American Blood (16 page)
She raked her hair back, and he could see her hands were shaking.
Cohen said, “I’d offer you some coffee, if I had any. Sometimes on the long days my Mrs. Cohen sends me out with a little thermos, take a hit if I need it.”
Shore turned her head on the rest and smiled at him. “I didn’t see Bolt, just Troy Rojas.”
“They normally come as a pair, or so I’m told.”
She nodded, still looking at him. “I think Bolt might be dead.”
Cohen hadn’t seen that one coming. He said, “How’d you conclude that?”
She nodded toward the house. “You hear what went on tonight?”
“I’d say I got the gist of it.”
“You know about the occupant?”
Cohen nodded. “I do know about Marshall. Quite the boy.”
She glanced at him suddenly, like this was some fresh angle. “What have the marshals got to do with him?”
“Oh. This’n that.”
“Is he WITSEC?”
“I can’t comment.”
She watched him a while. He wasn’t used to getting such scrutiny to one side of the face. He counted off the seconds in his head, studying the light show. At five she said, “That sounds like a yes to me.”
Cohen didn’t answer.
She said, “Are the feds after him?”
“I don’t know about feds in general, but I’m certainly not.”
Shore said, “I think he might have killed Bolt.”
Thinking back on what he knew of the man, it didn’t strike Cohen as an unlikely prospect. At length he said, “Well, until I’ve got a warrant from a U.S. federal court saying I need to go after him, then I don’t care what he does. Just prefer he get some less dangerous pursuits.”
Shore took all that onboard with a slow nod. She said, “So who are you out here for? Marshall or Bolt?”
The car was fogging up. Cohen turned the key and dropped his window an inch. He said, “They’re both official business. I want Bolt in handcuffs and Marshall out of trouble.”
“Might’ve left it late. Far as the trouble part goes.”
Cohen rubbed his jaw. He had a trim little beard he was cultivating, coupled to his hair by a pair of neat sideburns. He said, “I suspect you’re right. Where’d you last see him?”
“In a diner down on Cerrillos Road, couple of hours ago. No idea where he is now.”
She put her elbow back up on the sill. “Get the sense he’s got a knack for keeping out of sight.”
Cohen nodded. He hooked a thumb in his belt and he could feel his star clipped there and hell if that wasn’t a fine sensation. He said, “Had a knack for keeping out of trouble, it might serve him a little better. You talked with him a bit, did you?”
She nodded. “He’s on a missing persons hunt. Girl named Alyce Ray, disappeared down in Albuquerque. He was out this morning questioning Bolt and Rojas about where she is. Somehow he knew they’d been in contact with her.”
She gestured out the windshield. “Obviously they didn’t appreciate the interest.”
“Clearly not.” He watched the street a while, theories circulating, drawing a little clearer now. He said, “What exactly did he tell you?”
Wayne Banister
He’d returned the rental earlier that day and used different ID at a different place to check out a second car. The new motel was down on Gibson Boulevard, just east of the airport. Two-story with a concrete balcony that ran the length of the upper level, and in the late evening he stood out there leaning on the rail, below him the grid-wise city lights reaching flatly to the black horizon. Ash trees swaying in a slow waltz, and high above, the measured blinking of airplanes on south approach. Engine noise a thin and far-off rumble.
Strange life, this. Motel to motel, no real friends, business contacts anonymous or dead. He sometimes wondered if his real self had meaning, whether it actually could, when every move was hidden by a false name. How many people actually knew him as Wayne? To whom was he more than just the Dallas Man?
In the room the blue phone rang.
He stepped inside and found it on the table, brought it outside to answer.
The Patriarch said, “Having a nice time?”
Wayne put his hip against the rail. Out on Gibson Boulevard traffic stopped at the light, and in the motel office he saw a lone guest with a carry bag waiting at the empty desk. Perhaps a different version of himself: another room in a string of many and the guy would check in with a fake ID and proceed to his unit and take instructions on an encrypted phone from a nameless employer. He said, “Can’t complain. I got a quiet place. There’s a Starbucks just down the road.”
“Just keeping you in the loop. I haven’t heard anything about Frazer.”
Wayne said, “Lonely spot out there. Could be a while before someone spots them.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I’ve done some background on him. He’s got a business down in South Albuquerque. Razor Rentals.”
“Car hire or something?”
“I guess so. It’s him and another Frazer running it, probably his son. I’ll just find the name, hang on.”
Wayne waited.
“Yeah, Sean Frazer. I bet it’s his son.”
“Okay.”
“I’m sure it’s a front. Tweak the records a little, easy laundering setup. Probably tell the IRS they’ve got a fleet of fifty Ferraris hired out. Get some nice meth money coming through.”
“You want me to go for a visit?”
“Yeah. Emile’s been aggressive enough, I think you’d better go see Sean. Really make a firm statement, if you follow.”
Firm statement, read as: put some lead in him. Wayne was long past the point where he missed the euphemisms. He said, “Sure.”
“Thanks, it’s down on Fourth Street Southwest. I found it on Google Maps, just look for the sign.”
A hollow echo of feet on the metal stairs at the end of the building, and then the girl he’d called for earlier emerged on the balcony. She made her way over like it was the catwalk: upright and courtly, casting about with this prim, cool look on her face, lips slightly parted like she was blowing smoke. Handbag slung over one shoulder and slim long legs beneath her miniskirt, each step dead ahead of the last, like staying on the tightrope. Words in his ear, but he was briefly in another world.
She tipped her head toward his room, eyebrow raised. “This twelve?”
“Yeah. You can go on in.”
She went inside, a slight shimmer in her hair with each step.
The phone finally coming back to him: “You there?”
Wayne said, “Yeah. Sorry. Still here.”
“Company for tonight or something?”
Wayne laughed. “No. Just room service.”
“Okay. What I was saying, I may send you some more guys to help with this Marshall thing. He’s either got federal protection, or he’s completely off the grid, so he’s going to be very difficult to find. But hopefully he’s going to call again.”
“Yeah.”
“Can you give me another week down there, just to coordinate things if I send in some more people?”
“Of course.”
“Great. Well, call me once the Frazer issue’s resolved, and we can go from there. I want to try and set up a rapid-response type thing so you can actually move in as soon as he tries the number. But enjoy your room service.”
Something knowing in that parting sentiment, and Wayne clicked off without a good-bye.
He stood a minute just looking out across the city, and then he stepped inside and closed the door gently and locked it. She emerged from the bathroom, already in her underwear, head tilted as she fixed an earring, and any excitement that had been brewing out there collapsed. The bright light showed her for what she was: pale, bruised, needle-marked, overly made up, unenthused. Overused.
It felt a long way from the real thing.
She said, “Room service, huh? Wouldn’t that be something.”
Wayne didn’t answer.
She said, “What should I call you?”
“You can call me Wayne.”
He sat down at the table. He said, “Where are you from?”
She paused there in the middle of the room, still fussing with the jewelry. She looked at him a moment, maybe sensing his second thoughts, catching some sort of cold vibe. “If we’re just going to talk, do you mind if I put my clothes back on? If that’s cool.”
He nodded. “Yeah. You can put your clothes back on.”
She turned and went back into the bathroom and left the door ajar as she dressed. She called out, “Mind if I smoke in here?
He said, “Only if I can have one.”
He got up and took the alarm off the wall from above the bathroom door and set it outside on the balcony by the doorstep, wondering why undressing was a private matter. Maybe it was all about the startling entry.
When she reappeared fully clothed the catwalk gait was back on display and her bag was over her shoulder. She sat down on the bed and found a pack of cigarettes in the bag and placed one in her mouth, passed a lighter flame back and forth on the tip until it was going. She leaked smoke out her nose, cigarette hanging off her lip as she spoke: “You want one, come and get it.”
She waved the pack, and it rattled gently.
He got a mug from the kitchen and came and sat next to her on the bed. He put a cigarette in his mouth and she lit it for him, leaning across to cup the flame with her other hand. This close, the air was just perfume.
She said, “So.” She tapped her cigarette against the makeshift ashtray. With the mug in his lap it seemed an easy, familiar gesture, like they’d known each other a long time. “What are we going to talk about?”
Good question.
He wanted to talk about himself and about her, like people did.
The quiet dragged out while he thought about it and she said, “Where you from?”
He said, “New York. Before that, New Orleans. I was born there.”
“New Orleans, huh. How do you end up being born there?” Reflex and insincere. He wondered what you’d have to do to make her give a shit.
He shrugged and said, “Same as any place. My father was there.” He laughed. “And I guess by default my mother must have been, too.”
“What did they do?” Breezy and automatic, just the normal pillow talk.
Wayne said, “My father was an FBI agent. After that he was a private investigator. Actually pretty well known. Very anti-communist, used to send cash and weapons down to Cuba for the anti-Castro movement. Never knew my mother.”
Her eyebrows arched slowly, stayed there a second. She hiked one leg, rocked the knee side to side as she worked on the cigarette. She said, “Who’s Castro?”
He smiled faintly. “Never mind.”
He held her hand. She didn’t seem to mind. He crossed his legs at the ankle and realized that the gun bag by the bed was open and that his SIG was visible. Not that she seemed fazed. He guessed on the scale of oddities a pistol in a bag was fairly pedestrian compared to what else she would have seen.
He said, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine. Thirty next month.”
He nodded to himself, like it married with prediction. It felt good being here, in this warm room in the light with another hand in his.
He blew some smoke.
It felt good being like everybody else.
Marshall
A dead-end residential street, just south of Rodeo Road in Santa Fe. Quiet but for the low hum of breeze in the window he’d slightly lowered, and he could smell mesquite in the night air. Here and there a lit window, but mostly it was dark. He hadn’t seen another car in nearly thirty minutes. He sat low in the driver’s seat, eyeline on the crest of the wheel, the .45 gripped two-handed between his knees.
After midnight now. A cat crept along the far fence line, and he alone saw it. A car approached. Still hidden beyond the corner, but its lights played weakly on the road ahead. He slipped lower in his seat. The view sharpened as the vehicle turned, Marshall’s cabin bright as it drew nearer. He waited motionless as the car pulled into a driveway, darkness panning back across him.
He opened his door, held it ajar.
The car’s lights died. The engine quit. Marshall got out and pushed his door closed and crossed the street quietly, the gun under his shirt.
The driver was out of the car now, crunch of footsteps on the shell path leading to the door, Marshall silent across the lawn, and even as they reached the step he was still unseen.
He said, “Sarah.”
She gasped and dropped her keys, a loud ring on the concrete. She laughed weakly and closed her eyes when she recognized him. “Jesus, Marshall. You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry. Not one of my best approaches.”
“Good if you plan to kidnap me. God.”
She was still in hospital scrubs, a jacket over the top. He bent and picked up the dropped keys and found the one for the door and passed it to her.
She opened up and hesitated briefly and said, “Come on in, I guess.”
He followed her inside and locked the door behind him. She hung the jacket in the entry and stood heel-toe to kick off her shoes. A light was on in the living room, and she led the way through. A woman was seated on the sofa reading a newspaper. She lowered it as they entered and smiled and looked at them across the top of her spectacles.
“You have good day, Sarah?”
“Yeah, it was okay. How about you?”
“Yes. Good, good. How you, Mr. Marshall?” Like this was nothing unusual.
“I’m fine, thanks, Juanita. How are you?”
“Very well, I think.”
“Pleased to hear it.”
“You like some coffee before I go? I put some on, you want.”
Sarah said, “No, you get on your way. Sorry I was a bit later than I thought.”
He sat in the living room and waited as she showed Juanita out. Quiet voices in the entry he couldn’t quite overhear. It felt strange sitting here with a gun in his belt, a fresh angle on an old scene, but the room itself was a close match to memory. A few subtle changes that drew him: the armchairs had switched positions, and the television was closer to the corner, and there was a new side table, an antique piece that clashed with the otherwise clean and modern look. After a minute or so he heard the door close gently and the bolt scrape across, and then she came and sat down opposite him, leaning forward with her hands clasped.
She said, “Funny time for a visit.”