. She had a nice smile, a warmth that softened the hard edges created by adversity and depression.
This morning, though, she’d retreated inside herself again. She had little to say as they headed south on 95. She sat stiff and tight-drawn, hunched forward a little on the seat, eyes steady on the surface of the highway; the only time she spoke in the first thirty miles was to ask him to drive faster, even though he was pushing it as it was, at seventy-five.
He tried to start a neutral conversation, draw out some details about her life. All he could get were thumbnail sketches: Born and grew up in Chula Vista. Two years at San Diego State, majoring in business administration and “more drunken parties than I can remember.” A couple of menial jobs before she answered an ad and Vernon Young gave her a chance to work first as a receptionist and then as a sales agent. Interests? Kevin. Reading-biographies, mostly. Romantic movies. Music, but not jazz, she’d had all she could stomach of her ex’s brand of music. Future plans when she had the boy back? Keep him safe, make sure he grew up to be a better man than his father. She didn’t answer when Fallon asked her what she wanted for herself.
After a time, he found himself shifting the conversation to his relationship with Timmy, the things they’d enjoyed doing together. She listened, but all she contributed were monosyllables. She didn’t ask him about his background, and he didn’t volunteer any information. He didn’t like talking about the early part of his life.
But he couldn’t keep the memories from intruding as he drove. The near-slum neighborhood in East L.A., his low-income civil servant father, his alcoholic waitress mother, the crime-ridden streets, the crappy schools, the daily struggle during his teenage years to avoid the lure of gangs and drugs. If he hadn’t gotten out by joining the army when he turned eighteen, God knew what direction his life would have taken. He might have ended up in a dead-end job like Pop’s, living poor and eventually dying in that miserable neighborhood the way his parents had, Pop of a heart attack at fifty-four while Fallon was at Fort Benning, Ma two years later of too much booze, too many long hours waiting tables, too much grinding poverty.
The army had given him hope, discipline, pride, a sense of honor and justice, the desire to build a better life for himself. And then Geena had given him the rest of what he needed. He’d met her in Tucson in the last year of his tour. Driven over from Huachuca with a couple of buddies, and there’d been a party, and there she was-pretty, sweet-natured, as lonely and as hungry for love as he was. They’d gotten married as soon as he was discharged. Moved back to the Encino area when the Unidyne job offer came up, Geena already pregnant the first time. Difficult pregnancy; she’d miscarried in her fourth month. Three years later, after another difficult pregnancy, Timmy had been born. And the future looked as bright as his boyhood had been dark.
Until Timmy’s accident. Until it all collapsed.
Now he was ready to rebuild another future, one that suited the man he’d evolved into after his son’s death. The third stage of the life of Richard Fallon. Put on temporary hold by Casey Dunbar and his commitment to her, but that was all right. True peace of mind didn’t come easy; sometimes it came only after you were put to a test. This was his test. This was the price he felt obligated to pay.
It was midmorning when they reached the junction with State 163, near the Arizona border, and turned there toward Laughlin. Hotter down here than it had been in Vegas; heat mirage pulsed liquidly off the asphalt ahead. The desert country in this corner was more sun-baked, even, than Death Valley. The hottest day anywhere in recorded U.S. history, Fallon remembered reading somewhere, had been in Bullhead City in 1983-132 degrees in the shade.
When they were traveling on 163, Casey stirred and asked, “How much farther is it?”
“Less than twenty miles.”
She ran her hands along the front of her thin skirt, then extended them out toward the air-conditioning ducts. “I keep wondering,” she said then.
“About what?”
“Kevin. If he’s all right.”
“Dry heat like this should be good for his asthma.”
“Yes, but how is Court treating him? Is he allowed to go out, go to school? Is somebody watching him when Court’s working? Or is he being locked up in some sweltering room somewhere?”
“Don’t. You can make yourself crazy with that kind of worrying.”
“I’m half crazy already,” she said. “You ought to know that if anybody does.”
Despite its rapid growth in recent years, Laughlin was still a small town. The population sign they passed on the outskirts read 8,629, which made it five times smaller than Bullhead City. Most of the growth seemed to be to the south and east in the direction of bare, raggedy Spirit Mountain- housing tracts, schools, malls. The main drag, Casino Drive, followed the line of the river and was crowded with tourist-related businesses on the east side, the big casino resorts all fronting the Colorado like a miniature version of the Vegas Strip-Don Laughlin’s Riverside, named after the town’s founder, Colorado Belle, Edgewater, River Palms, half a dozen others.
As early as it was, people streamed along the sidewalks and on the river walk that wound its way behind the casinos, and you could see pleasure boats trailing milky wakes on the sun-bright water. The Colorado, the West’s most important water source, had a shrunken look-the result of the worst drought in a century, nine years long now and counting. Another couple of years and a shortage would probably be declared and the Department of the Interior would reduce water deliveries to Arizona and Nevada, if not southern California. Nature paying humanity back for its encroachment and its decades of waste.
One of the streets that angled off Casino Drive to the east was Bruce Woodbury Drive. That was where Co-River Management was located, in a new office park, in a building with three other small businesses. A sign on the front cleared up the minor mystery about its function; it was a property management outfit that handled residential and commercial rentals and leases and new home sales.
As he parked in the facing lot, Fallon debated letting Casey come inside with him. She might be able to get information more easily than he could because of her real estate license: professional reciprocity. But he decided against it. The marks on her face, the scabbing and chapping and peeling sunburn, hadn’t healed enough to be fully concealed by makeup.
He said, “You’d better wait here.” She didn’t argue, so he added, “I can leave the engine running if you want to stay cool.”
“No, I need to get out and walk. I’ve been sitting too long.”
Fallon left her and went inside. Co-River’s anteroom resembled a doctor’s office: half a dozen uncomfortable-looking chairs, tables with magazines and brochures, an L-shaped counter with a couple of desks behind it, a short hallway and a pair of closed doors. The one difference was the wall decorations: a three-by-six-foot architect’s drawing of a housing development called Sunrise Acres, and an aerial photograph of the same development under construction.
Behind the counter were two women, one a youngish redhead, the other middle-aged, both of them working on computers. The middle-aged one pasted on a professional smile as Fallon approached, stood up to ask what she could do for him.
“I’m looking for one of your clients,” he told her. “A man named Courtney, Steven Courtney.”
“Yes?”
“He’s a professional musician. Plays piano.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve heard he’s good and I’d like to talk to him, hear him play, maybe offer him a better deal than he has here. I own a small lounge up in Vegas that’s just been renovated and I need some new talent for the reopening.”
“I see.” Her smile had slipped some; the bright version was reserved for prospective clients. “Why have you come to us?”
“I don’t know where Courtney is working or living in the area,” Fallon said, “but I understand he receives his mail here. So I thought you might tell me how to get in touch with him.”
The rest of the smile disappeared. “We don’t give out personal information about our clients.”
“Not even if it’s to their benefit?”
She shook her head. “If you’d like to leave your name and number, I’ll see that Mr. Courtney gets it.”
“I would, but I’m pressed for time. I need to hire a piano man as soon as possible. Couldn’t you make an exception in this case?”
“No, I’m sorry, I’m not authorized to do that.”
“Who is authorized?”
“Our director, Mr. Sanchez. But he isn’t here. He’s gone to a meeting in Fort Mohave.”
“When will he be back?”
“I don’t know,” she said, tight-lipped now. “Possibly late afternoon, possibly not until tomorrow morning.”
“That might be too late for Courtney and me. Couldn’t you at least tell me where he’s working in Laughlin?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
The young redhead had been listening to the conversation while she tapped away on her computer keyboard. She said, “Oh, Lord, Jeanette, that’s not privileged information. Why don’t you just tell him?”
“Mind your own business, Kristin.”
That came out sharp, and the redhead bristled and glared. “Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not in charge here.”
“Neither are you.”
Fallon said to the redhead, “Mr. Courtney will thank you for it,” to take advantage of the friction between them. “I really am interested in hiring him.”
Jeanette said, “I’ve already told you-”
Kristin said, “He’s working at the Wagonwheel Casino, in their Sunset Lounge. I just looked up his file.”
The older woman swung around angrily. “Mr. Sanchez will hear about this. Don’t think I won’t tell him, because I will.”
“Go ahead. I’m just helping out a client, that’s all.”
“Now you listen here…”
They weren’t interested in Fallon any longer, and he wasn’t interested in their workplace bickering. He made a quick exit into the morning heat.
“I knew Kevin was here,” Casey said. She’d taken off her sunglasses and her eyes were bright. “I knew it!”
Fallon said, “Maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe?”
“Bobby J. knows I’ve been asking questions and he’s probably alerted Spicer by now. Spicer doesn’t know who I am, but he can put two and two together and it’s bound to spook him. If he’s spooked enough, he’s liable to start running again.”
“But not this soon. He must believe you’re still in Las Vegas, that you don’t know he’s in Laughlin.”
“Maybe,” Fallon said again.
“Kevin’s here. I know he is, I can feel it.”
“In any case, it’s time we let the law take over.”
“The police? In a little town like this?”
“Bring in the FBI, then.”
“No,” she said. “No.”
“Why not?”
“They’d take their time before they did anything, that’s why. Agents would have to come down here from Las Vegas to interview us, then they’d check with the management company, the casino, God knows who else to make absolutely sure Steven Courtney and Court Spicer are the same person, and then they’d have to plan and coordinate before they acted. I almost went crazy when Kevin was kidnapped, waiting for somebody to do something. You’re in the security business, you must know that’s the way they work.”
He did know it. The law was methodical; no agency was going to rush out and arrest a man who might or might not be Spicer, and if they found the boy, hand him over immediately to his mother.
“It could take days,” Casey said. “And what if that gave Court enough time to disappear with Kevin again? I’m so afraid for him, Rick.”
Fallon said nothing.
“There’s another thing, too. The authorities don’t know Court like I do. He’s capable of holding Kevin hostage, hurting him or worse. I think I’ve convinced you how dangerous he is, but what if I couldn’t convince them?” “They’re professionals. They won’t put Kevin at risk. If Spicer’s still here, they’d arrest him while he’s at the Sunset Lounge, separated from the boy.”
“We could do the same thing in reverse, and much more quickly-wait until Court’s at the lounge, make sure Kevin’s safe, and then contact the FBI. That makes sense, too, doesn’t it?”
“In theory. It would depend on where Kevin is, whether he’s alone or being guarded, how easily he could be rescued.”
“It won’t take long to find out, now that we know where Court’s working.” She gripped his wrist with fingers like talons. “I’ve waited so long, I can’t wait much longer. I want my son back now.”
“It’s not going to happen immediately, no matter what we do.”
“But soon. Soon. Just you, us, no police or FBI yet. Please?”
It went against his better judgment, but she was so eager, so desperate. There was no good argument against spending one day trying to locate the boy themselves, as long as they were careful. At the very least, they should be able to find out by tonight whether Spicer and Kevin were still in the Laughlin area.
There was another thing, too-Fallon’s promise to Sharon Rossi. She’d brought them to this point; he owed her the effort to keep it.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll do it your way.”
THE WAGONWHEEL HOTEL AND Casino was one of the smaller, newer resorts along Casino Drive. It didn’t look like much in proximity to the Colorado Belle, one of the gaudier gambling palaces built to resemble an old Colorado River steamboat that bulked up next door. The covered-wagon design was spoiled by modern architectural modifications and too much splashy neon. The front entrance simulated a huge revolving wagon wheel, and you entered by following one stationary lighted spoke into the hub.
Fallon went in alone here, too, Casey waiting in the Jeep in a public parking lot nearby. There wasn’t much chance Spicer would be at the Wag-onwheel this early, but why run the risk?
The casino was moderately crowded, the banks of electronic slots getting most of the play, and the usual pulsing clamor made Fallon clench his teeth. The Sunset Lounge was on the second floor. A pair of marquee posters behind glass framed the entrance; he stopped to look at one of them. Medium-distance photo of a half-smiling man seated at a piano. Light-brown hair in a brush cut, light-brown goatee and mustache-not a match of Casey’s description of Court Spicer. But the facial and body types were right, and it didn’t take much imagination to picture him clean-shaven, with dark hair in a ponytail. The clincher, just discernible in the photo, was the mole on his left cheek near his mouth. Spicer, no mistake.
The lettering on the poster was all in black. Downcurving above the photo: STEVEN COURTNEY. Upcurving below it: KING OF THE IVORIES. Across the bottom: MOOD MUSIC FOR YOUR LISTENING AND DANCING PLEASURE. Trite and old-fashioned, aimed at the Baby Boomer generation. Fallon wondered if the poster was Spicer’s doing, or a product of the Wagonwheel’s PR staff.
The Sunset was the kind of lounge intended as an oasis for those who preferred quieter, more traditional surroundings. Stitched-leather booths, tables with leather chairs, a long neon-lit bar, a piano on a raised dais-seat empty, keyboard covered-and a small dance floor. Three big flashy keno boards served as reminders that this was first and foremost a casino lounge, with gambling the primary lure. Tinted glass composed the entire back wall so that you had sweeping views of the river, parts of Bullhead City and the Arizona desert stretching beyond.
There were only a handful of patrons at this hour, most of those grouped in one of the booths drinking Bloody Marys and marking keno tickets. The bartender, gray-haired, sixtyish, wearing a Western-style shirt and a string tie, stood slicing lemon and lime wedges with bored attention. Fallon sat down in front of him, ordered a glass of club soda with lime.
While the bartender poured it, Fallon said casually, “I noticed the posters on the way in. Steven Courtney, King of the Ivories.”
“Yes, sir, that’s right.”
“I hear he’s pretty good.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that. I work days.”
“What time does he come on?”
“Six o’clock.”
“Tonight-Monday?”
“Every night except Sunday, six till midnight.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find him now, would you? Where he lives?”
The bartender looked straight at Fallon for the first time. “No, I wouldn’t,” he said as he set the drink down. “Why?”
“He’s an old friend. Happens I have some business with him.”
“I couldn’t tell you where the man lives even if I knew.”
“Who could?”
Shrug. “Day shift manager, maybe, but he’s not here. Why not just come back tonight?”
“I need to talk to Courtney as soon as possible.”
“Well, you could check with the business office downstairs.”
“Thanks,” Fallon said. “I’ll do that.”
He did, and it was what he figured it would be, a waste of time. They wouldn’t give out any personal information about their employees.
Casey said, “It’s not even noon yet. What’re we going to do for six hours?”
“The wait’ll be longer than that. Fourteen or fifteen hours, at least.”
“Why? Why so long?”
“I can’t just walk in and brace Spicer at six o’clock, in front of a crowd of people. I’ll have to wait until he’s done playing for the night and follow him to where he’s living. Just the two of us then. And, with luck, the boy.”
“Oh, God. Isn’t there any way to do it sooner?”
“I suppose I could talk to employees at the Wagonwheel and the other casinos, try to find somebody who knows him and is willing to give out his address. But the chances are slim, and there’s the risk of word getting back to him.”
“Yes, you’re right. It’s just that I can’t stand waiting when we’re this close to finding Kevin.”
“You’ll get through it.”
“How? What are we going to do all day?”
“The first thing is find a place to have lunch-”
“I’m not hungry. I couldn’t eat.”
“-and then I’ll get us a couple of motel rooms. After that, a long drive in the desert. Time passes more quickly when you’re on the move.”
“Another motel room? Why?”
“Place for you to be while I’m at the Sunset Lounge,” Fallon said. “Place for you to spend the night-with Kevin, if I can make it happen.”
“You will. You have to.”
“We’ll see. One step at a time.”
They ate in a coffee shop on a side street off Casino Drive. Casey picked at her food. Fallon ate most of his, slowly, not because he was hungry but to kill an extra few minutes. Afterward, he found an inexpensive motel near the Laughlin/Bullhead International Airport on the Nevada side of the river. Separate rooms again, adjacent. He used up another half hour showering, shaving, changing into a clean shirt. Casey hadn’t bothered; she still wore the same skirt and blouse, and her hair and face were still sweat-damp when he knocked on her door.
He drove them over into Arizona, through Bullhead City and out past Davis Dam and Lake Mohave, into the badlands toward the stark hills surrounding the old gold-mining town of Oatman. Fallon wondered if the renewable energy boom that had begun in the southern California deserts in recent years would extend out here one day-geothermal power plants that ran on hot water pumped from deep underground. Probably. Someday there might well be vast solar energy farms in all of the western deserts, supplying enough electricity for millions of homes and businesses. He had no objection to open space being used in this way, in the better-late-than-never battle to overcome the effects of global warming; the geothermal plants were designed to be eco-friendly, to take up the least possible amount of space in remote areas. Man finally taking positive steps to confine the crawling creatures, control the greed and waste that helped to feed them.
Casey showed no interest in the scenery or in the ghost buildings and mining works that dated back to the area’s first gold strike more than a century ago. She sat stiff and silent the whole way, and when he stopped in Oatman and suggested that they have a beer, she let him lead her inside a tavern like an animal on an invisible leash. She had the same tightly wound inner focus on the way back.
It was nearly five when they reached the motel. She stirred then to look at the clock on the dashboard. “Is that clock right? Five o’clock?”
“It’s right.”
“God, the time just crawls. I feel like I’m living in a vacuum. I don’t know how I’m going to get through another eight or nine hours.”
He said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“What time are you going over there? To the casino?”
“Before six. I’ll be there when Spicer starts playing.”
“You’re not going to talk to him?”
“Of course not. Don’t worry, he’s not going to know me from any other customer. I just want to get a look at him, watch him for a while. Then I’ll come back here and we’ll have dinner-”
She made a face. “No more food. I feel like puking right now.”
“Dinner, and then we’ll wait together until it’s time for me to shadow him.”
“I want to go with you.”
“No. I thought we settled that.”
“If he leads you to Kevin-”
“Then I’ll call you first thing. It won’t do either of us any good if you’re there when I brace Spicer. You have to let me handle this my way, Casey.”
“Your way. Your way.” But she didn’t argue anymore.
He said, “We’ll play cards.”
“What?”
“Cards. Gin rummy. You know the game?”
“Yes, I know the damn game.”
“It’ll help keep your mind off the clock.”
“All right, gin rummy. Anything to make the time go faster. I’ll even let you fuck me if you want.”
The last words shocked him a little. Until he realized that that was all they were, just words. Meaningless, driven out of her by the yearning for her son and an abstract need for tension release and a calming of her inner turmoil. If he tried to take advantage of them, something he’d never do, she would either fight him off or submit like a rag doll.
He’d been sorry for her all along. Now what he felt was a kind of tender pity.
AT SIX O’CLOCK, THE Sunset Lounge was moderately crowded with cocktail-hour and predinner drinkers and sunset watchers. The fading sunlight that streamed in through the tinted windows had a mellow golden tone. Fallon sat in what the management would consider the least desirable location, a stool chair at the inner end of the bar. From there he couldn’t see much of the flaming western sky, but he had a clear view of the piano on the raised dais.
The only problem was, the piano bench was empty. Spicer hadn’t put in an appearance yet.
Fallon sipped a draft beer, waiting. There was a closed door in the wall near where he sat that would lead to dressing rooms and offices; the public restrooms were off the lobby outside. When Spicer finally showed, he would probably make his entrance through that door.
Only he didn’t show.
6:15.
6:30.
No Spicer.
Fallon finished his beer, motioned to the redheaded woman bartender for another. When she served it, he asked, “Where’s the King of the Ivories tonight?”
She didn’t seem to know how to answer the question. Finally she said, “He should be here any minute.”
“How come he’s late?”
“Well, you know,” she said vaguely, “delays.”
“Sure. Delays.”
6:45.
The door in the inner wall opened, but the man who came through wasn’t Spicer. Young, plump, wearing a Western-style suit and tie. An agitated frown wrinkled his smooth features when he saw the empty dais. He caught the redheaded bartender’s eye, gestured for her to come down, then leaned up close to the bar behind Fallon. The two of them spoke in low tones, but his hearing was acute and he could make out what they were saying.
“Why isn’t Courtney here?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Haskell. I thought maybe he called in sick.”
“He didn’t call in at all.”
“He’s never missed a night or been late before. Maybe he’s got the flu or something.”
“Too sick to use the telephone? Too drunk is more likely.”
“Well, he does like single malt Scotch. But I’ve never seen him drunk.”
Haskell said, “Why do hassles like this always happen on my shift? All right, Tracy, let me know if he comes in,” and disappeared through the door.
7:00.
The last of the sunset colors were gone and darkness had begun its descent. The evening star grew bright to the east in the clear purple-black sky. People came into the lounge, people went out. None of them was Court Spicer.
Fallon was on edge now. If Spicer wasn’t sick or drunk, if he had spooked and gone on the run again, finding Kevin would be a hell of a lot more difficult, if not impossible. He didn’t want to think what Casey might do if that happened.
7:15.
The inner door opened. Haskell again, looking flustered and angry now. He motioned Tracy down and leaned toward her over the bar, once more within Fallon’s hearing.
“Still a no-show,” she said.
“Damn these musicians. You can’t depend on any of them. I called his cell number and it went straight to voice mail.”
“Should we make an announcement? Some of the customers have been asking about him.”
“Not just yet,” Haskell said. “Give him another fifteen or twenty minutes. And give me a Wild Turkey on the rocks.”
Haskell stayed put at the bar with his drink, glancing at his watch every three or four minutes and scowling. Just past 7:30, he went back through the door-to make another call to Spicer’s cell, Fallon thought. He was gone less than five minutes.
“Still not here and still no answer on his cell phone,” he said to Tracy. “If it’s up to me, he’ll be looking for another job tomorrow.”
She said, “Maybe we ought to send somebody out to check on him.”
“Oh, sure. Who? I’m not about to drive all the way out to Bullhead City. Go ahead and make the announcement.”
Fallon thought: What the hell, give it a shot. He swiveled his stool chair to face the night shift manager. “I couldn’t help overhearing,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for Courtney myself, and not to listen to his music.”
“Yes?” Haskell gave him a half-appraising, half-distracted look.
“My name’s Jackson, Sam Jackson. I own a half interest in a club in Vegas. So happens Steve Courtney played with a trio at my place a while back.”
“Is that right?”
“I heard he had a gig here and I drove down to see him. I’ve got a business proposition he might be interested in.”
“What, a better job offer?”
“Not exactly. I don’t raid other establishments.”
“Yes, well, you can see that he’s not here and more than an hour and a half late. It’s not likely he’ll show tonight.”
“That’s too bad,” Fallon said. “I need to talk to him as soon as possible. You’re not going to send someone out to see if he’s home?”
“No.”
“Well, how about if I do it and let you know? I’m tired of just sitting around waiting. Only thing is, I’ll need his address. I don’t know where he lives.”
Haskell looked at him steadily for about ten seconds. Then, “What’s the name of the place you own in Vegas, Mr. Jackson?”
“Own a half interest in. The Star Lounge.” It was the first name that came into Fallon’s head. “On Flamingo.”
“Wait here.”
Haskell disappeared again through the door. Going to his office to check up on Sam Jackson? If that was it, Fallon could maneuver his way out of the Star Lounge lie, but he wouldn’t get the address. Long shot anyway. But worth it under the circumstances.
Haskell was back-too quickly for him to have done any checking. Fallon relaxed, keeping his expression neutral. He was about to get lucky after all.
“Courtney lives at 60 Desert Rose Lane in Bullhead City,” Haskell said. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you where that is or how to get there.”
“No problem. My car has GPS.”
Haskell handed him a card. “My office number is on there. Let me know, will you? Or if you find Courtney, tell him to call me. And he’d better have a damn good excuse.”
“I’ll do all I can to track him down, Mr. Haskell. You can count on that.”
In the Jeep on the way up Casino Drive he called Casey’s cell number to tell her why he’d been delayed, that he’d gotten Spicer’s address. But she didn’t answer. Why would she have her phone switched off? Accident, maybe, or because she was trying to get some rest. She was expecting him to come back there, not to call.
Behind him to the north, as he crossed the bridge into Arizona, the carnival dazzle of lights and neon colors cast by the Laughlin casinos stained the night sky, turned the surface of the Colorado into a distorted reflector dominated by crimson, as if the river had been fouled with currents of blood. By comparison, Bullhead City seemed sedately lit. There wasn’t much traffic over here. Monday evening quiet. All the night action, all the noise, belonged to the Nevada side.
The Jeep’s GPS led him down Highway 95 to Silver Creek Road, then through a series of secondary streets into a housing development so new that some homes were still under construction. Sunrise Acres, according to a sign-the same tract that Co-River Management had featured in its wall decorations. Stucco-and-tile-roofed homes of various sizes on large lots. Even out here in desert country, lease and rental prices would be substantial. Spicer wouldn’t be able to afford one of these places on the scale salary the Wagonwheel paid a lounge act. His high-living expenses had to be underwritten by David Rossi.
Desert Rose Lane was a short dead-end street, three two-story houses on each side. A couple of them looked as though they might be unoccupied, and only two of the others showed lights, the first on the left coming in, the second on the right at the far end.
Fallon relaxed a little when he saw that number 60 was the lighted one at the end. Somebody was there, Spicer or possibly a guard on Kevin; the lights, and the bulky shape of an SUV in the driveway, told him that.
He parked in front of the dark house next door. Before leaving the motel earlier, he’d locked the unloaded Ruger in the console storage compartment; he took it out, slid it inside his belt under the light jacket he wore. A loaded weapon, even if you didn’t intend to use it, was a foolish risk with a young boy on the premises. Running a bluff with an unloaded gun went against his army training, but if taking action was necessary, it was better than relying solely on hand-to-hand combat techniques. Whoever was inside the house wasn’t likely to answer the door packing heat.
He locked the Jeep, walked slowly to number 60. The spicy scent of sage was strong in the warm darkness. The first thing he saw as he neared the front porch was the thin wedge of light that lay across the tiles. It came through a crack between the door and the jamb: the door was open inward a few inches. Funny. Why leave it open like that, even in what was probably a safe neighborhood?
The doorbell was a vertical strip of lighted plastic; Fallon pushed it and listened to chimes roll out within. Half a minute passed with no response. He thumbed the strip again. Still no response.
He leaned close to the crack in the door. The silence inside and out now seemed acute, charged. He could feel the muscles across his shoulders pulling together, knotting-the same physical reaction he’d had that time in Cochise County, before kicking in the door of a hotel room where a drunken soldier had been holding a woman against her will.
One more push on the doorbell. When that didn’t bring anybody, he drew the Ruger and used the back of his left hand to nudge the door open halfway. Foyer, palely lit by a suspended fixture. He leaned his head inside and called out, “Courtney! Steve Courtney!”
The words echoed faintly, died into more heavy silence.
Enter uninvited and technically he’d be committing criminal trespass. But the door was open and it shouldn’t be, and the lights were on and they shouldn’t be if there was nobody in the house. He couldn’t just walk away now.
He called the Courtney name again, then went in and nudged the door closed with his shoulder.
The living room and dining room that opened off of the foyer were both fully furnished. Lease or rental, maybe even one of the tract’s original model homes. As often as Spicer traveled from gig to gig, he wouldn’t have bought a place like this if he could have afforded it.
Fallon moved cautiously through the downstairs rooms. No sign of anybody. But when he went upstairs to where the bedrooms were, into the hall that bisected the house-
Man on the hallway floor.
Fallon stopped, staring down at him. The back of his scalp crawled.
Dead man. Curled up fetally on his side, both hands pressed under his sternum. Blood and scorch marks on his white shirtfront. Eyes open and staring sightlessly, mouth in a rictus, blood and dried spittle staining the dyed brown goatee.
Court Spicer.
FALLON’S FIRST THOUGHT WAS of the boy. He ran along the hall, shouldering open doors and flicking lights on briefly to scan the interiors. The door standing ajar at the far end had a pair of hasps screwed to it and its frame, an open padlock and a key on a chain hanging from one. A bedside lamp was lit inside, but the room, like all the others, was empty.
Kevin’s room.
Kevin’s prison cell.
Single bed, nightstand, dresser, TV set. Bookcase with a row of thick paperback books. The only window shuttered and padlocked and probably nailed down. Signs of hasty packing: dresser drawers pulled out, closet mostly empty, a couple of items of boys’ clothing forgotten on the floor.
Gone. Taken away by whoever killed Spicer.
Fallon ran back to where the dead man lay, dropped to one knee without touching him. Shock still had hold of him. He’d seen corpses before; you can’t grow up in East L.A. and spend four years as an army MP, even on stateside duty, without coming face-to-face with violent death. But this was something outside his experience, as inexplicable as it was unexpected.
Spicer had been shot once at close range. Small-caliber weapon, maybe a.22. What blood had leaked out of the wound was tacky, drying. In addition to the white shirt, he wore trousers and a knotted tie-his Sunset Lounge outfit except for the jacket. Dressed and ready to leave when whoever shot him showed up. That and the drying blood put the time of death at between five and five-thirty. Three hours.
Who? Why? And why take Kevin? To liberate him from his father, or because he was a witness to the shooting?
Fallon stood up and leaned against the wall. Training and instinct urged him to notify the police immediately. Right thing to do, start them looking for the boy as soon as possible. For his own protection, too, even though Casey could verify his whereabouts when Spicer died.
But not just yet.
His first obligation was to Casey: she had to be told about this, and by him, not the law. In person was better, but there wasn’t time for that. He hit the redial button on his cell phone.
No answer. Her cell was still switched off.
Dammit! He didn’t know the motel number… wait, yes he did. The letterhead receipt for the two rooms he’d paid for by credit card. He found it in his pocket, called the number, asked the clerk for Casey’s room.
Ten empty rings.
That made him even edgier. She should be in the room, waiting for him. And if she’d gone out for some reason, why hadn’t she made sure her cell phone was turned on? Where was she?
The need for movement drove him into the bedroom nearest to where the body lay. It was the one Spicer had been using; his dark blue dinner jacket was on a hanger on the closet door, his wallet in an inside pocket. Fallon eased the wallet out, fanned through it. Two hundred dollars in twenties and tens. No credit cards-Spicer must have paid for everything in cash. No union card. The only ID was a Nevada driver’s license in the name of Steven Courtney. Bought and paid for, probably in Vegas and probably from Bobby J. or one of his cronies.
Fallon wiped the wallet with a hand towel from the adjacent bathroom, returned it to the coat pocket. Then he used the towel to open drawers in a small writing desk. Looking for blackmail evidence, anything that might explain the shooting. All he found was a few receipts for meals and minor purchases. The closet and the dresser contained clothing, most of it on the expensive side, and little else. The nightstand was empty except for a package of condoms and a prostitute’s full-color business card like the ones they handed out on the Vegas Strip.
He was sweating now, despite the air-conditioned coolness. Without touching anything, he made a quick search of the other bedrooms, then went downstairs and prowled the first-floor rooms. The place had a static, unlived-in feel; the only personal items Spicer had brought to it were in the two upstairs bedrooms.
He made another call to Casey’s room at the motel. Still no answer.
Where the hell was she?
He’d been in there with the dead man a long time now-too long. Call the police, get it over with. Worry about Casey later.
He couldn’t make himself do it.
The urgency he felt now was to find her, find out what had gone wrong at the motel; she was still his first priority. Bring her back here with him, let her wait in the Jeep while he discovered the body all over again, and then he’d call in the law. Self-protection for both of them. There was time to do it that way, and not too much risk: the chance that anybody in the lighted neighboring house had seen him come in here was fairly slim.
He thought about shutting off the lights before leaving, but he didn’t do it. If he hadn’t been seen coming in, he’d be careful not to be seen going out. And you don’t alter or compromise a crime scene in any way if you can avoid it. The door lock was a deadbolt, so he was able to close the door without setting it. From the porch, he made sure the street was empty before crossing to the Jeep.
The same thought kept running on a loop inside his head: leaving like this is a mistake-you know damn well it is. But it hadn’t stopped him inside and it didn’t stop him now.
The drive to the motel took twenty long minutes. He had to keep telling himself to take it easy, observe the speed limit, do nothing to call attention to himself.
No lights showed behind the curtained window in Casey’s unit. Fallon put the Jeep into an empty space, went to rap on the door and call her name. Silence. He knocked again, louder, and a third time before he gave it up and trotted down to the motel office.
The night clerk was a college-age kid with a scraggly crescent of chin whiskers. Fallon said, “My friend, the woman I checked in with, should be in her room but she doesn’t answer the door.” He described her, gave her room number. “Do you know if she went out?”
“No, sir. I haven’t seen anyone looks like that.”
“She might still be in the room. Sick or something. Could you open it up so I can check?”
“Well, I don’t know… You say she’s a friend of yours?”
Fallon dragged the receipt out of his pocket, slapped it down. “I paid for both rooms, you can see that. I’m worried about her. Come on, get your passkey. It won’t take long.”
The clerk didn’t argue. They went to Casey’s room and he keyed open the door and put on the lights. Fallon pushed around him, inside. Empty. There was a measure of relief in that, but none in the fact that her suitcase and overnight bag were also missing.
He took a quick look around, thinking that she might have left a note. Nothing. The only signs that she’d ever been there were the rumpled bed and a towel on the bathroom floor.
Outside he asked the clerk, “How long have you been here tonight?”
“Since five o’clock.”
“On the desk the whole time? You didn’t go out for some reason and turn it over to somebody else?”
“No, sir. I’ve been here the whole time. If your friend had checked out, she would have had to do it with me.”
“She wouldn’t have checked out,” Fallon said.
“Well, she’ll probably be back. Maybe she just went out somewhere to eat.”
Fallon didn’t answer that. He said a curt thanks, unlocked the door to his own room, and closed himself inside.
Immediately he tried her cell number again. Out of service.
Spicer murdered, the boy missing again, and now this. There must be some connection, but what? None of it made any sense. Casey had no reason to leave voluntarily… unless she was the one who’d killed Spicer and taken Kevin. Was that even remotely possible? He didn’t see how it could be. She’d have had to find out somehow where they were living and then get out there in a cab right after Fallon left for the Wagonwheel. There might have been time for her to do that, barely-he could be wrong about the time of death-and the weapon could have belonged to Spicer and she’d managed to get it away from him…
No, Christ, he didn’t buy it for a second. She was emotional, unpredictable, with self-destructive tendencies, but he couldn’t picture her as homicidal. And she wasn’t crazy, which she’d have to be to want revenge badly enough to jeopardize her relationship with her son.
The only other possibility he could think of was that whoever killed Spicer had kidnapped both the boy and Casey. But how would the shooter know where she was staying? Well, there was an answer to that: she’d been seen and recognized at some point today, or he had, and they’d been followed here the way he’d followed Bobby J. last night. But then how would the follower know she was here alone? The timing said he’d have had to be in Bullhead City when Fallon left for the Sunset Lounge. An accomplice staked out here? Bobby J. and Yellow Beard working together?
Far-fetched. Unbelievable.
He quit trying to make sense of it, focused instead on what he was going to do. Drive back to the Bullhead City house, refind the body, call the law? Still an option, but not a good one with Casey missing. Without her he couldn’t prove he’d been here until 5:40 tonight, and his reasons for hunting Spicer might seem suspicious without corroboration. Like as not, with no other handy suspects, they’d chuck his ass into jail and hold him as a material witness. And if they wanted to, they could build a pretty good circumstantial case against him. The thought of spending even a short time behind bars put a cold knot in his gut. You couldn’t get any farther from wide open spaces than a jail cell.
Could he get away with not reporting the murder? Maybe, if he was lucky. A lot of people knew he’d been looking for Spicer, but he’d never once used his own name and most of the inquiries had been in Vegas. The only ones in Laughlin who knew were the two women at Co-River Management and the night shift manager at the Sunset Lounge. They could describe him, but that was all and it wasn’t much. There was nothing distinctive or memorable about his looks. Average. His description fit ten thousand other guys.
The manager, Haskell, would remember giving him Steven Courtney’s address and probably pass that information on to the police. But there was a way for Fallon to cover himself on that, up to a point.
The card Haskell had given him was in his shirt pocket; he fished it out, punched up the number. While it was ringing, he had a few bad seconds trying to remember the phony name he’d used, finally retrieved it just before Haskell came on the line.
“This is Sam Jackson, Mr. Haskell, the lounge owner from Vegas. Has Steven Courtney shown up or called in?”
“Neither one. You didn’t find him, I take it?”
“Afraid not. His car is in his driveway, but the house is dark and nobody answers the door. I thought maybe he’d finally shown up there. Now… well, he’s out of luck on that business matter I was telling you about. I’m heading back to Vegas early tomorrow morning.”
“He’s out of luck here, too,” Haskell said. “If you want to hire him, he’ll be available come tomorrow.”
“No, thanks. I don’t want no-show performers working for me any more than you do.”
Okay. Covered at least until the police checked on Sam Jackson and found out he and the Star Lounge didn’t exist.
How long before somebody found Spicer’s body? It might be days; no one from the Wagonwheel was likely to go out there to check on him. And when the body was discovered, the victim was Steven Courtney, according to his driver’s license and everybody who’d known him down here. In a homicide case the law usually checked the victim’s fingerprints, but there was a chance small-town law might not bother, and if they did, that Spicer’s fingerprints weren’t on file anywhere. A chance that the law would never connect Steven Courtney and Court Spicer until somebody made the connection for them.
So time was on Fallon’s side. Enough time to find out what had happened to Casey and her son.
Final decision made, right or wrong. He was in too deep to get out of this mess any other way. Besides, she was still his responsibility. Quit on her now and he’d be quitting on himself.
Fallon gathered his gear, stowed it in the Jeep, checked out. Casey still hadn’t contacted him. Wouldn’t or couldn’t. Wherever she was, wherever the boy was, it wasn’t Laughlin or Bullhead City.
Five minutes later he was on Highway 95, heading north. He had to start someplace, and the best and closest option was Vegas.