Step to the Graveyard Easy (11 page)

“Not even close,” he said. “And not very smart. If anybody heard that, they’re on the phone right now. It won’t take hotel security more than two or three minutes to get up here.”

“You son of a bitch!”

“Better get out while you can, Tanya. Only other option you’ve got is to blow my cock out of the saddle—murder or attempted murder.”

Four or five tense seconds.

Then she broke and ran, trailing obscenities.

As soon as the door banged shut after her, Cape was out of the chair and across the room. He eased the door open a crack to listen. No voices, no neighbors alerted by the shot. The bank of elevators was just down the hall; he heard one of the cars whining upward, heard the doors thrum open and then close again.

He ran for the elevators as the car began its descent. Jabbed the down button, kept jabbing it. Fast elevators in the Lakeside Grand: another car was there in less than thirty seconds. It went down fast, too—no stops. When the doors whispered open, he was out in a rush to where he had a full view of the lobby.

She was still in sight, walking fast toward the side entrance, not looking back.

Cape followed her at an oblique angle until she passed through the doors. Then he made a straight run, got outside in time to spot her heading into the parking lot at the rear. All right. That was where he’d left the Corvette, lucking into a space in one of the near rows. Her wheels were somewhere farther back; she was hurrying deeper into the lot on a long diagonal.

He had the ’Vette clear of the parking space and idling near the only exit when she drove past. Clear look at her in profile: She was one of those forward hunchers, both hands tight on the wheel, eyes locked straight ahead. She seemed to have no idea he was there.

Cape let her get clear of the lot before he swung out behind her. She took the loop back down to Lake Tahoe Boulevard, turned west at the light. Her car was a new, pale blue Mitsubishi, California plates and a Hertz rental sticker on the rear bumper—easy enough to keep in sight. She stayed in the left lane, moving in fast spurts, then slowing down. Nervous driving, not the evasive kind. He stayed in the right lane a few car lengths behind.

Back across the line into South Lake Tahoe. Traffic was heavy along motel row: stop and go, stop and go. It wasn’t long before she slowed to a crawl, still in the left lane, bunching up cars behind her, the way some drivers do when they’re looking for an unfamiliar street or landmark. Going to make a turn pretty soon. Cape squeezed over into her lane.

At the next intersection she veered into the left-turn lane. So
did the car behind her, so did Cape. He checked the street sign: Pioneer Trail. She went into Pioneer at a good clip when the light changed, but the woman driving the car in front of Cape was the poky type. He moved up close to try to hurry her or prod her into pulling over. All it did was cause her to slow down even more. Tanya’s lead was two hundred yards and growing before they’d gone a fifth of a mile past rustic motels, small apartment complexes, lower middle-class homes on wooded lots.

When the road began to curve, Cape lost sight of the Mitsubishi for short periods. The woman in front of him kept right on poking. The gap was upward of three hundred yards when Tanya disappeared beyond another curve; and when he came around to where he could see some distance ahead, she wasn’t on Pioneer any longer. Must’ve turned off at the next intersection. But which way?

Cape was close on the poky woman’s bumper as they approached the intersection. Look left, look right—no sign of the Mitsubishi in either direction. The street to the left was a two-block uphill dead end; he swung off to the right, past a sign that said Black Bart Road. Private houses on small tree-choked lots. Cars parked, cars moving, none of them the Mitsubishi. A few people out and about, none of them Tanya.

He drove around half a dozen blocks, came back and crossed Pioneer Trail, and went up the dead-end street on the other side. No sign of Tanya or the rental car up there, either.

Lost her.

Yeah, or maybe she’d been wise all along—maybe she’d lost him.

Cave Rock was a small hillside settlement on Highway 50 on the Nevada shore. Private homes perched along steep, narrow streets, some new and expensive with expensive views, others older, smaller, less affluent. Two-forty-six Lake Summit Road was one of the latter, a sprawling, boxy pile painted the color of dog vomit, with an oblique view of the lake and not much land around it on any side.

Lacy Hammond opened the door immediately to his ring, as if she’d been standing there on the other side waiting for him. Appraising look, lazy smile. “What, no flowers, no candy? No bottle of expensive liquor?”

“You expect a present?”

“Hell, no. Matter of fact, I wasn’t sure you’d show up at all.”

“Odds for or against?”

“Even money. What’re you looking at, salesman?”

“You, the way you’re dressed.” Mauve slacks, a sleeveless tank top. Nothing on her feet. No makeup, and her hair carelessly finger-brushed.

“What’d you expect? Slinky gown? Sheer negligee? Bare-ass naked?”

“None of the above.”

“Uh-huh. I may be easy, but I’m not trite. Come on in.”

Homey disarray—Anna’s phrase to describe inoffensively sloppy housekeeping. Mismatched furniture, and no more color sense inside than out. Plaid couch, saffron-hued corduroy chairs, cobalt blue carpet, one wall painted gold with sparkly stuff mixed in.

“Nice place,” Cape lied.

“It sucks, and we both know it. Funk junk.”

“Why live here if you don’t like it?”

“It’s mine, that’s why. Part of my divorce settlement. My ex got to move upscale—Vegas and a job as an assistant manager of a brand-new casino. I got to stay here and fend for myself.”

“Fend for yourself how?”

“You mean what do I do for a living?”

“If it’s not a secret.”

“It’s not. Sponge off men when I can find one who’s got money. Sponge off my baby sister and her rich husband. Work as a cocktail waitress in a pinch. I get by.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

“So. What’re you drinking, salesman? I’m having Scotch tonight.”

“I’ll join you. Neat, if it’s single malt.”

“It’s not.”

“Over ice, then. Can I use your phone?”

“As long as you don’t call somebody long distance.”

“Your sister and her husband. If you’ll give me the number.”

Frown. “What do you want to call them for?”

“Something important to tell them.”

“Such as?”

“Listen to my end of the conversation.”

“Balls,” she said, but she gave him the number.

Four rings, and an answering machine kicked in. Everybody was out tonight; he’d gotten Vince Mahannah’s machine when he called there earlier. Cape identified himself, gave the Vanowens the same message he’d given Mahannah: “Tanya Judson is here in Tahoe. Her partner, too, probably. Scared enough to show up at my room at the Grand, waving another gun and demanding the money I took from them in San Francisco. Wouldn’t say how she found out where I was staying. Wouldn’t give me any idea of what she and Boone are up to, just said he was in over his head with somebody named Rollo and she was walking out on him. I bluffed her into
leaving, managed to follow her over into South Lake Tahoe. She’s driving a blue Mitsubishi with a Hertz rental sticker. I lost her on Black Bart Road, off Pioneer Trail. She may or may not be staying somewhere in the area—I couldn’t tell if she spotted me or not. My suggestion is that you notify the police about her. She seemed pretty desperate. I’ll corroborate, if that’s what you and Vince Mahannah decide to do.”

He broke the connection. When he turned, Lacy said, “For Christ’s sake. What was that all about?”

“You haven’t talked to your sister today?”

“No. Some woman threatened you with a gun?”

“Let’s get that Scotch, and I’ll tell you about it.”

Lacy said drowsily, “I’m glad you’re not one of those clinical types.’

“Clinical?”

“Want to talk about it afterward. Tell each other how great it was.”

“I don’t see any point in verbal replays.”

“Neither do I. If sex is any good, it’s private when you’re done. Words just spoil it.” She yawned, stretched. “You married, salesman?”

“Once. Not anymore.”

“How long’d it last?”

“Twelve years.”

“My first mistake didn’t last twelve months. Or even six.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I was nineteen,” she said. “His idea of fun was shitkicker bars, dirt bikes, and fifteen-second fucks. No kidding, fifteen seconds every time. You could set your watch by it. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am. Joe the Rabbit.”

Cape was silent.

“Number two wasn’t much better. Better in the sack, but he liked it rough and kinky. At least he made decent money—I stuck him good for the two years of sadomasochistic bullshit I put up with.”

He let that pass, too.

After a time Lacy leaned up on one elbow, gazed down into his face. “I keep thinking about what you told me,” she said, serious
now. “The photographs, the woman with the gun, all the rest. You don’t have any idea what it’s all about?”

“None.”

“She didn’t give you a hint?”

“All she said was what I told you. Boone’s in over his head with somebody named Rollo, and she wants out.”

“Rollo. Real name or a nickname, I wonder.”

“Could be either one.”

“You think Stacy’s in any danger?”

“Probably not from Tanya. She talks tough, but I doubt she’s lethal.”

“Boone?”

“Maybe. He’s harder to read. Others involved… who knows?”

“Somebody besides Rollo? What makes you think that?”

“Tanya knew I was here and where to find me. Somebody local had to tell her. Maybe Rollo, maybe not. And how did he know?”

“She could’ve seen you on the street or in one of the casinos.”

“Possible, I suppose.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“I don’t trust coincidence. And I get the feeling that whatever’s going on, there’s a lot more to it than a simple con game.”

“Such as what?”

“Your sister suggested kidnapping.”

“My God! With her as the victim?”

“Or her husband. High ransom demand, either way.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I didn’t either, but now I’m not so sure.”

“Why would they pick on Stacy and Andy, of all people? And Vince?”

Cape said, “The local angle again. If Rollo’s nobody they know, then there has to be somebody else involved. Somebody close enough to one or both of them to have access to those photographs.”

“Come on, salesman. No way.”

“It’s the only answer that makes sense.”

“Brrr. Now you’re giving me the creeps.”

“You know of anyone who might want to harm your sister?”

“You mean like an old boyfriend or somebody else with a grudge? No. Andy, though… he’s made his share of enemies.”

“Anybody in particular?”

“Not that I know about.”

“Someone who has it in for both him and Mahannah, maybe.”

“You’d have to ask Vince. Don’t bother with Andy—he wouldn’t tell you.”

“Well, it’s not up to me,” Cape said. “Police are the ones who should be doing the asking.”

“Andy won’t take your advice and call them. Vince, either.”

“No?”

“They don’t want anything to do with the law, not if they can help it. Neither of them is what you’d call above reproach in his business dealings, if you catch my drift.”

“I catch it.”

“Andy’s worked more angles than a geometry professor. That’s how he made his pile.”

“None of my business.”

“Stacy says the same thing. Little Miss Ostrich.” Lacy sat up, swung one long leg off to the floor. “I need a drink,” she said. “You want one?”

“Not just now.”

“Be right back.”

In the soft lampglow Cape watched her get off the bed, walk languidly across the room. Naked, she had an unusually interesting body. High, up-thrust breasts, fleshy hips, those long slender legs, the largest and thickest patch of pubic hair he’d ever seen on a woman. She liked to show herself off, too. Sultry walk, pause in the doorway, half-profile and then a full frontal view, turn again to exhibit the fluid thrust of her ass as she went through into the living room. Anna had had few inhibitions; Lacy had none. Pure sex, dressed or undressed, vertical or horizontal.

Pretty soon she came back, stood beside the bed looking down at him while she sipped her drink. “No more heavy stuff, okay? Not tonight.”

“It’s your house and your bed.”

She set her glass down, stretched again so her breasts lifted even higher, then lay down and fitted her body against his. Immediately her hand probed between them, clutching, fondling.

“These things fascinate me,” she said, “the way they go up and down. As if they have a mind of their own.”

“Penis envy.”

“Hah. I don’t want to own one, just borrow one now and then.” Her touch was having the desired effect. “I was nine years old,” she said, “the first time I saw one hard.”

“Whose was it?”

“My loving daddy’s. He raped me with it.”

“Jesus, Lacy.”

“It happens. More often than you might think.”