Dead Girl Moon (22 page)

Mick didn’t have much information but he had some key pieces. V-ring near the place where the body was found. Probably not a coincidence. Hammond’s friends had those rings. Only people he and JJ hadn’t heard from were Hammond himself and Scott and Larry Cassel. If the highway patrol guy had killed the girl, he should have done a world-class job of covering it up. Hammond didn’t seem like the rageful type. Would he kill some girl when he could fairly easily lure a lot of women with his style and money?

Larry was the prime bet, but Mick didn’t think he could go against him alone and come out on top. Gary might help, but with crime tape on the trailer, Mick had no idea where Gary could be. So, who had the balls to stand up to Larry Cassel? Mick could think of one person. Fitz Fitzhugh. And his dad had pistols. That could help. But he couldn’t go back to the compound tonight while Paint was there. After the sheriff left, deputies would be cruising, watching the shack. He’d have to see Fitz tomorrow at the Conoco.

Even with the Bonnie safe, Mick couldn’t afford to sit around. The only useful things from his search were a set of coveralls he could pull over his clothes and a beat-up straw cowboy hat to cover his hair. Tonight he’d get a cheeseburger and go looking for Tim Cassel. Set him straight about JJ and this “Cassel’s girlfriend” misunderstanding. Get him to call off his mastodon, Cunneen.

65

“W
HY DID YOU SAY
C
ASSEL DID IT
?”
Paint asked, abruptly changing direction.

“I didn’t,” JJ said. “I saw the body in the river. I just asked, ‘Isn’t that Cassel’s girlfriend?’”

“Which Cassel?” Paint again.

“Larry … I mean, I saw them talking a few times. It just came out of my mouth. I don’t—”

Paint held up his hand to stop her. “Don’t lie to me!”

JJ’s lip trembled.

Paint studied her. Believed her.

JJ had never considered herself a suspect. Didn’t know how to deal with Paint’s abrupt questions. She was afraid she might get Mick in more trouble and she needed to tell him what she’d learned. There were probably only five possibles, six at the most if Hammond had given away his old ring. Why would he do that? No idea. Who would he give it to? A woman he liked? He was too old for that kind of thing. His son? That thought made JJ feel cold.

Paint moved on. “Who else talked with Evelyn? A close friend? We haven’t found one. Lived with her folks in Plains. Only high school pardner got killed in Afghanistan.”

JJ shook her head. “I only knew about Larry. I don’t know if they were even friends. Grace said … Grace would know more.”

“Why wouldn’t they be friendly?” Paint pressed her. “I hear Evelyn was looking to make a little traveling money. Wasn’t she friendly with several men?”

JJ had no idea.

“Maybe somebody put a bee in her bonnet,” Dovey said.

“What do you mean?” Paint asked.

“The Copy Shop, Legal Aid, Tirrell’s Bookkeeping are in my building,” Dovey said. “I hear talk about local men. Scott and Larry Cassel, Mackler, Baker at the pharmacy. The younger women say these guys won’t take no for an answer. Larry’s particularly persistent. Course he’s not alone. I’ve heard that about Baker, too.”

“Hammond has all those imports,” Paint said. “Don’t think he partakes of local women anymore.”

“Imports?” JJ wasn’t following.

“He brings in Internet women,” Dovey said.

JJ couldn’t digest that. It didn’t seem possible. Seemed like a movie.

“True,” Paint said, “so his dance card’s pretty full.”

JJ felt a little dizzy, out of it. Did she walk around in a fog? Did she know anything about her hometown?

A sheriff’s car came into the lot, lights flashing, and Paint stood, went out to meet it.

“Wait! What happened to Gary and Tina?” JJ to Paint’s back, but he was already through the door.

“You should have told me,” Dovey said.

JJ knew what was coming. Looked at the floor. “I didn’t know what to do. None of us did. Jon was … I should have. I was afraid.” She waited for Dovey to say something.

Silence.

“I don’t have any more relatives. I’d be—” Her voice broke.

Dovey went to the kitchen for a dish towel, set it on JJ’s knee. Waited. Started talking as JJ dried her face. “Gary’s being held at the jail here until fingerprints come back from Helena.”

“Fingerprints?” JJ asked. “Why? They took Jon away.”

“Jon told them about the marijuana, about the hiding places outside the trailer. The deputies collected several bags. It’s not usable evidence unless they tie the drugs to his prints.”

“Can I get him out on bail?”

“You have a deposit?”

“I have money in my college account.” She watched Dovey’s eyebrows lift, surprised that JJ had any money or maybe that she was planning on college.

“For Gary?” Dovey sounded like she disapproved.

“He’s not a bad person. He took care of us—me, Tina, Grace. The stuff with Jon was cruel and stupid but I don’t think he knows any better. What would you do with Jon?”

Good question. Dovey admitted she’d never seen anyone be able to direct or reason with the kid and make him mind. Said, as far as she could tell, Jon wasn’t exactly crazy. Probably a fetal alcohol kid, agitated, wild, whole nervous system irritated. She’d thought he needed one of those residential programs. Well, he’d get one now.

“He’s in Helena and the state will deal with him for the next few years. Tina’s detoxing in Missoula. My guess is she’s headed to permanent residential.”

“If I get the money, can you get Gary out?” JJ again.

“Maybe. Tomorrow afternoon,” Dovey said. “We have to think where you’re going to stay. You might be a ward of the court at this point.”

“Do Mick and I need a lawyer?”

“Sounds like Mick does.”

66

M
ICK IN COVERALLS
AND HAT
was anonymous if he stayed in the Bronco. At Skinny’s he did the drive-through. Fries and … a cup of water. Forgot. He put his last two dollars together with loose change from Gary’s ashtray and covered the bill. Maybe there was some canned food back at the garage.

He parked near the road under the Skinny’s sign where he could see both the drive-in and the street. He’d come and go for the next three hours. Odds were he’d see Tim cruising. What was there to do in July in Portage? Keg party at Taylor’s once a week over on West River or park-and-pussy at the overlook. Mick had no idea if Tim had a girl or girls. Probably. But sooner or later he’d come tooling down the main drag, more than likely pull into Skinny’s if it was still open.

He lowered the front windows and turned off the engine, wished he’d asked for salt and ketchup. A distant crackle of laughter got his attention and he scanned for the source. In the far corner of the lot shaded by large tamaracks, a knot of teenagers were circled around a black convertible and sitting in nearby pickup beds like an impromptu party. Tim’s Mustang was black. Mick wished he had binocs. He searched the console, looked in the rear seat on the off chance, but no luck.

He walked the long way back around the drive-through, moving slow like he was older and sore from a hard day’s work. Stopped behind a dumpster where he had a good look at the action. Mustang, all right, and Tim holding forth, telling some story, his arm around a girl that looked like the blond softball pitcher. Fifteen or twenty kids from the high school in hearing range. Mick recognized several, didn’t know names. He’d wait. Keep his distance. If Tim stayed with that girl, he’d have to take her home at some point. Her folks wouldn’t let an NCAA-class pitcher stay out all night. At least Mick didn’t think so.

*   *   *

The group kept its momentum till Skinny’s closed at eleven. The pickups left, ferrying people like open-air buses. Some cheerleader-types drove out in a big Lexus SUV full of giggling girlfriends, followed by the Mustang with Tim and the blonde. Mick tailed them to the river park where they got out and took a waterside bench, kissed and diddled for another hour. He was a few hundred yards behind when they returned all the way through town and took a right onto Blue Hills Road toward the country club. Mick stopped when they made a left onto Sylvan Circle. He set the straw hat in the seat, got out, waited for Cassel to finish his goodnighting and come back to the intersection.

*   *   *

“The hell do you want?” Not much of a greeting but at least he’d stopped, let his car idle in the street beside the Bronco.

Mick crossed in front of the car over to Tim’s side. “I want to explain how JJ got crossways with you and Edmonds.”

“There is no me and Edmonds!”

“I know.” Mick held his hands up like surrender. “I’ve told Paint and so has JJ.” Probably not true but it would be soon.

“Tell my dad, dickwad. He’s in my face every day and he doesn’t know shit.”

“I will. It was a mistake.”

Tim was staring a hole in Mick but at least he was listening.

“I’m sorry. Okay? Tell Cunneen and your stubby buddy to back off. We’re fixing it.”

“You tell him. The suck’s gone.”

“What…”

“Some scholarship. You believe a high school scholarship? Sports? Cunneen’ll be a senior. Yeah. He’s moved.” Tim was shaking his head. Looked like a mix of anger, disbelief, disappointment. He rammed the car in gear and spun around the corner, tires pelting Mick with gravel.

67

P
AINT WAS INSIDE
, sitting again. Rubbing his hands on his pants like something had gotten them dirty. “They found a car. Turned out to be the wrong one. Unlucky kid who was driving may have to have his pants dry-cleaned.”

Dovey smiled. JJ didn’t. What if they got her and didn’t realize she was the wrong one?

Dovey filled him in. “I told her about Gary and Tina. Puts her in a tough position. What do we do here?”

“We keep her out of Mackler’s hands.”

“I know, but what’s her status? Does Bolton determine that?”

Paint snorted. “You have a place to stay for a week or two while we sort this?” he asked JJ.

She shook her head, coughed to cover her mix of embarrassment and fear.

“What the hell? What do we have?” Paint to Dovey.

“Domestic violence shelter or the Methodist basement,” Dovey said. “Neither seems … how old are you?”

“Sophomore,” JJ said, not really lying, avoiding the question. She watched a look pass between the elders.

Turned out Dovey had an extra toothbrush to go with an extra bed. JJ didn’t mention her things were back at the garage. Wondered how Mick was doing. Tried to put it out of her mind.

*   *   *

JJ woke in the morning to the smell of coffee and cinnamon bread. Note on the table.
Meet at lunch—courthouse steps.

The shower felt great. JJ wolfed the bread and burned her mouth on the coffee. Couldn’t wait to get to the garage.

*   *   *

She noticed the Bronco had taken the Pontiac’s place parked at the far side. Good news. Dialed the combo lock and found Mick using a screwdriver to jimmy the locked metal cabinet. It wasn’t working. The look on his face when he saw her was worth burning her mouth twice over. He was glad to see her. She could tell. It was more than the smile. He’d missed her. Was that a first? Made her wish she had taken some time with her hair or face or something. She had no idea how she looked. Probably like a lumberjack.

“You have keys for this thing?” Mick rapped on the cabinet with his knuckles.

“No. What’re you looking for?”

“Rifle, handgun, bat. Anything that’ll even the odds when I find Larry Cassel.”

JJ watched his face. He was kidding, wasn’t he?

Mick didn’t smile.

“Gary had that rifle at the trailer.”

“The shotgun?”

“I guess so. Paint’s giving me the key this morning. I’ll look for it.”

“Want me to meet you there?”

“You’ll get caught.”

“No way. I found some scissors on the workbench. Help me cut my hair. Coveralls and this straw hat? Instant farmhand.”

JJ could picture it, thought it would work.

“I got to talk to my dad.”

“Why?” Didn’t sound like a good idea.

“I think I’m going to need his help.”

68

T
HE HAIRCUT MADE THE HAT FIT BETTER
, sit lower. Perfect disguise. Mick parked off Main beside the Conoco, watched for a couple of minutes to spot a stakeout. Didn’t see anything that made him suspicious. Walked behind the station around the fence that secured used tires, around the side of the garage where two cars sat waiting for repair. Guessed the owner was in the office with the cash register and phone.

Mick had time to think this through. Knew what he wanted to say. Approached his dad, who was over a fender, leaning into an engine compartment.

Fitz grunted, something gave, and he glanced up holding a rusty water pump. Didn’t seem surprised to see Mick. Set the pump on the floor and went back to work.

Mick came closer, close enough to talk, but not close enough to get hit by the closed-end wrench his dad was using. “I thought … we had to leave. Right then. Nothing to take but the Bonnie.” It was a poor start. Not the way he had planned.

Fitz ignored him.

“I’m sorry I took your car without telling you.”

Fitz swore at a belt that was in his way.

“You called Scott Cassel when you saw us last night. We don’t do that.”

That brought Fitz out of the engine compartment. “Are you nuts? Cassel thinks I could’ve killed that blond bitch. I wouldn’t call … Piss off.”

Mick thought about that. Who called if not his dad?… Went on. “I’m getting my stuff out of the studio.”

“It’s locked.”

That was a lie. Mick had never seen his dad lock a door. Always said: “Somebody wants in, they’ll get in, and then you got to replace the glass or frame.” If this kept going badly, there was a possibility Mick might not talk to his dad again. Was there anything else he needed to say? He wiped oily sweat from his forehead, remembered he hadn’t showered for days. “Uh, thanks for taking care of me all this time,” he said.