The Housewife Assassin's Deadly Dossier (10 page)

“Ha. Maybe you’re right. You know, I hear Al Qaeda stole a whole bunch of missiles and launchers and shit from Saddam’s stash, when Iran fell.”

“Iraq,” Jack muttered.
 

The deputy tilted his hat far back on the crown of head. “Beg pardon?”

“Saddam Hussein ruled Iraq, not Iran.”

The sheriff guffawed. “Shee-it! What difference does it make? They’re all a bunch of towelheads, ain’t they?” He turned to Abu. “Of course I mean no disrespect.”

“No, of course not,” Abu muttered under his breath. He took out a laser distance measurer and walked over to the hole.
 

While he went about the business of measuring it, Jack turned to the deputy. “So, are you telling me that there are Al Qaeda terrorists out here in the middle of this desert?”

The deputy chewed his cud on that one for a good minute or two. Finally he said, “It’s a big fucking desert. Isn’t that where they like to, you know, run their jihadist camps? Hell, I hear they cross the border all the time, coming in with the wetbacks.” He gave Abu a sideways glance.

Abu dead-eyed right back at him. “I’m
Sikh
.”
 

“Then don’t sneeze on me. I can’t afford to be laid up with germs, especially ones from a foreigner.” The sheriff took a tissue from his pocket and covered his mouth with it. “Them Al Qaeda boys have stolen enough of them heat-seeking missiles and launchers from Egypt to blow up every truck that comes barreling down this road for a month. Maybe they were testing a launcher on your buddy’s sports car.”

Jack’s sunglasses were tinted enough that the deputy couldn’t see his eyes grow big with disbelief over the man’s stupidity.
 

“The crater is twenty-three feet, seven inches at its widest point,” Abu shouted back at them. “And six feet-four inches deep, in the center. Fifty, maybe sixty pounds of plastic explosives could make that size dent. The bomb wasn’t set with a timer, since whoever did it wanted Carl in the car when it went off. It might have been set off by remote control, but since the trucker said no one else was on the road but the two of them, we can rule that out. Instead, it was rigged to go off at a speed exceeding ninety-five miles-per-hour.” Abu shook his head in awe. “Considering how low the chassis rides, it’s lucky he wasn’t in a more populated area when it blew.”

“I see he’s a bomb expert, eh? Figures.” By now, the grass straw between the deputy’s thin lips was a mere nub.
 

“Look, Deputy, was there anything the trucker said that might provide additional information? For example, did another car pass him before he came up on the crater?”

“Well, yeah, he did say something I thought strange at the time. But now…well, I can see how it makes sense.” Deputy Dumbass looked down at the steaming blacktop, as if in a trance. Then he leaned in toward Jack and whispered, “Aliens.”

Jack shook his head, annoyed. “The US Government spent thirteen million dollars last year securing the borders. Considering it’s two and a half hours from the Mexican border, and we’re out here in the middle of nowhere, what would illegal aliens have to do with anything?”

The deputy shook his head, amused. “Right now I ain’t talking about the wetback kind. I meant the kind…well, you know!
Up there
.” He pointed overhead.

Jack couldn’t believe his ears. Still, he managed to keep a straight face when he asked, “So, this trucker thinks the car was beamed up into an alien space ship?”

The deputy nodded his head. “Yep, exactly! That would explain a lot, dontcha think?”

“Yeah. Right.”
Wrong.
Jack stroked his chin. This kept his trigger finger busy. Otherwise, he’d be tempted to put Deputy Dumbass out of his misery. “Of course, that doesn’t explain why Carl’s car is right over there.”
 

He pointed to the parched desert floor on their left. About a quarter of a mile away, the charred body of the vehicle could be spotted. Abu had already looked it over. Shaking his head, he explained, “The velocity of the fall slammed it into the ground, crushing everything inside. Anybody inside would have been pulverized.”
 

While the sheriff watched, Jack and Abu circled the area between the crater and the car, in the hope of finding Carl’s body, but no luck.

“Even if there was something left of him—say, a limb—it could have been carried off by a coyote, since the sheriff’s department’s search didn’t take place until daylight,” Abu muttered to Jack.

“I myself lean toward the theory that a meteor fell out of the sky,” the deputy insisted. “Fate works in mysterious ways, my friends. One moment, a man’s eating a piece of pie at a shit-hole truck stop, the next moment he’s barreling down the road, only to be blown sky-high—”
 

“Wait!” Jack stared at the officer. “Did you say Carl stopped somewhere?”
 

“Didn’t I mention that before?...No? Been forgetful lately, probably this damn heat. I need to start drinking more of that Ginko Bonobo stuff, and less Jack Daniels. As I remember, your friend gassed up at the Hot Wheels All-Nite Truck Stop. Jolene waited on him. I know this because when she heard what happened to him, she darn near went to pieces. You’d think he’d asked her to marry him and not just banged her on the counter.”

Jack’s brow went up an inch. “Is that what she said, that he screwed her?”

“She didn’t have to say anything. Three truckers pulled up while they were getting it on. Hey, it’s no reflection on your buddy, believe me. That gal’s got quite a reputation. She’s known as the trucker’s dream of Highway 62.”
 

This time when Deputy Dumbass spit, he sprayed some of it on Jack’s shoes.

Jack suppressed his urge to frown, let alone yank the deputy by his necktie down on his knees and order him to wipe the spittle off his shoes.

Instead, he murmured, “Your insights have been invaluable, Deputy. Thanks for your time.”

“You say you’re a friend of poor dearly departed Hottie?” If Jolene had any interest in the handsome stranger standing in front of her—and hell yeah, she did—it just increased fourfold.
 

Jack’s mouth turned up at the edges. “Is that what you called him, ‘Hottie’?”
 

“Not to his face,
per se
. It wasn’t as if we were formerly introduced or anything. But something tells me I could have called him anything and he wouldn’t have minded.” Jolene batted her lashes. “I’m just here to serve, if you catch my drift.”

To make sure he did, Jolene leaned over the counter as far as she could, just in case for some silly reason he hadn’t noticed her breasts—difficult to imagine, considering they were practically falling out of her too tight and too-low-cut uniform.
 

Still, New Hottie’s eyes never left hers—something she found confusing at first, to say the least. Soon, though, she felt it, like a Vulcan mind meld or something. She’d never considered Mr. Spock to be the sexiest of the
Star Trek
characters. She was more of a Captain Kirk girl, herself. To her mind, Dr. Bones came in a close second, with Scotty bringing up the rear, if only because she couldn’t see herself with a man who yelled, “I’m giving it all I’ve got” all the time.

With Jolene, you didn’t promise.
 

You delivered.

No doubt, New Hottie never let a girl down.
 

She’d be willing to find out first-hand.

“So, tell me, Miss Caruthers—that is Jolene.” He leaned in, too, and smiled. “Did Hottie—I mean, Mr. Stone mention where he was headed?”

She pursed her lips. At least, she thought she was pursing them. She had a Collagen injection the day before, so for all she knew she might have been gulping like a guppy. She just hoped that her mouth looked inviting. Hell, it better. Her lips were so inflated that it took half her lip-gloss to look decent—a new shade called Inner Labia, whatever that meant. All she knew was that it was pink, shiny, and tasted like strawberries. If she played her cards right, he’d be leaning in for a taste of it, too. “He didn’t exactly say, no. I thought he was headed back to LA because he was dressed so nice and all. But they said the crash happened east of here, beyond Steeg.” If she could rustle up a few crocodile tears, she wondered if he’d try to comfort her. If he cuddled her to his chest, it would be worth smearing her supposedly waterproof eyeliner.

“So, in other words, the only thing he did was pay for a tank of gas?” New Hottie frowned.
 

Jolene had too much pride to let a man walk away disappointed, inside or outside of a restroom stall. “No, I wouldn’t say that! I mean…he also bought two pieces of pie and two coffees.”

Hearing that, New Hottie seemed interested again. “So, you sat down to join him.”

“No, not me, silly! Some short, bald dude.”

Jack put his hand over hers. “Anything else you can remember about him?”

That was all the encouragement she needed to at least pretend to remember something. She tried to furrow her brow, but recent Botox injections made that an impossible feat. She sighed, frustrated. “Your pal had just paid for his gas when Baldy drove up—not in any sports car or nothing, just some car your granny would drive, only newer.”

Jack nodded encouragingly. “What else, Jolene. Please think hard, because it’s important.”

“Oh…well, he was in his fifties. He certainly wasn’t dressed as nice as Hottie. By that I mean, no suit or nothing. Sports jacket and khakis, like any other middle-aged man. And he had glasses, too. Not sunglasses, but round ones, like Harry Potter. I remember because he was dripping with sweat, and the lenses fogged over when he walked in here.”

The way Jack jotted down what she said in his little pad made her feel important, for once in her life. There was something else about the man that was unique. What was it again? Oh yeah—

“And he was wearing this pinky ring.”

Jack quit writing and looked up at her. “Really? Can you describe it?”

“Sure! It was platinum, but it had a big black flat area, where a stone would go. I guess the guy couldn’t afford one. Instead, it had some writing on it…a number.”

He reached out for her hand. “What number?”

“It was thirteen.”

Bingo, Jack thought.
 

Jolene’s Baldy has to be the same man who left Leonid’s party with Tatyana and Ross. Well, this certainly verifies Ryan’s suspicions that the Quorum carried out the hit on Carl.
 

“Jolene, you didn’t happen to overhear any of their conversation, did you?” He patted her hand encouragingly.

“Not exactly. But I do know that Hottie—I mean, Carl—wasn’t too happy with whatever Baldy had to say because Carl didn’t say much in return, and he frowned the whole time.”

Maybe while Pinky Ring was distracting Carl, someone was rigging Carl’s car with explosives, Jack thought. “Did they park side by side?”

“No. Carl, the bad boy, left his car at the pump. See that big ol’ ‘No Parking’ sign? Baldy pulled in over there. Of course, you can’t expect foreigners to know how to read English, I suppose.”

“How did you know he was a foreigner?”

“He spoke with an accent.”

“Was it a German one?’

She shrugged. “Could have been. I’m only an expert on the romance languages.
Comprende, amigo
?”
 

By the way she entwined her fingers in his, Jack could tell she was getting bored from talking about something other than herself. Too bad for her. Aside from the fact that she wasn’t his type, he needed to get back to Los Angeles as soon as possible and fill Ryan in on these developments.

He locked eyes with her once more as he handed her a card that identified him as Jack Craig, Vice President of Prime 1 Bank. “Here’s my private number. If you think of anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”