Cold Quarry (24 page)

“Isn’t that interesting?” I mumbled to myself.

None of the saved coordinates matched our current location. The closest, while also on Chester’s land, was more than a quarter of a mile away.

26

Bo Higgins was in the process of closing a deal on a nice late-model Dodge pickup when I showed up at his car lot. Through the glass I could see him sitting with a young Hispanic man and woman in one of the offices in back. The fire-engine-red truck had been shined and detailed and was parked by the door to catch every possible gleaming ray of the sun.

The car-lot owner shot me a cold stare, which might have had something to do with my attire: a black ski mask I’d slipped over my head as I’d driven onto his lot. I’d also driven Betty’s Buick instead of my truck and swapped out her plates with a set of expired North Carolina ones I kept bolted to the inside of my truck’s bumper for such occasions, just in case Grooms had decided to put out that APB after all. The ATF agent’s mood hadn’t improved much when I’d called back to give him the coordinates of the small cave.

Another foray to the Connors bungalow on Chandler Road had yielded no sign of either brother. For all I knew, maybe they’d ended up like Chester, and Gwen Hallston, and Dr. Winston. I had considered slipping the back door lock and letting myself in the house, but since it was broad daylight the last thing I needed right now was a neighbor calling in to report me for a B&E.

Higgins was still staring at me. He didn’t move, maybe hoping his customers wouldn’t notice. I stepped across the showroom and climbed inside the unlocked Bel Air. Higgins stood up for a moment, but apparently changed his mind. He sat down again and went back to the business of obtaining the necessary signatures from his customers.

The car was a two-tone two-door hardtop. Tropical turquoise under arctic white. Original everything too, from what I could tell. Dual exhausts. Four barrel three forty-eight V-8. You could bury the speedometer at 120 and still have some jambalayas left. I could almost hear Chubby Checker shouting through the silent radio.

I wondered how Higgins’s clients might feel if they knew about his little sideline as commander of the Stonewall Rangers Brigade, if they might check out the odometer on that new vehicle of theirs a little more closely. Even white supremacist leaders have to make a living, I suppose.

“Help you?”

I turned to see a bald, muscle-bound man of about my age with gold-capped teeth, narrow deep-set eyes, and a small swastika tattooed on the side of his neck. He was packed into a dark tank top and blue jeans that looked like they were about a size and a half too small. No bone lay clenched between his teeth or anything, but give it time.

The window was half open. I rolled it the rest of the way down. “I’m here to see Higgins,” I said.

“You’re dressed like an asshole.” He folded his arms across his chest.

I shrugged. “I just figured this was the right uniform for all good Stonewall Rangers.”

“You’re full of shit is what you are,” he said under his breath, shaking his head. “What do you want to see Higgins about?”

“Looking for a new sports car. Lamborghini,” I said.

“Listen up, smart mouth, Mr. Higgins is in the middle of something right now. So maybe you ought to pack your tail on down the street to somewhere else.”

“Did you just grow on a tree around here or are you the product of some sort of chemical experimentation gone awry?”

“Say what?”

“It’s okay, Wayne.” Higgins was emerging from the office, the man and woman trailing behind him. “I’ll deal with him.”

Baldy worked his jaw around in a circle as if he’d lost his chewing tobacco in there somewhere then disappeared out the side door without a word.

Higgins turned to the couple. “Keys are in the ignition, folks. You need me to answer any more questions or go over anything on the truck, just give me a call.”

The man and the woman stared at me for a moment, then thanked him and shook his hand. They went out and climbed into the Dodge’s cab. They started the engine, took a few seconds to get charged up on a few more whiffs of that new-car-smelling aerosol Higgins had probably sprayed throughout the cabin, then drove the truck off the lot.

“Nothing like free enterprise,” I said.

Higgins turned and glared at me. His face twisted a little in recognition. “Aren’t you … ?”

I held up my finger to my mouth to shush him. “Come on, Bo. Climb in here on the other side where we can talk.”

He went around to the other side, opened the door and climbed in, closing it behind him with a hollow thud. Nothing like the sound of that big fifties chrome and steel. I rolled up my window.

“Where’s your friend Toronto this morning?” he asked.

“Off on other business,” I lied.

“Uh-huh. So what, you just decided you’d come harass me by yourself?”

“Close. I’ve just come from Chester Carew’s land, not too far from where he was shot to death. Found some interesting evidence in a cave up there. Called the authorities and sent them up there to check it out.”

“Cave? I don’t know anything about any cave,” he said.

“I know you don’t. You don’t know who shot Chester either, do you?”

He leaned back in the seat, blew out a breath, and examined me with reptilian eyes. “What are you hustling, friend?”

“The cops are looking for me,” I said. “They think I might’ve done it.”

“Yeah?”

I couldn’t quite tell whether he bought it or not, but his posture seemed to slacken a little.

“Heard you were up there at the bombing the other night too.”

I nodded.

He scanned the windows of the showroom. “Then if you know I didn’t shoot anybody, what the fuck are you doing bringing heat down on me and mine for?”

He already had a lot more heat than he realized, but it wasn’t going to be my job, of course, to illuminate him about it.

“Toronto knows somebody you might be doing some business with.”

He sniffed loudly. “Is that so?”

“I just wondered if maybe you could put me in touch with the same person.”

“Really? Who says you even know what you’re talking about?”

I shrugged.

“How does Toronto claim he knows him?”

“Apparently they’ve done business in the past.”

“Uh-huh.” He stared out the window. “I don’t like the fact you suddenly claim to know so much about my business.”

“Word gets around. What can I say?”

“Word gets you killed too.”

I stared at him and smiled, feeling the weight of my backup handgun, a Kahr MK9, inside my jacket, hoping I wouldn’t have to use it.

“Sheriff’s deputy came around here earlier this morning,” he said. “He was asking a lot of questions about some veterinarian who got shot up last night.”

I didn’t like the way the tone of his voice seemed to be modulating. “Nolestar?” I asked.

“You’re a goddamn liar, Pavlicek. Probably some kind of nigger lover. Your buddy Toronto’s on ice in the Charleston city jail.”

I held up my hands in resignation. “It was worth a try, wasn’t it?”

“Look, buddy.” He reached for the handle on his door. “Get yourself the hell out of here before I really begin to get aggravated.”

The MK9 slid easily from its shoulder holster as I put a hand out to stop him. “Look,
buddy.
All I need is a face. A name.”

He eyed the weapon nestled between my fingers. “You know who Tony Warnock is, right? You’ve been talking to him.”

“I know who he is.”

“Tony’s got more details about who we do business with. He lives in South Hills. Why don’t you meet me over at his house later on this evening?”

“Right. So you and your goon army can snuff me out.”

“On the level, Frank. None of the rest of my people. No cops. No Feds. No wires.” He looked around at his showroom windows again as if he knew he were being watched.

It was a trap, of course. But if I was going to vindicate Toronto and find out what was really going on before the Feds sprang their sting, I just might have to walk into it.

“What time?” I asked.

“Does nine o’clock sound good to you?”

I didn’t answer right away. “All right,” I said finally. I slid the gun back inside my jacket but still kept my hand on it, like a man holding his broken arm in a sling.

“Great. Now get out of here,” he said, shrugging off my grip and turning the handle to push open his door. He climbed out and stood there looking down at me. “And take that fucking mask off your face before somebody else starts calling down the cops again.”

Time to take my leave. I sighed, pushing open my own door with my free hand, and began to slide out from behind the steering column. Man, how I hated to have to leave those wheels behind.

27

Climbing the dirt road to Felipe Baldovino’s mountaintop cabin in Betty Carew’s Buick wasn’t anywhere near as easy as it had been the morning before in my truck. For the FBI or anybody else to have come all the way up here in search of evidence must have taken some kind of planning, not to mention information intelligence.

Felipe’s Tahoe was still in the driveway beside the house, but instead of the Suburban Toronto had been driving, this time it was flanked by Damon Farraday’s old Scout.

Wondering what he might be doing here, I gave the horn a quick honk as I crossed the six-inch hay field that passed for a front lawn, just to let anyone who was inside know I was coming, although I realized that probably wouldn’t be necessary. The occupant or occupants most likely would have been able to hear me coming up the mountain long before I actually reached the place.

Felipe stepped out onto the porch as I brought the car to a halt, cut the engine, and climbed out. He appeared to be alone.

I climbed the rickety steps and shook his outstretched weathered hand.

“Frank, good to see you. Where’s Jake?”

“He and I had what you might term a tête-à-tête with the FBI last night and they decided they’d like him to keep them company for a while.”

“Oh, Jesus.” His touched his forehead momentarily before reaching out to the railing to steady himself.

“You all right, old man?”

“I’m okay … I’m okay. I didn’t think it would come to this.”

It
would come to this? He still seemed wobbly so I took hold of his arm. He leaned heavily on me.

“Isn’t that Damon Farraday’s Scout?” I asked.

“Yeah. Sure is.”

“What’s he doing way up here?”

“Came up with that bird of his to do some hunting a couple of hours ago. He’s been up here a few times before. They went away over the edge of the ridge and I haven’t seen them since. But I expect he’ll be headed back this way before too long.”

The wind blew a cold swirl up the mountain and it swept across the porch. Felipe wore nothing but faded jeans and a T-shirt covered by a tattered bathrobe. His hair was greasy and disheveled and he smelled of stale bourbon.

“Why don’t we get you inside?” I said.

He nodded.

I helped him back across the threshold. Inside there was only one large living space that served as living room, kitchen, and dining room rolled into one. Two small bedrooms and a bath were connected off the back of the cabin. The whole place was warmed by nothing but a woodstove.

“You want to sit down?” I asked.

“That would be good.” We moved together toward the wall, where he sat down heavily in a recliner between the stove and a nineteen-inch color television that looked like it had been propped temporarily on a couple of weathered crates, which then by default had become part of the permanent decor. There was a walker with a cane leaning against it propped beside the chair.

I smelled coffee and looked around at the kitchen area. “Can I find you something to eat? You had breakfast?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Too early for me. If it weren’t for that Farraday character showing up I’d have stayed in bed.”

“I heard you had visitors after Jake and I left yesterday too.”

“Oh, you know about that, do you?”

I nodded.

“Bastards. Comin’ up here in those vans with the dark windows. Acted like the damned secret police or something.” He sighed heavily, his oversized gut pulling down his skinny arms and shoulders. “I suppose you came because of the rifle they took.”

“That, and to find out what else you know.”

“What else I know.” He laughed, but it turned into a dry hacking cough. For a moment he seemed to have difficulty catching his breath. After a few seconds I stood, but he raised his hand to stop me. A couple more coughs and he was able to breathe.

“Would you like a glass of water?”

“Sure.” His voice cracked like dry sandpaper.

I went to the sink across the room, found a clean glass on the shelf above and filled it with cold water from the tap. I brought it back over and handed it to him. He took a long sip.

“Best damned water on the planet,” he said. “Right out of my own well.”

I waited.

“Okay, let’s see. You were asking what I know. One thing I’ll say, just like I told those FBI bastards, is that I’m a proud father. I don’t care what happens. Jake and me, well … you know how he found me and all, and it sure as hell wasn’t like I was deserving of it or anything. But that Jake, he’s relentless when he puts his mind to something … but I guess you must know all that.”

I said I did.

“There’s something going on here,” he said, “and it’s got something to do with Jake’s work.”

“His work?”

“Yeah, you know. That security business and stuff. People he goes to work for—clients I suppose you’d call them.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Yesterday before you got here, Jake gave me a piece of paper with a phone number on it. He said you fellas still didn’t know who shot Chester or why, but he had a pretty good idea that you and he were going to find out for sure, and he said that if anything happened, like you or he got into trouble with the police or something, I should find a telephone, preferably a pay phone, and call this number. He said a man would answer and I should give him a message.”