The Other Side of Silence (11 page)

“It won’t take long to find out, now that we know where Court’s working.” She gripped his wrist with fingers like talons. “I’ve waited so long, I can’t wait much longer. I want my son back
now
.”

“It’s not going to happen immediately, no matter what we do.”

“But soon. Soon. Just you, us, no police or FBI yet. Please?”

It went against his better judgment, but she was so eager, so desperate. There was no good argument against spending one day trying to locate the boy themselves, as long as they were careful. At the very least, they should be able to find out by tonight whether Spicer and Kevin were still in the Laughlin area.

There was another thing, too—Fallon’s promise to Sharon Rossi. She’d brought them to this point; he owed her the effort to keep it.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll do it your way.”

TWO

T
HE WAGONWHEEL HOTEL AND Casino was one of the smaller, newer resorts along Casino Drive. It didn’t look like much in proximity to the Colorado Belle, one of the gaudier gambling palaces built to resemble an old Colorado River steamboat that bulked up next door. The covered-wagon design was spoiled by modern architectural modifications and too much splashy neon. The front entrance simulated a huge revolving wagon wheel, and you entered by following one stationary lighted spoke into the hub.

Fallon went in alone here, too, Casey waiting in the Jeep in a public parking lot nearby. There wasn’t much chance Spicer would be at the Wag-onwheel this early, but why run the risk?

The casino was moderately crowded, the banks of electronic slots getting most of the play, and the usual pulsing clamor made Fallon clench his teeth. The Sunset Lounge was on the second floor. A pair of marquee posters behind glass framed the entrance; he stopped to look at one of them. Medium-distance photo of a half-smiling man seated at a piano. Light-brown hair in a brush cut, light-brown goatee and mustache—not a match of Casey’s description of Court Spicer. But the facial and body types were right, and it didn’t take much imagination to picture him clean-shaven, with dark hair in a ponytail. The clincher, just discernible in the photo, was the mole on his left cheek near his mouth. Spicer, no mistake.

The lettering on the poster was all in black. Downcurving above the photo: STEVEN COURTNEY. Upcurving below it: KING OF THE IVORIES. Across the bottom: MOOD MUSIC FOR YOUR LISTENING AND DANCING PLEASURE. Trite and old-fashioned, aimed at the Baby Boomer generation. Fallon wondered if the poster was Spicer’s doing, or a product of the Wagonwheel’s PR staff.

The Sunset was the kind of lounge intended as an oasis for those who preferred quieter, more traditional surroundings. Stitched-leather booths, tables with leather chairs, a long neon-lit bar, a piano on a raised dais—seat empty, keyboard covered—and a small dance floor. Three big flashy keno boards served as reminders that this was first and foremost a casino lounge, with gambling the primary lure. Tinted glass composed the entire back wall so that you had sweeping views of the river, parts of Bullhead City and the Arizona desert stretching beyond.

There were only a handful of patrons at this hour, most of those grouped in one of the booths drinking Bloody Marys and marking keno tickets. The bartender, gray-haired, sixtyish, wearing a Western-style shirt and a string tie, stood slicing lemon and lime wedges with bored attention. Fallon sat down in front of him, ordered a glass of club soda with lime.

While the bartender poured it, Fallon said casually, “I noticed the posters on the way in. Steven Courtney, King of the Ivories.”

“Yes, sir, that’s right.”

“I hear he’s pretty good.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that. I work days.”

“What time does he come on?”

“Six o’clock.”

“Tonight—Monday?”

“Every night except Sunday, six till midnight.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find him now, would you? Where he lives?”

The bartender looked straight at Fallon for the first time. “No, I wouldn’t,” he said as he set the drink down. “Why?”

“He’s an old friend. Happens I have some business with him.”

“I couldn’t tell you where the man lives even if I knew.”

“Who could?”

Shrug. “Day shift manager, maybe, but he’s not here. Why not just come back tonight?”

“I need to talk to Courtney as soon as possible.”

“Well, you could check with the business office downstairs.”

“Thanks,” Fallon said. “I’ll do that.”

He did, and it was what he figured it would be, a waste of time. They wouldn’t give out any personal information about their employees.

Casey said, “It’s not even noon yet. What’re we going to do for six hours?”

“The wait’ll be longer than that. Fourteen or fifteen hours, at least.”

“Why? Why so long?”

“I can’t just walk in and brace Spicer at six o’clock, in front of a crowd of people. I’ll have to wait until he’s done playing for the night and follow him to where he’s living. Just the two of us then. And, with luck, the boy.”

“Oh, God. Isn’t there any way to do it sooner?”

“I suppose I could talk to employees at the Wagonwheel and the other casinos, try to find somebody who knows him and is willing to give out his address. But the chances are slim, and there’s the risk of word getting back to him.”

“Yes, you’re right. It’s just that I can’t stand waiting when we’re this close to finding Kevin.”

“You’ll get through it.”

“How? What are we going to do all day?”

“The first thing is find a place to have lunch—”

“I’m not hungry. I couldn’t eat.”

“—and then I’ll get us a couple of motel rooms. After that, a long drive in the desert. Time passes more quickly when you’re on the move.”

“Another motel room? Why?”

“Place for you to be while I’m at the Sunset Lounge,” Fallon said. “Place for you to spend the night—with Kevin, if I can make it happen.”

“You will. You have to.”

“We’ll see. One step at a time.”

* * *

They ate in a coffee shop on a side street off Casino Drive. Casey picked at her food. Fallon ate most of his, slowly, not because he was hungry but to kill an extra few minutes. Afterward, he found an inexpensive motel near the Laughlin/Bullhead International Airport on the Nevada side of the river. Separate rooms again, adjacent. He used up another half hour showering, shaving, changing into a clean shirt. Casey hadn’t bothered; she still wore the same skirt and blouse, and her hair and face were still sweat-damp when he knocked on her door.

He drove them over into Arizona, through Bullhead City and out past Davis Dam and Lake Mohave, into the badlands toward the stark hills surrounding the old gold-mining town of Oatman. Fallon wondered if the renewable energy boom that had begun in the southern California deserts in recent years would extend out here one day—geothermal power plants that ran on hot water pumped from deep underground. Probably. Someday there might well be vast solar energy farms in all of the western deserts, supplying enough electricity for millions of homes and businesses. He had no objection to open space being used in this way, in the better-late-than-never battle to overcome the effects of global warming; the geothermal plants were designed to be eco-friendly, to take up the least possible amount of space in remote areas. Man finally taking positive steps to confine the crawling creatures, control the greed and waste that helped to feed them.

Casey showed no interest in the scenery or in the ghost buildings and mining works that dated back to the area’s first gold strike more than a century ago. She sat stiff and silent the whole way, and when he stopped in Oatman and suggested that they have a beer, she let him lead her inside a tavern like an animal on an invisible leash. She had the same tightly wound inner focus on the way back.

It was nearly five when they reached the motel. She stirred then to look at the clock on the dashboard. “Is that clock right? Five o’clock?”

“It’s right.”

“God, the time just crawls. I feel like I’m living in a vacuum. I don’t know how I’m going to get through another eight or nine hours.”

He said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“What time are you going over there? To the casino?”

“Before six. I’ll be there when Spicer starts playing.”

“You’re not going to talk to him?”

“Of course not. Don’t worry, he’s not going to know me from any other customer. I just want to get a look at him, watch him for a while. Then I’ll come back here and we’ll have dinner—”

She made a face. “No more food. I feel like puking right now.”

“Dinner, and then we’ll wait together until it’s time for me to shadow him.”

“I want to go with you.”

“No. I thought we settled that.”

“If he leads you to Kevin—”

“Then I’ll call you first thing. It won’t do either of us any good if you’re there when I brace Spicer. You have to let me handle this my way, Casey.”

“Your way. Your way.” But she didn’t argue anymore.

He said, “We’ll play cards.”

“What?”

“Cards. Gin rummy. You know the game?”

“Yes, I know the damn game.”

“It’ll help keep your mind off the clock.”

“All right, gin rummy. Anything to make the time go faster. I’ll even let you fuck me if you want.”

The last words shocked him a little. Until he realized that that was all they were, just words. Meaningless, driven out of her by the yearning for her son and an abstract need for tension release and a calming of her inner turmoil. If he tried to take advantage of them, something he’d never do, she would either fight him off or submit like a rag doll.

He’d been sorry for her all along. Now what he felt was a kind of tender pity.

THREE

A
T SIX O’CLOCK, THE Sunset Lounge was moderately crowded with cocktail-hour and predinner drinkers and sunset watchers. The fading sunlight that streamed in through the tinted windows had a mellow golden tone. Fallon sat in what the management would consider the least desirable location, a stool chair at the inner end of the bar. From there he couldn’t see much of the flaming western sky, but he had a clear view of the piano on the raised dais.

The only problem was, the piano bench was empty. Spicer hadn’t put in an appearance yet.

Fallon sipped a draft beer, waiting. There was a closed door in the wall near where he sat that would lead to dressing rooms and offices; the public restrooms were off the lobby outside. When Spicer finally showed, he would probably make his entrance through that door.

Only he didn’t show.

6:15.

6:30.

No Spicer.

Fallon finished his beer, motioned to the redheaded woman bartender for another. When she served it, he asked, “Where’s the King of the Ivories tonight?”

She didn’t seem to know how to answer the question. Finally she said, “He should be here any minute.”

“How come he’s late?”

“Well, you know,” she said vaguely, “delays.”

“Sure. Delays.”

6:45.

The door in the inner wall opened, but the man who came through wasn’t Spicer. Young, plump, wearing a Western-style suit and tie. An agitated frown wrinkled his smooth features when he saw the empty dais. He caught the redheaded bartender’s eye, gestured for her to come down, then leaned up close to the bar behind Fallon. The two of them spoke in low tones, but his hearing was acute and he could make out what they were saying.

“Why isn’t Courtney here?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Haskell. I thought maybe he called in sick.”

“He didn’t call in at all.”

“He’s never missed a night or been late before. Maybe he’s got the flu or something.”

“Too sick to use the telephone? Too drunk is more likely.”

“Well, he does like single malt Scotch. But I’ve never seen him drunk.”

Haskell said, “Why do hassles like this always happen on my shift? All right, Tracy, let me know if he comes in,” and disappeared through the door.

7:00.

The last of the sunset colors were gone and darkness had begun its descent. The evening star grew bright to the east in the clear purple-black sky. People came into the lounge, people went out. None of them was Court Spicer.

Fallon was on edge now. If Spicer wasn’t sick or drunk, if he had spooked and gone on the run again, finding Kevin would be a hell of a lot more difficult, if not impossible. He didn’t want to think what Casey might do if that happened.

7:15.

The inner door opened. Haskell again, looking flustered and angry now. He motioned Tracy down and leaned toward her over the bar, once more within Fallon’s hearing.

“Still a no-show,” she said.

“Damn these musicians. You can’t depend on any of them. I called his cell number and it went straight to voice mail.”

“Should we make an announcement? Some of the customers have been asking about him.”

“Not just yet,” Haskell said. “Give him another fifteen or twenty minutes. And give me a Wild Turkey on the rocks.”

Haskell stayed put at the bar with his drink, glancing at his watch every three or four minutes and scowling. Just past 7:30, he went back through the door—to make another call to Spicer’s cell, Fallon thought. He was gone less than five minutes.

“Still not here and still no answer on his cell phone,” he said to Tracy. “If it’s up to me, he’ll be looking for another job tomorrow.”

She said, “Maybe we ought to send somebody out to check on him.”

“Oh, sure. Who? I’m not about to drive all the way out to Bullhead City. Go ahead and make the announcement.”

Fallon thought: What the hell, give it a shot. He swiveled his stool chair to face the night shift manager. “I couldn’t help overhearing,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for Courtney myself, and not to listen to his music.”

“Yes?” Haskell gave him a half-appraising, half-distracted look.

“My name’s Jackson, Sam Jackson. I own a half interest in a club in Vegas. So happens Steve Courtney played with a trio at my place a while back.”

“Is that right?”

“I heard he had a gig here and I drove down to see him. I’ve got a business proposition he might be interested in.”

“What, a better job offer?”

“Not exactly. I don’t raid other establishments.”

“Yes, well, you can see that he’s not here and more than an hour and a half late. It’s not likely he’ll show tonight.”

“That’s too bad,” Fallon said. “I need to talk to him as soon as possible. You’re not going to send someone out to see if he’s home?”

“No.”

“Well, how about if I do it and let you know? I’m tired of just sitting around waiting. Only thing is, I’ll need his address. I don’t know where he lives.”

Haskell looked at him steadily for about ten seconds. Then, “What’s the name of the place you own in Vegas, Mr. Jackson?”

“Own a half interest in. The Star Lounge.” It was the first name that came into Fallon’s head. “On Flamingo.”

“Wait here.”

Haskell disappeared again through the door. Going to his office to check up on Sam Jackson? If that was it, Fallon could maneuver his way out of the Star Lounge lie, but he wouldn’t get the address. Long shot anyway. But worth it under the circumstances.

Haskell was back—too quickly for him to have done any checking. Fallon relaxed, keeping his expression neutral. He was about to get lucky after all.

“Courtney lives at 60 Desert Rose Lane in Bullhead City,” Haskell said. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you where that is or how to get there.”

“No problem. My car has GPS.”

Haskell handed him a card. “My office number is on there. Let me know, will you? Or if you find Courtney, tell him to call me. And he’d better have a damn good excuse.”

“I’ll do all I can to track him down, Mr. Haskell. You can count on that.”

In the Jeep on the way up Casino Drive he called Casey’s cell number to tell her why he’d been delayed, that he’d gotten Spicer’s address. But she didn’t answer. Why would she have her phone switched off? Accident, maybe, or because she was trying to get some rest. She was expecting him to come back there, not to call.

Behind him to the north, as he crossed the bridge into Arizona, the carnival dazzle of lights and neon colors cast by the Laughlin casinos stained the night sky, turned the surface of the Colorado into a distorted reflector dominated by crimson, as if the river had been fouled with currents of blood. By comparison, Bullhead City seemed sedately lit. There wasn’t much traffic over here. Monday evening quiet. All the night action, all the noise, belonged to the Nevada side.

The Jeep’s GPS led him down Highway 95 to Silver Creek Road, then through a series of secondary streets into a housing development so new that some homes were still under construction. Sunrise Acres, according to a sign—the same tract that Co-River Management had featured in its wall decorations. Stucco-and-tile-roofed homes of various sizes on large lots. Even out here in desert country, lease and rental prices would be substantial. Spicer wouldn’t be able to afford one of these places on the scale salary the Wagonwheel paid a lounge act. His high-living expenses had to be underwritten by David Rossi.

Desert Rose Lane was a short dead-end street, three two-story houses on each side. A couple of them looked as though they might be unoccupied, and only two of the others showed lights, the first on the left coming in, the second on the right at the far end.

Fallon relaxed a little when he saw that number 60 was the lighted one at the end. Somebody was there, Spicer or possibly a guard on Kevin; the lights, and the bulky shape of an SUV in the driveway, told him that.

He parked in front of the dark house next door. Before leaving the motel earlier, he’d locked the unloaded Ruger in the console storage compartment; he took it out, slid it inside his belt under the light jacket he wore. A loaded weapon, even if you didn’t intend to use it, was a foolish risk with a young boy on the premises. Running a bluff with an unloaded gun went against his army training, but if taking action was necessary, it was better than relying solely on hand-to-hand combat techniques. Whoever was inside the house wasn’t likely to answer the door packing heat.

He locked the Jeep, walked slowly to number 60. The spicy scent of sage was strong in the warm darkness. The first thing he saw as he neared the front porch was the thin wedge of light that lay across the tiles. It came through a crack between the door and the jamb: the door was open inward a few inches. Funny. Why leave it open like that, even in what was probably a safe neighborhood?

The doorbell was a vertical strip of lighted plastic; Fallon pushed it and listened to chimes roll out within. Half a minute passed with no response. He thumbed the strip again. Still no response.

He leaned close to the crack in the door. The silence inside and out now seemed acute, charged. He could feel the muscles across his shoulders pulling together, knotting—the same physical reaction he’d had that time in Cochise County, before kicking in the door of a hotel room where a drunken soldier had been holding a woman against her will.

One more push on the doorbell. When that didn’t bring anybody, he drew the Ruger and used the back of his left hand to nudge the door open halfway. Foyer, palely lit by a suspended fixture. He leaned his head inside and called out, “Courtney! Steve Courtney!”

The words echoed faintly, died into more heavy silence.

Enter uninvited and technically he’d be committing criminal trespass. But the door was open and it shouldn’t be, and the lights were on and they shouldn’t be if there was nobody in the house. He couldn’t just walk away now.

He called the Courtney name again, then went in and nudged the door closed with his shoulder.

The living room and dining room that opened off of the foyer were both fully furnished. Lease or rental, maybe even one of the tract’s original model homes. As often as Spicer traveled from gig to gig, he wouldn’t have bought a place like this if he could have afforded it.

Fallon moved cautiously through the downstairs rooms. No sign of anybody. But when he went upstairs to where the bedrooms were, into the hall that bisected the house—

Man on the hallway floor.

Fallon stopped, staring down at him. The back of his scalp crawled.

Dead man. Curled up fetally on his side, both hands pressed under his sternum. Blood and scorch marks on his white shirtfront. Eyes open and staring sightlessly, mouth in a rictus, blood and dried spittle staining the dyed brown goatee.

Court Spicer.