Act of Betrayal (20 page)

Eased the pains of the body, maybe, but not of the heart.

The address he had for Mandoleras was in sight. It turned out to be a small hotel in a business district that had seen better days—both the hotel and the district. Anita hadn’t mentioned that Mandoleras lived in a hotel. Schultz double-checked the address. He had assumed Mandoleras lived in a house or apartment.

The Oasis Hotel was a three-story building, and he was sure that if the lighting was better he’d see that a couple of the windows were cracked and there was tuck pointing needed. The building was functional, with no effort put into architectural details that might please the eye. It squatted on the street corner like an ugly toad.

He hesitated on the street. It definitely threw a kink in his plans. He had been planning to break into Mandoleras’s home unseen, and wait for him to arrive. He didn’t know what outcome to expect from the meeting. One possible outcome was that he would kill Mandoleras. In that case, he didn’t want anyone to see him going in and out.

Schultz glanced down the street to his right and then left. There was no pay phone available. If there was, he could call the hotel, wangle the room number out of the clerk, and then walk casually through the lobby as if he belonged there. Once at Mandoleras’s room, he could pick the lock.

He sighed. It didn’t look like the kind of place to have a crowded lobby where a man like him could go unnoticed anyway. He was big and solid and not likely to be missed by any clerk one step above dead. It was also possible all the keys were kept at the desk, and the clerk would remember a person who came in and went upstairs but didn’t ask for his key.

He’d have to scrap his whole approach for the night, or go in boldly. If he went in, he’d better not do any killing unless he had a damn good self-defense scenario worked out. And with his record, a self-defense claim probably wouldn’t pan out unless he had God himself testifying on his behalf.

He pushed through the revolving door. Against his expectations, the lobby was clean and neat, and cool. Along one wall was a small shop that sold newspapers, Tums, and snacks. There was a grouping of chairs and couches in the center, worn but comfortable-looking. There were no windows, but several lamps provided enough light for conversation. A man whom Schultz judged to be about eighty years old sat in one of the chairs reading a newspaper. He had tilted the nearest lampshade to cast more light on his paper, and didn’t look up as Schultz entered.

There was no one behind the front desk.

He decided to go for it, and walked in the direction of the hallway which almost certainly held the elevator or stairs.

By the time he had crossed the lobby halfway, a man had appeared from a back office and taken his place behind the desk. He was in his mid-fifties, and his face held a reserved smile. Schultz had clearly been spotted. He casually veered toward the registration desk, knowing it was time for the direct approach.

“Evening,” the man said, agreeably enough. “Looks like you got yourself a little sun.”

Schultz’s hand automatically went to the tender spot on top of his head. Annoyed, he yanked it back down and scowled at the man.

“I’m new in town,” Schultz said.

“I never would’ve guessed,” the man replied. “What can I do for you? Room for the night?”

“No, I’m looking for a friend of mine,” Schultz said. “His name is Glen Mandoleras. Is he in?”

“Might be. If he was, would he want to see you?”

Schultz cracked a smile. The guy was not unfamiliar with the routine. That made things easier.

“We’re friends from St. Louis,” Schultz said. “I’ve been thinking about retiring here. Glen said he’d show me around.”

The man blinked, evaluating the story. Hopefully Mandoleras had mentioned where he was from, so there would be at least a feeble confirmation of his story. The silence stretched out, but Schultz didn’t elaborate. He worked on the KISS principle—Keep It Simple, Stupid.

Schultz saw the decision form in the man’s eyes.

“He’s out,” he said. “Went out for dinner. Should be back in an hour or two. You can wait in the lobby if you want. Get yourself a snack.” He pointed his chin at the hole-in-the-wall shop across from the counter.

Schultz reached into his pocket and put a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, but kept his eyes on the man’s face.

“He’s expecting me tomorrow,” Schultz said. “I got here a day early, and I’d really like to surprise him. I want to wait in his room.”

Another slow blink, but no reach for a key. Schultz sighed and added another twenty. Maybe the cost of living in Tucson was high.

The man reached under the counter, and for a split second Schultz thought he was reaching for a gun. In the space of a heartbeat, though, the man had palmed the money with one hand and produced a key with the other.

“Room three-oh-two. The elevator’s down the hall.”

“One more thing. Has Glen been out of town a lot lately? I’ve had a hard time getting in touch with him.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m new here.”

Yeah, and I’m Mr. America.

The elevator was small and tired. Lifting Schultz’s bulk to the third floor almost seemed more than it could manage at day’s end. It wheezed to a stop and he stepped off into the hallway. He’d opened the button on his jacket on the way up, and his hand rested lightly inside. The guy at the desk might be in cahoots with Mandoleras, and could have notified him that he had a visitor. After all, if the guy could be bought by Schultz, he could be bought by others.

Three-oh-two was the first room on the right of a narrow but well-lighted hallway. The carpet was worn but freshly vacuumed and free of cigarette burns. Outside Mandoleras’s room was a flowery doormat that said “Leave Your Worries Behind.” It seemed so out of character for an ex-cop that Schultz pulled up abruptly.

What the fuck? Mandoleras go batty?

Schultz knew that Mandoleras’s wife had died twenty years ago and he’d never remarried. Or maybe he had, out here in Tucson.

Schultz nudged the doormat gently with his toe. He wasn’t putting anything past Mandoleras. It could have been a trap of some kind. Nothing happened, so he pushed the doormat further until it wasn’t in front of the door anymore. There was nothing underneath, so he picked it up and replaced it.

The key turned the bolt with a quiet
snick,
and Schultz pushed the door open a few inches and waited in the hall. No response. Feeling kind of silly standing on the flowered doormat, he ducked low and moved quickly into the room. The room was dark except for the glow of a night-light plugged in near the door. Not willing to stay in one place near the door as an obvious target, with his own eyes not adapted to the dark but maybe someone else making him out clearly, Schultz dove behind a large couch. He came up with the Glock in his hand and peered around the side of the couch.

He found himself staring into eyes that glowed like tiny full moons, reflecting the night-light.

“Ah!”

The cat scurried away at the sound of his voice.

Schultz pulled himself back behind the couch and waited for his heartbeat to slow. He was embarrassed that he had been startled by the cat, and worried that the noise he’d made had pinpointed him for a shooter.

When nothing happened after a few minutes, he stood up slowly, his knees reminding him that even August in Arizona wasn’t enough to completely remove years of overburdening his joints. He listened closely. The only sound he heard was the air-conditioner, which was churning out gusts of cool air.

Schultz searched the space thoroughly, making sure Mandoleras wasn’t hiding in the bathroom or closet or under the bed. He switched on a couple of lamps when he was certain he was alone, except for the cat. There were three rooms; a bedroom, a small living room and a bathroom. There were no cooking facilities, but there was a coffeepot in the bathroom and a small table with a couple of chairs tucked into a corner of the living room for those homey carry-out meals. The place must have been two adjoining hotel rooms at one time, converted into a tiny apartment for long-term living.

Schultz spent the next forty-five minutes examining the contents of the rooms, looking for something to connect the occupant with the killings in St. Louis. He was accompanied by the cat everywhere he went. The cat was solid gray, young, and sleek, with an incongruously fluffy tail. It had huge white whiskers and soft green eyes, and batted at Schultz’s shoelaces. A couple of times Schultz bent over to stroke it and was rewarded with a jumbo-size purr. Glen Mandoleras might be a murderer, but at least he didn’t mistreat his cat.

Mandoleras lived simply. The furnishings, which undoubtedly came with the room, were sparse and well-used. Schultz searched every drawer and cabinet, every hiding place he could think of, including the toilet tank and inside the refrigerator. In the bedroom, he found a lot of prescription medicine bottles lined up on top of the nightstand, but no gun inside it, or anywhere else in the two rooms. That could mean Mandoleras had a gun with him. There were two framed photos prominently displayed on the dresser, one of Mandoleras and his wife on vacation, possibly in Florida, and the other of Vince Mandoleras in his police uniform. The fact that Vince’s photo was there could mean Dad stoked up his hatred and anger every day by looking at it. Or it could mean that Dad simply missed his son, as he did his wife.

Schultz’s own dresser held pictures of Julia, Rick, and PJ. What would someone searching his home make of that?

There was nothing in the compact space that spoke to Schultz of brutal murder. He’d have to get that information directly from the inhabitant, who was expected to return any minute. He slipped off his jacket, which had been irritating his sunburned arms, and draped it across the back of the couch. Then he switched off the lamps and sat in the glow of the night-light, the Glock in one hand, petting the purring cat on his lap with the other.

P
J STOPPED AT THREE
convenience stores on Friday morning before she found one that sold chocolate chips. She didn’t want to arrive at Bill Lakeland’s house empty-handed.

PJ felt the weight of her job lift from her shoulders the moment she arrived. Thomas answered the door and then threw his arms around her. She buried her face in his shoulder, marveling at the fact that it seemed only recently that she could rest her chin on top of his head. He had shot up in height in the last year, and his dancing dark eyes were level with hers.

Bill greeted her with a more restrained hug. She closed her eyes and took in his clean scent. The man always seemed to smell good, which was more than she could say for Schultz.

Breakfast was loud, messy, and great fun. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d tossed chocolate chips up in the air and caught them in her mouth. None of the others seemed to have the knack, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. The floor was littered with the failed attempts.

“Aren’t you going to be late for work?” she asked Bill. It was eight-fifteen. He was a lab technician, and staffing was generally tight in his line of work, calculated right down to the projected number of tests for each hour of the day. She knew that coming in late was frowned upon.

“I got somebody else to cover the first hour of my shift,” he said, glancing at the clock. “It’s about time to head out, though.”

PJ gave the kitchen a hard look. There were pans and dishes in the sink, drips on the stove, and chocolate chips and pancake flour on the floor. There were hardly any surfaces that didn’t have sticky syrup on them. She shook her head. Too bad the Lakelands didn’t have a dog. At least the floor would be taken care of.

“You guys go ahead,” Winston said. “We’ll clean up.”

Thomas nodded in agreement.

PJ laughed. “That’s one thing I never thought I’d hear. I think I’ve died—”

“And gone to heaven,” Bill finished for her.

“Seriously?” PJ said, looking at the boys.

“Seriously, Mom. It’s a done deal,” her son answered.

Bill went off to change for work. PJ hugged her son again, and affectionately licked a drop of syrup from his chin.

“Yuck!” he said, pulling back.

“Isn’t that my line? I thought you were the one who did gross things.”

“Hey, I’m thirteen. I’m grown-up. Gross is kid stuff.”

“Well, Mr. Gray, I’ll leave you to your work,” she said, gesturing to the kitchen.

“I like the sound of that. Mr. Gray. You should call me that all the time.”

“Does Mr. Gray think he can fit a movie into his social calendar tonight?”

“That’d be great, Mom. Winston and I get to choose.”

“I had in mind a little mother/son kind of thing,” she said. “I think we could use some time alone, if you’re not ashamed to be seen with your decrepit old mom.”

“Yeah, okay. It’s a date.”

“I’ll call this afternoon. Maybe we can fit dinner in, too.”

When she drove away, she waved until he was out of sight. Their push-pull relationship seemed to be improving at a time when most parents were losing touch with their children, during the early teens. Part of it was due to the scare he’d had months ago, when his exposure to evil had briefly driven a wedge between them. Since then he’d moved closer, putting himself into her protective circle, as a wolf cub might move close to its mother when it first senses danger. But there was no stopping nature—he was getting older, and more independent. The struggle in him was a hard one for her to watch, as it was for every parent of a teenager. It was amazing how lost she could feel as a parent at times, and she was a psychologist, who ought to have the inside track. She only hoped they made it through with their good humor and communication intact.

Having a father would help,
she thought. Images of Schultz with his arm around Thomas and roughhousing the way she’d seen the two of them popped into her mind. Instead of immediately squashing the images, she considered them. With the things she was learning about Schultz, would he make a good father?

Then she dared to think it:
Look at the way his own son ended up.

PJ headed west on Interstate 70, after putting gas in the Escort at Warrenton. The storm the night before had left the countryside sparkling clean, and the sky was deep blue with spotty clouds of purest fluff. Rolling forested hills were interspersed with lush cornfields and pastures. She would have relished the trip as a break from her routine if it hadn’t been for the circumstances.