Страница 61 из 77
His expression sobered to some extent, and I could see him shift into business mode. "Okay, but don't be dragging it out. We have better things to do."
"Business first."
"Yes, ma'am."
We spent the next ten minutes talking about Reba and Beck – what he'd said, what I'd said, and what, if anything, it meant. Cheney intended to call Priscilla Holloway in the morning and bring her up to speed. He thought the straightforward approach was preferable to taking the risk that she'd find out anyway. He'd refer her to Vince Turner and let the two of them work out their arrangements. If Holloway wanted Reba picked up, then all the better for him. Vince would be thrilled to have her under lock and key.
Finally, Cheney said, "Can we go now? All this talk about criminals is turning me on."
Chapter 26
The drive from Santa Teresa to Reno took nine hours, including two potty stops and a fifteen-minute lunch break. The first seven hours got me as far as Sacramento, where Highway 80 intersects the 5 and begins its slow climb toward the Do
Most of the buildings were two and three stories tall, dwarfed by the occasional chunky hotel. Aside from the casinos, businesses seemed to be devoted to making cash readily available. The working theme was cheap food and pawnshops, with the word "GUNS" writ large on two out of every seven signs.
I chose an unprepossessing two-story motel in the heart of town, its prime attraction being that it sat on a lot adjacent to a McDonald's. I checked in, found my second-floor room, and put my duffel bag on the bed. Before I left again, I picked up the Reno phone book I found in my bed-table drawer. I went downstairs, left the phone book in my car, and then proceeded to McDonald's, where I sat in a window seat and treated myself to a couple of QPs with Cheese.
According to the strip maps I'd picked up at the auto club, Carson City – the last known domicile of the erstwhile Robert Dietz – was only thirty miles away. Because of Cheney, I thought about Dietz without bitterness, but without much interest. While I munched fries doused in ketchup, I opened the Reno city map and looked for the street where Misty Raine was supposedly living these days. Wasn't far away and I thought my next order of business was to pay a visit to the place.
I dumped my trash and returned to my car. With the map propped against the steering wheel, I sketched out my course. The route took me through spartan neighborhoods of pines, chain-link fences, and ranch houses faced in stucco or brick. Even at seven in the evening, the light was good. The air was hot and dry and smelled of pine pitch and charred oak from the California fires. I knew the temperatures would drop as soon as the sun went down. The lawns I passed were parched, the grasses scorched to a soft yellow-brown. The trees, on the other hand, were surprisingly green, dense healthy foliage a relief in the relentless washed-out beige of the surrounding landscape. Maybe the whole of it was designed to keep all the gamblers indoors where gaudy colors dazzled the eye, the air temperature was constant, and lights were ablaze twenty-four hours a day.
I spotted the house I was looking for – a one-story yellow wood-frame bungalow with three stingy windows across the front. The trim was brown and the door to the single-car garage was decorated with three vertical rows of triangles, yellow paint on brown. Shaggy evergreens marked the corners of the house, and the flower beds along the drive were filled with desiccated plant stalks. I parked on the far side of the street about four houses down with a clear view of the drive.
When sitting surveillance, there's always a concern that a neighbor will call the cops to complain about a suspicious vehicle parked out front. To create a diversion, I removed two orange plastic construction cones from the well of my car and then went around to the rear, where I opened the engine compartment. I set up the cones nearby, signaling engine trouble in case anyone got curious.
I stood near the car and sca
I returned to the car and settled in to wait, amusing myself by browsing the yellow pages of the borrowed phone book. Bored with that, I picked up the first one of three paperbacks I'd brought for this purpose. It was comforting that most of the nearby houses remained dark, suggestive of occupants at work. At 8:10,1 saw a Ford Fairlane slow on approach and ease into Misty's drive. In the fading daylight, primer paint on the driver's side of the car glowed as though luminescent. A woman emerged, wearing a white halter, tight jeans, and high heels without hose. She reached into the backseat for two cumbersome plastic grocery bags, crossed to the front door, and let herself in. I could see interior lights go on as she moved through the house. This had to be the very Misty Raine that I was looking for.
So far no one had questioned my presence on the block. I got out, retrieved the orange plastic cones, and returned them to my car – this by way of being prepared for whatever might come next. I resumed my reading with the help of a penlight I dug out of my bag. At intervals I glanced up, but the house remained quiet and nobody entered or left. At 9:40, prison-strength exterior spots came on, flooding the driveway with harsh white light. Misty emerged from the house, leaving lights on behind her as she got in her tank-size Ford and backed out of the drive. I waited fifteen seconds, fired up the VW, and followed.
Once we reached the first intersection, there was sufficient traffic to provide cover, though I didn't think she had any reason to suspect she was being tailed. She drove sedately, refraining from any abrupt or tricky moves that would indicate a concern about the thirteen-year-old pale blue VW traveling three car lengths behind.
We proceeded into town. She took a right on East 4th and after half a block turned into a small city parking lot that sat between an Asian restaurant and a minimarket with a marquee that read: GROCERIES * BEER * SLOTS. I slowed and pulled over to the curb. I left the engine ru