The Never-Open Desert Diner (22 page)

Without much enthusiasm, I said, “I guess I'll trust the system then.”

“Not the system, Ben. God.”

“Okay,” I said, knowing I had no choice. But I couldn't help remembering that advice hadn't worked out so well for Jesus.

A
ndy followed me through the side entrance down a narrow corridor lined with red brick and cops without pastries. They seemed to be licking their fingers all the same.

I went through the metal detector, followed by the wand, and then the pat-down followed by the wand again. They weren't taking any chances with a desperado like me. The fact that I didn't set off any buzzers seemed to disappoint the crowd. Near as I could tell, there were deputies from two counties, a handful of Price officers, and a couple of Utah troopers, one still dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, as if he had been yanked off his sofa at home. His badge was pinned to his shirt.

Andy opened a metal door stenciled with a black 1. It struck me as a bit odd. I knew for certain there wasn't a 2 or a 3. He pointed to a metal chair, one of two, at one end of a metal table, one of one.

“Take a seat, Mr. Jones.” I was Mr. Jones again, and Andy was Trooper Smith.

There wasn't a one-way mirror. Law enforcement had gone high tech. The black marble lenses of two cameras rested discreetly at opposite corners near the low ceiling of the tiny room. I sat down. Experience had taught me that no matter how big a hurry cops were to bring you in, once you got there you were in for a wait. It was an opportunity to ferment your misdeeds and let the little bubbles of fear rise to the surface. The hope was you'd pop like a champagne cork at the first question.

I rested my forearms on the cold table, folded my hands, closed my eyes, and climbed the hill above Desert Home. I saw Claire on her porch. She was waving good-bye to a man I had never met and, if my luck held, never would. He got into the compact SUV I'd seen earlier and prepared to leave with the only thing he cared about
—
the cello. It was as satisfying a daydream as I have ever had. I was startled when I heard his car door slam shut behind me
—
it was the door to the interrogation room. I kept my eyes closed.

The legs of the metal chair across from me screeched against the floor. Something large and soft landed on the table, probably a file. I smelled Right Guard deodorant and sweet tobacco. A man sat down and made himself comfortable. He stared quietly at my closed eyes. Another man stood behind me near the door.

After a while the man grew impatient watching my eyelids. “Do you play a musical instrument, Mr. Jones?”

Without opening my eyes, I said, “I'd have to say no. Though I confess I've played my own flute.”

The man at the door stifled a hitch of laughter. A look passed between the two men. I felt it graze the side of my head. It was that kind of look.

The man at the door said, “Give this man your attention, Ben.”

The man wasn't Andy. It was a familiar voice I couldn't place. He knew me well enough to call me by my first name, and he wasn't bothered by the informality. I let my eyelids drift slowly up to reveal the man in front of me one slice at a time. He wore a brown tweed jacket that was too small for him, a white shirt, and a red knit tie that strangled a thick neck. His thinning gray hair and the round rimless glasses he wore were out of place on such a large body. Even his mustache and goatee seemed too small for him. He looked like a retired NFL lineman who had awakened one day to find himself an overweight high school math teacher. He offered me his hand. “My name is Ralph Welper. My friends call me Doc.”

We'd never met, but I knew who he was from Ginny's description. I ignored his hand. “Let's give it a few minutes,” I said. “Maybe I'll come up with a name that better suits you.”

I glanced over my shoulder to the man at the door. It had been a long time since I had last seen him. “Hello, Coach,” I said, almost happy to see him. “Under the circumstances, should I call you Captain?”

“I always preferred Coach,” he answered. “You don't have to address me at all. Just direct your responses to Mr. Welper. I'm only here as a kind of chaperone.”

“For him or me?” I asked.

In addition to being in the Utah Highway Patrol, Dunphy had been my high school baseball coach. Usually teachers doubled as coaches. He was the exception. He had been an all-American in college, pitching for Brigham Young, followed by a year in the minors.

While I spent twenty years driving 117, Coach Dunphy had been transferred all over Utah as he moved up the ranks. I'd heard he'd made captain. At over six feet, he was still every bit of the lanky kid who at one time had the eleventh fastest pitch in the American League. He was casually leaning with his back against the closed door. His gun-blue uniform fit like a tailored suit. He didn't answer my question, not that I expected that he would.

Dunphy instructed me to take the man's hand.

I complied. Briefly.

Welper said, “I wasn't aware that you two were acquainted.” He was genial enough, but obviously bothered by the connection. “As pleased as I am to be the cause of your little reunion, I'd like to get down to business.”

“That's fine,” I said. “Can I ask you a question first?”

He nodded, eager to have the conversation under way.

“Is there a young kid, a teenage girl, or maybe a boy, in your neighborhood? Someone you're friendly with?” He was obviously surprised at my question. He shrugged. “Sure, a couple of them, I guess. Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering if you were screwing one of them? How would you feel about me asking one of them if you were?”

Captain Dunphy barked my name in rebuke. Mr. Welper held up his hand to reassure the captain. He removed his round glasses and set them on the file folder between us. He knew I was referring to his conversation with Ginny. “I wouldn't like it one damn bit,” he said. “But if doing so was part of your job, I'd understand it.”

I turned toward the captain. “Why don't we ask Captain Dunphy what part of your job calls for talking to a pregnant teenage girl the way you did?” Welper didn't like the way our conversation was going. The captain shifted his weight against the door and said nothing. My guess was Dunphy didn't know of Welper's conversation with Ginny. He might not have cared even if he had known. I liked to think he might.

Welper apologized, except there wasn't any apology in it. He opened the file and skimmed the contents of the top page. When he was done he made a point of letting me know he was doing an inventory of bruises and scabs on my face. “It seems you have a taste for violence, Mr. Jones. Several years ago you shot and almost killed a man.”

“I shot him with his own gun. He was trying to rob me.”

“Understandable. Did you think you missed him with the first three shots?”

I didn't answer.

“And the drunk and disorderlies here?”

“That was a long time ago,” I answered. “In my own defense I admit I was drunk. I wasn't all that disorderly. It's a fine distinction cops don't always appreciate.”

“What about the man you beat so badly he took his meals through a straw for six months? Was he trying to rob you?”

“No,” I said. “I objected to his sense of humor. Like I said, I was younger then. I'd probably object differently these days. Maybe not. The point is, those charges never came to much. Simple assault. Time served. Ten days if I remember right.”

“I'm curious,” he said. “Seems like an extreme reaction to what it says here was just a joke.”

“Depends on the joke,” I said.

Captain Dunphy pushed himself away from the door and walked quickly to the table. He leaned on his hands between us. “I'll tell it just like Ben heard it. Then you decide, Mr. Welper. Then I'll expect you to move on.

“One night in a bar a forty-year-old roughneck learns that Ben here is an orphan, maybe half Indian and half Jewish. He says he heard a joke that reminded him of Ben. A boy goes home to his mother and father. His mother is Jewish and his father is African American, though that isn't the word he used. The boy says he has a problem. He wants to buy a neighbor kid's bicycle. The parents ask him what the problem is. The boy says since he's half Jew and half black he can't decide whether to Jew the kid down or just steal the motherfucker. The roughneck says to Ben, ‘Since you're an Indian, what would you do, chief? Jew him down or just get drunk and forget about it?' ”

Welper stared at me. I imagined a window behind him.

“What's the matter, Mr. Welper?” Dunphy asked. “You're not laughing. Neither did the judge, who, by the way, was Jewish. The charges were reduced. The judge made Ben promise to control his temper and his drinking. To my knowledge he's made good on both.”

Welper pushed himself away from the table. “Mr. Jones's face tells a different story,” he said. “I need a word alone with you, Captain,” he said.

When Welper had left the room, I said to Dunphy, “Walt Butterfield.”

The captain nodded. “I know. Trooper Smith told me.” Keeping his voice low, he said, “I'm going out in the hall to have a word with Mr. Welper. When we come back in you both better have a change of attitude. I don't like him or the way he operates. To answer your question, I'd say I'm here as much for you as him. If I were you, I wouldn't count too much on the past. Mr. Welper doesn't know God, but he has friends who do. Together they got the old man out of bed for this one.”

I thought about Andy's advice. I had to trust someone. Captain Dunphy wasn't God, but for someone in my position he was close enough. I wouldn't argue the point. “Why am I here?”

“That's a good question. Welper has a good answer. Or thinks he does. If he doesn't tell you, I sure as hell will. I don't give a shit. I'm forty-one days away from retirement. They can all kiss my Jack Mormon ass. I just hope you haven't done anything stupid, Ben.” He left the room.

A few minutes later they returned. Welper slid a glossy eight-by-ten photograph toward me. “You know that man?”

“Yes,” I said. It was a photo of Josh Arrons. He was in a workshop of some kind. Several parts of cellos and violins were suspended from the wall behind him. I thought of Claire waiting for me and forced myself to perk up for Welper's benefit. I hadn't been the valedictorian of my high school class, but I tried to put the same tone of exuberant innocence into my answer. “He's a reality television producer.”

“That's what he told you. I'm an insurance investigator. The truth is, he is working with me. Or was. My company insures the most valuable cello in the world. That cello is missing.”

“Damn,” I said, ignoring the news that Josh wasn't who he said he was. “What's the most valuable cello in the world worth?”

“You already know that, Mr. Jones. In the neighborhood of twenty million dollars.”

“What makes you think I know anything about a twenty-million-dollar cello?”

He shot me a self-satisfied smirk. He couldn't wait to tell me how smart he was. “Not long after the cello disappeared
—
stolen, really
—
my company put up a website. Innocuous appearing. It was a long shot. You spent two minutes and thirty-six seconds on the Internet reading about that cello. Our IT people were tracing your computer through its IP address. There were a few other hits on the site. None for longer than a minute. But you, Mr. Jones, you rang all the bells. The woman who stole the cello took a flight from New York to Denver. She didn't rent a car or take public transportation. Someone picked her up at the airport. The surveillance cameras at the airport lost her. Colorado borders Utah.”

“The cameras lost a woman with a cello in the airport? You'd think a woman with a cello would have been easy to track.”

“She didn't have the cello with her. And she didn't check it. I wish she had. Suppose you tell me why a high-school-educated truck driver, and occasional self-taught flute player, was on his employer's computer researching rare cellos at five in the morning? A computer he uses maybe twice a year to check billing and weather? And why he lied when his boss asked him about it?”