Bad Blood (23 page)

“Yeah? What?”

“Tell me about the guns.”

“The guns were a washout. Your turn.”

My turn. “Mark Sanderson asked me to find his daughter. I think Frank Grice knows where she is.” Close enough, I thought, and all true.

Silence. I had an image of MacGregor rubbing tired eyes. Then, “I hear she’s with Jimmy Antonelli.”

“You listen to the wrong little birds.”

“That so? What tree do you recommend?”

“The Creekside Tavern.”

“Some swell dive.”

“Grice owns it. Ginny’s been hanging out there lately.”

“How do you know this?”

“Jimmy’s friends could tell you.”

“They haven’t yet. Of course that crowd wouldn’t tell me it was raining if I was standing there getting soaked.”

“So where do I find him?”

“Forget it, Smith. Do yourself a favor. Go home, light a fire, have a drink. Let me play policeman.”

“Mac—”

“Or do yourself an even bigger favor. Go back to the city.”

“Brinkman hinted he’d rather I didn’t do that.”

“I’ll tell him he changed his mind.”

“Mac, what the hell’s going on?” I moved the phone to my right ear, rolled my left shoulder to ease the ache.

“Nothing’s going on, except I’ve got a rent-a-cop on the phone too dumb to know good advice when he hears it.”

“I want to find Ginny Sanderson.”

“I’ll deal with it.”

“How? When? The kid’s been missing for three days.”

“Depends how you define missing.”

“She hasn’t been home. Her father doesn’t know where she is and he’s worried. He’s a shit, but he’s her father and he’s worried. How’s that?”

“You know that kid, Smith? You know her father?”

“A little,” I offered, ambiguously.

“Well, the kid takes after her mother and her father still hasn’t caught on.”

“Caught on to what?”

“Christ, where’ve you been? Lena Sanderson ran around, almost from the day they were married. Everyone knew it but Sanderson. He was the only one surprised when she left him.”

“And Ginny’s like her mother?”

“We’ve hauled her in three times since she was thirteen.”

“For what?”

“Knowing the wrong people. And this is a kid doesn’t live in the county, Smith. She’s away at school making trouble there most of the time.”

“Not now.”

“No, not now.”

“What happens when you arrest her?”

“We don’t. We learned. We call Sanderson and he comes and gets her and reams us out for holding his angel in a nasty place like this. Never mind she’s been batting her blue eyes and practically climbing into the uniforms’ laps.”

“So how come you didn’t tell me about her when I described the girl I was looking for?”

“Ginny? That’s who that girl was—Ginny Sanderson?”

“Sounds like her.”

“Smith—”

“Mac,” I interrupted, “did Brinkman tell you he found a nine-millimeter pistol in a Chevy truck that rolled into the gorge last night?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he told me. How the hell do you know?”

“He told me, too. Have you tested it yet?”

“No, I haven’t tested it yet. And when I test it, you’ll be the last to know.”

“Whose was the truck?”

A hesitation; then, in a tired voice, “Jimmy Antonelli’s.”

I drew a last drag on my cigarette, dropped it, ground it out. “I guess I knew that.”

“I guess you did. What else do you know?”

“Not a goddamn thing. Where do I find Frank Grice?”

“Christ, Smith! What the hell’s the matter with you? I see you anywhere near Frank Grice, I’ll pull you in and stuff you in a hole. Is that clear enough, or you want me to say it some other way?”

“No,” I said. “No, I get it.”

“Smith,” MacGregor said, “this Ginny Sanderson thing isn’t the case you came up here to work, is it? You said you came up Sunday night. That kid’s only been gone since Monday.”

“It’s part of it.”

“Smith, you’d better—”

I stopped him before he painted us both into a corner. “I told you, Mac, it’s not a police matter. I’ll call you later, see about that gun. ’Bye.”

I hung up, leaned against the scratched glass wall of the
phone
booth. I spun another quarter in the air, thought about what MacGregor had said.

I’d given him Ginny Sanderson at the Creekside Tavern for free. Underage drinking could close the Creekside down, and the threat of closing down might buy MacGregor something that might help break the Gould case. That, in turn, should have bought me something, but it hadn’t.

Cops had a lot of ways of telling you things they wanted you to know.

MacGregor wanted me to know something was going on. Maybe he was getting pressure from above on the Gould murder; maybe it was something else. But what he wanted me to know was that I couldn’t count on his help. If I got myself into trouble, even with him, I’d have to get myself out.

I stuck the quarter in the phone and called Mark Sanderson.

“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded, after I’d gotten past the receptionists and the secretary with the beautiful voice.

“Mr. Sanderson, has your daughter ever mentioned a man named Frank Grice?”

He stopped cold, as though he’d lost his place in the script. “No,” he finally said. “She doesn’t know him. How would she know him?”

“But you do?”

“I’ve heard of him. Some of the people I do business with have had trouble with him.”

“Bullshit,” I said. “Grice first came here because you brought him here. What happened, Sanderson, he get out of hand?”

His voice exploded out of the phone. “Goddammit, who the hell do you think you are? The sheriff tells me he found Jimmy Antonelli’s truck this morning, in the ravine. If anything happened to Ginny—”

“There was no one in the truck when it went off the road, Mr. Sanderson.”

“So where the hell are they?”

“Wherever Jimmy is, your daughter’s not with him.”

The phone hissed his words the way a pot lid hisses steam. “Damn it, Smith, you’re trying to protect that kid, and it’s obvious and stupid. I’m getting impatient.”

“I can’t help that.”

“Yes, you can. You can tell me where he is, and where my daughter is, or I promise you you’ll be one sorry bastard.”

I hung up without telling him I’d been a sorry bastard most of my life.

I had lots of quarters. I called Alice Brown to tell her the troopers would be watching over her.

“Me? You’re—oh,” she said. “Oh, I understand.”

“I thought you would. Have you been okay?”

“Yes. But the sheriff was here, and right after him one of those men you told me about. The one with the cast on his wrist.”

“Otis. They wanted to know where Jimmy was?”

“Yes. I told them both the same thing—about Jimmy cheating on me and how I threw him out. And I said if anyone found him they shouldn’t bother to tell me because I couldn’t care less.”

“Good. When was this?”

“This morning, about eleven. I called you at Antonelli’s but no one answered.”

“Did they believe you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you be okay there?”

“I’m all right. What should I do?”

“Keep on doing what you’re doing. As far as you’re concerned it’s a normal day, because you don’t know where Jimmy is anyway. I’ll check back with you.”

I was about to hang up when she asked a sudden question: “Will it be all right?” Her voice through the phone was shaky and brave.

For a moment I couldn’t answer. Then I said, “I want it to be. Alice, I’ll do what I can.”

“I know,” said Alice. “Thank you.”

I depressed the silver cradle, kept the receiver to my ear. I dropped in another quarter, tried the green house again, and the number Otis had dialed from it, but they both rang into emptiness.

I crossed the parking lot back into the 7-Eleven, bought another pack of Kents, a lemon, and a box of teabags. As a last-minute thought I grabbed a bottle of aspirin. Back in the car I washed three pills down with the last of the lemonade, turned the car and the music on, and headed down the road.

15

A LOUD BUZZING
cut like a chainsaw through my dream. Bare winter trees, dark sky, cold. A stream, two ways to cross it: one a bridge, ugly and new; the other shadowy, undefined. People in the shadows, people I thought I knew but couldn’t see. Movement in the darkness. And then the buzzing, and I was awake, disoriented in the twilit room.

I groped for the clock, hit the button. The buzzing stopped. I lifted the clock and focused on it: four o’clock. Christ, what a stupid time to get up. No, but it was afternoon, not morning; and Lydia was coming. Right, at four-thirty. Get out of bed, Smith, take a shower, make yourself bearable.

Groggy and stiff, I stumbled to the bathroom. I’d been asleep for an hour, since I’d gotten back from the Creekside Tavern. I stood under the hot water, tried to make the steam clear my brain.

The Creekside. Shabby mustard-colored shingles, brown vinyl trim, windows full of lit beer signs, most for brands the Creekside didn’t sell anymore. Inside, wood-grain Formica dimness and a stale smell. No sign of the drug dealing that went on from the bar or the bookmaking business in the back room, but it was early in the day.

Two guys my age were curled over beers at the bar; two
younger
guys and a girl with a fountain of hair springing from the top of her head were playing pool. They all looked up, measured me, an intruder in their territory, and just how tough was I, if it came to where that mattered? I sat on a barstool near the door, not near the other guys, the etiquette of the stranger.

“Haven’t seen you here before,” the bartender said, put my Bud on the bar. He was blond and big, shirtsleeves pushed up past his elbows.

“No,” I said. “I’m from North Blenheim. I don’t get over this way much.”

That placed me for them, told them where I’d been before I walked into their lives.

“What brings you over here now?” he asked.

I drank some beer. “Frank Grice.”

He made a show of looking around the near-deserted room. “He’s not here.”

“Been in lately?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Buy yourself a drink. It might help your memory.” I dropped a twenty on the bar.

“Why, thanks, friend.” He scooped up the bill, rang it into the register. He poured a shot of Dewar’s, downed it, smiled, and shook his head. “I don’t think that helped.”

“Think harder,” I suggested.

One of the pool players straightened up from the felt, strolled around the pool table, cue loose in his right hand. I drank more beer, put the glass down on the bar as he came to stand beside me.

“Something I can do for you?” I asked, not looking at him.

“You look familiar. You look like a cop.” A nasal voice, belligerent and edgy.

“I never liked my face much, either,” I said.

“What do you want Frank for?”

“He’s got something I want.”

“What?”

I looked him over. Smallish; fish-belly pale; eyes a little out of focus. Close up, he was younger than I’d thought, too young to be drinking in the Creekside in the early afternoon.

“Tell you what, Junior,” I said. “You tell me where Frank is, and I’ll tell him my secret, and afterwards, if you’re good, he’ll tell you.”

“Sonuvabitch,” he growled. He hefted the pool cue, moved closer.

I slipped off the barstool toward him, took a quick step in, too close for him to swing the cue. I socked him in the stomach, fast but not all that hard; but his eyes had told me he’d drunk enough that I didn’t need to hit him hard. He made a small noise, doubled over, was quietly sick.

“Hey!” came from his friend on the other side of the pool table. He headed for me.

“Mike!” said the bartender sharply. “Hold it!”

The second pool player halted, his hands rolled into fists. He glanced from the bartender to me, back again.

“You’re not going to break up my place,” the bartender said. “You,” he turned to me, “get the hell out.”

Standing, I realized that the beer was hitting me harder than it usually did. The room wasn’t as still or solid as I liked rooms to be. Getting out didn’t seem like a bad idea.

I dropped my card on the bar. “Tell Frank I know about Ginny Sanderson, and the truck,” I said to them all. “Tell him he’ll have to deal with me. I’ll be at Antonelli’s tonight. Tell him that.”

And I left the Creekside, my clothes still carrying that stale, sour smell as I drove, slowly and carefully, back to my cabin, to sleep.

The hot water faded to warm, lukewarm, cold. After a few minutes of cold I gave it up. I dried, dressed, built a fire in the stove, put the kettle on. Four twenty-five. I sat at the piano, worked at slow, even scales until I heard a car crunch down the driveway. Four-forty. I closed the piano, opened the front door in time to see a Ford Escort roll to a stop next to my Acura.

I crossed to the car as Lydia got out. I hesitated, then kissed her cheek, caught the scent of freesia in her hair.

“Don’t squeeze,” she said. “Where’s your bathroom?”

I pointed to the cabin door. “Just inside, on the left. I’ll bring your things.”

She scuttled up the porch steps, disappeared inside.

I reached into the car, brought out a zippered, snapped, strapped, and buckled carry-on of soft black leather. I followed her inside, dropped the bag on the couch. The bathroom door opened and she came out, combing her hair back from her face with her fingers.

“Didn’t you stop?” I grinned.

“I wouldn’t have made it by four-thirty if I’d stopped.”

“I always stop,” I told her. “Twice.”

She made a rude noise.

“That’s just what your mother always says to me.”

“I’m not surprised. What happened to your face?”

“I’ll tell you all about it. Do you want some tea? It’s only Lipton’s, in a bag,” I apologized. “It was all I could get.”

“When in Rome,” she sighed. I took that as a yes.

Lydia shook off her leather jacket, unclipped her holster from her belt. The lamplight was gold on her smooth skin; it caught highlights in her hair, which was black and asymmetrical, like her clothes. While I made her tea, and coffee for myself, she wandered around the room, investigating my drawings, photographs, books. She stopped at the small silver-framed photo. She picked it up in both hands, looked at it silently, then looked over at me; but I was busy with cups, spoons, and teabags, and I let her look pass.