A Stranger Lies There (12 page)

“They didn't see or hear anything. Said they were real tired and slept from earlier tonight until now. I got their names if we need them later.”

“Good enough,” Regan responded, then turned to me. “Now how did you come to be in possession of that gun?”

I told him why I'd come out here, and about going into the room. Roy listened to the story while Regan wrote everything down.

“You shoulda just called the police,” Regan said.

“I wasn't sure this place was even related to the murder. It was just a matchbook.”

Regan shook his head. “You knew it could be important, or you wouldn't have come out here,” he said. “You still have it?”

I pulled it out of my pocket, and Regan took it by the edges and put it in my car.

“There was something I wanted to tell you,” I said to him when he came back.

“I'm all ears.”

“My name was marked in the phone book in room twelve. Someone was looking for me or my wife. I think it was the kid who ended up dead on my lawn.”

“How would you know that?” Regan asked.

I looked at Sutter, who was absorbing all this silently.

He shrugged. “May be the same guy. Young. Rented the room Saturday night.” Then Sutter turned to me. “But what time did you find his body?”

“Right after six, Sunday morning. Why?”

He shook his head emphatically. “Couldn't have been him then.”

“Why not?” Regan and I asked simultaneously.

“'Cause he rang my doorbell Sunday morning asking for the duplicate key. Said he lost the first one. It was definitely after six o'clock.”

There went my whole theory.

“You get his name on the register?” Regan asked.

“Yeah. But it doesn't help us now. Guy who hit me ripped the pages out of the book. No record of the last few days.”

“Did your tenant say what happened to the first key?” I asked Sutter, still stunned at his revelation.

“No, and I didn't ask. I did tell him I'd have to charge him for a replacement though. He threw a five on the counter, which more than covered it. Then he took the second key and I haven't seen him since. Kinda seemed in a hurry.”

“He checked out?” Regan asked.

“Well, not formally. Didn't say he was, anyway.”

“You been in the room since he left?”

Sutter shook his head. “No. The deposit covers three nights. He didn't ask for it back, so I assumed he was still here.”

“Who cleans the rooms?” Regan asked.

“I do.” Sutter shrugged. “Probably not as often as I should.”

Regan thought for a moment. “The key that guy used tonight was probably the one your tenant lost. It all fits.”

“Except he wasn't the victim on my lawn,” I said. An earlier thought resurfaced. The victim could not have come to my house alone, since his car wasn't found. Unless the killer, maybe with the help of an accomplice, took it.

“We'll get to that later. Hopefully, there's something in the room that'll help. Let's get back to tonight. You were in there yourself.”

“Right.” I told him about the diary I'd found. Then how I'd lost it during the break-in and gone after the man.

“And you're positive it was the same person that assaulted Mr. Sutter?” Regan asked.

“Absolutely. Tall white guy with short reddish hair. Leather jacket and jeans.”

Regan looked to Sutter for confirmation.

“That's him,” Sutter agreed.

“Where did your windows get shot out?” Regan asked me.

“Out in Coachella, off Avenue 50. I could show you.”

“Let's go.” He turned to Roy. “Bring Palm Springs up to speed when they get here.” Then to the other two officers, who'd finished with the crime scene tape: “You guys follow us. We may have some evidence out there.”

I followed Regan to his patrol car, a little worried. Deirdre should have arrived by now; it had been a good forty minutes since I'd spoken to her on the phone. But I decided not to say anything—she'd probably be here when Regan and I returned to the motel. Maybe she had to stop for gas or something; she wasn't the type to get lost.

“Buckle up,” Regan told me when I got in the car.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The drive over was anticlimactic after the high-adrenaline car chase a few hours ago. The empty streets seemed static and one-dimensional, like partially developed photos. As we moved through the becalmed city toward the highway, I tried not to think about Deirdre's no-show, or the possible identities of the young motel guest and the intruder.

But Regan wouldn't let me relax.

“You know, what you did tonight can be a pretty serious crime. Involving yourself like that, there's no telling what could happen.”

“And Sutter could still be tied up in that office with tape over his mouth,” I replied in my own defense. “He wasn't doing so well when I found him.”

Regan nodded. “I'm not inclined to take you into custody, although I do have grounds to arrest you for interfering. Or trespassing for that matter. But I don't think Sutter would press charges.”

“Thanks,” I said, meaning it. He seemed to be a stand-up guy, a good cop and a fair man. “I appreciate it.”

“Of course, I can't guarantee what Palm Springs will do if this turns into their case. They could see it a different way.”

You don't know the half of it.

“There's something I didn't get a chance to tell you back there,” I said, and waited while Regan sped up the highway on-ramp. “Somebody else may be involved in all this.”

Regan gave me a quizzical look. “Who?”

“His name is Glenn Turret. He just got out of prison last week. I used to know him.”

Regan had no idea of the background on this, it hadn't appeared in the papers yet. That would change tomorrow, I thought, remembering that reporter on our doorstep tonight.

“Used to?”

“It was a long time ago. Over thirty years.”

“What makes you think he has anything to do with it?”

“The guy I fought with tonight told me.”

Regan looked at me with disbelief. “You had a conversation with him? In the middle of a fight?”

“He fell backwards when came I out of the closet and I ended up on top of him. I had him pinned under me on the bed.” Regan raised his eyebrows further, and we both chuckled. “And I hadn't even bought him dinner.”

When we were done laughing, I continued. “Anyway, part of the closet door had come with me, and I used one of the broken slats on his neck. I was scared. I let him up for a little air and took a shot in the dark—asked him if he knew Turret. He admitted it.” I thought about it. “I don't know. Maybe he was lying.”

“Who is this Turret? And what made you ask that guy about him?”

I hesitated, reluctant to get into my criminal past. “You'll probably read about it in tomorrow's paper.”

“Tell me about it.”

Halfway through the short version, the turnoff for Avenue 50 came up. “Here it is.”

Regan slowed down. “Which way?”

“Left.”

We went over the median, stopped at the stop sign, then proceeded over the northbound lanes to Tyler.

“Take a right,” I told him. “Just beyond the bend up here.”

The other patrol car was still behind us as we followed the sharp curve in the road, which I'd shot through practically on two wheels a few hours earlier. A few miles away, the Mecca Hills looked destitute and ghostly in the pale moonlight that fell on this rural part of the valley. The radio towers on our left continued their solitary rhythm, red warning lights pulsing a perpetual heartbeat. The field I'd been forced into was now quiet and dark, and I could barely make out where my tires had dug into the dirt shoulder. Sprinkles of window glass sparkled like diamonds on the ground there.

“That's where my windows got shot out.”

Regan slowed down and looked. “Where was he?”

“Farther down,” I said, pointing ahead.

He crept up a few hundred feet.

“There,” I said, making out some tire marks in the dirt by the side of the road.

Regan stopped and left the engine idling. “So how did it go down?”

“I was a few hundred yards away when I first saw him here,” I began, before being interrupted by one of the officers from the vehicle behind us, who'd walked up to the car.

“What's going on?” he asked when Regan rolled his window down.

“See the disturbance there?”

The officer turned around and looked. “Yeah.”

“Drive up fifty feet or so and block off that shoulder. I don't want anyone driving through there. If we're lucky the shooter left shell casings or something.”

“Right,” he replied, and went back to his car.

“You came speeding down this road after him and he took out your windows when you got close?”

“Yeah, you saw where he got me. I wasn't sure it was him until I was practically on top of him. I swerved off the road and into the field.” The patrol car behind us rolled past, lights flashing. We watched it nose diagonally onto the far shoulder, its back end partly in the roadway ahead.

“And then what?”

“He took off.”

“Just like that? He didn't come after you?”

“I know, I was surprised too. I would have been easy pickings—my car stalled just off the road. Although I did have his gun.”

“Probably what saved you.”

That and those farmworkers. But I'd keep them out of this if I could. “Could be,” I agreed. “Or he'd accomplished what he wanted to by getting me off his tail.”

“Let's take a walk back there,” Regan suggested. He put the car in park but left the lights on and the engine running. He got out, pulling his flashlight from his belt, and I followed him. We stopped at the edge of the pavement. Regan squatted on his heels, pointed his flashlight. The light played over the skid marks I'd left behind and the scattered particles of glass in the dirt, turning the ground at our feet into a shimmering carpet.

The beam followed the tire tracks into the field. Then Regan stood up, looking into the distance and surveying the area. He stopped when he saw the house, now quiet but still illuminated by security lamps, then moved on. Apparently, he thought it was too far away for any useful witnesses. That was fine with me.

“How did you get out of there?”

I shrugged like it was no big deal. “Put it in reverse and backed out the same way I came in.” A complete lie, but the simple ones work best.

He seemed satisfied with that, and we walked back to his car. Regan got on the radio and told the dispatcher exactly where we were. Then he backed up to a spot near where I'd gone off the road, marking and securing the area until the detectives arrived. I could hardly wait. Branson was sure to be among them.

As if in response to that thought, two vehicles, one of them a black and white, the other a nondescript four-door sedan, exited the highway and sped toward us. Headlights on high-beam but no sirens or emergency flashers. They pulled up on the shoulder behind Regan's car in a cloud of dust. He approached the lead vehicle, the sedan, and stooped to confer with the driver. I couldn't hear what he said, but saw him point to the other patrol car parked on the opposite shoulder, say a few words, then look up at me, nodding in response to something the driver said.

One of the two officers who'd followed us out here came up and stood beside me. A few yards away, Regan straightened, allowing the driver of the sedan to get out. As I'd expected, it was Branson. The two uniforms in the black and white followed suit: Palm Springs PD, not Indio.

“Been a long night, hasn't it?” the officer standing next to me said as Regan approached us. Branson and the other two hung back, watching.

“The detective from Palm Springs is here and he's not real happy,” Regan informed me. “He wants to talk.”

“I'll bet.”

I started toward the sedan. Branson leaned against the hood, arms folded on his chest. He was chewing gum, his jaw working up and down vigorously as he watched me approach.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” was the first thing out of Branson's mouth when I stopped in front of him. The two officers he'd brought with him stood off to the side.

“I don't know what came over me,” I said, as Branson got off the car.

“Don't give me any bullshit on this, Ryder,” he shot back, throwing spit. “Jesus Christ, I get rousted out of bed at one in the morning 'cause some idiot wants to play cowboy! This is a police investigation, for Chrissake! You think you can just waltz in any time you feel like it?”

I kept quiet.

“What's the matter? No smart-mouth comments tonight?”

“Look. I shouldn't have said what I said the other day. I apologize.”

“Too late for that, Ryder,” Branson said. He spat his gum on the ground, ticked off.

“You're going in. See how much of a wise-ass you are in jail.” He turned to the two officers. “Read him his rights guys. Interfering in a police investigation.” Then he turned back to me. “I'll deal with you in the morning, after you've spent a few hours in the can. And you better hope I don't find your prints on that gun.” He strode off in an angry huff, finished with me for now.

“I need to talk to my wife,” I called out after him as the cuffs were being snapped on my wrists.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Did you guys happen to notice if there was a woman at the motel?” I asked from the back seat of the police car. “My wife was supposed to be there and I'm kind of worried about her.”

No response. Both officers just stared straight ahead after a quick glance to each other at my question. My hands were twisted awkwardly behind me in the cuffs. The seatbelt shoulder strap cut tightly across my chest. I couldn't get physically comfortable in that position; leaning back was impossible because of the cuffs, and the seat had no cushions—it was merely hard molded plastic, unyielding as a park bench. No accommodation was made for the comfort of anyone unlucky or foolish enough to be riding back here, and I considered myself a little of both.