Blood Hunt (7 page)

They sat in a bar two blocks from the funeral parlor, and Reeve told Cantona what McCluskey had told him—how suicides like to make a break.

“If he was going to commit suicide, he wouldn’t‘ve wanted to do it in your car,” Reeve said.

“Well, all I know is, he didn’t kill himself.” Cantona shot back his second Jose Cuervo Gold and sipped from his iced glass of beer.

Reeve nursed his orange juice. “Have you talked to the police?”

“Sure, soon as I heard about it on the news. That fellow you were with, McCluskey, he took a sort of statement from me. Leastways, he listened to what I had to say. Then he said I could go, and that was the end of it, haven’t heard from the police since. Tried phoning a couple of times, but I never catch him.”

“Did my brother ever tell you what he was working on?”

Cantona shrugged his huge rounded shoulders. “Talked about a lot of things, but not much about that. Usually when he was talking he was drunk, which meant I was drunk, too, so maybe he did talk about his work and I just didn’t take it in. I know it was to do with chemicals.”

“Chemicals?”

“There’s a company out here called CWC, stands for Co-World Chemicals. It was to do with them. I drove Jim out to talk to someone who used to work there, a scientist sort of guy. But he wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t let Jim over the door. Second time we tried, the guy wasn’t at home. On vacation or something.”

“Where else did you take him?”

“Well, there was another scientist, only this one wasn’t retired. But he wasn’t talking either. Then I used to take him to the library downtown, that’s where he’d do his research. You know, take notes, all that.”

“He took notes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You saw his notebooks?”

Cantona shook his head. “Didn’t have anything like that. Had a little computer, used to fold open, with a little bitty screen and all. He’d put these disks in there, and he was all set.”

Reeve nodded. Now the cable made sense: it was to recharge the battery on the computer. But there was no computer, and no disks. He ordered another round and went to use the telephone next to the toilets.

“Detective McCluskey please.” His call was put through.

“McCluskey here.” The voice sounded like it was stifling a yawn.

“It’s Gordon Reeve. I’ve been talking with Eddie Cantona.”

“Oh, yeah, him.” There was a pause while the detective slurped coffee. “I meant to tell you about him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“You want the truth? I didn’t know how you’d feel finding out your brother had spent his last few days on earth rattling around every seedy joint in San Diego with a bum at the steer-ing wheel.”

“I appreciate your candor.” A rustling noise now; a paper bag being opened. “And I apologize for disturbing your breakfast.”

“I had a late night; it’s no problem.”

“Mr. Cantona says my brother had a laptop computer and some disks.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“The cable in his room was an adapter so he could charge the battery.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Am I boring you?”

McCluskey swallowed. “Sorry, no. It’s just, like, what do you want me to say? I know what that old bum thinks; he says your brother was killed. And now he’s got you listening to his story… and would I be right in thinking you’re calling from the pay phone in a bar?”

Reeve smiled. “Good detective work.”

“Easy detective work. And would I further be right in thinking you’ve already laid a few drinks on Mr. Cantona? See, Gordon, he’ll tell you any damned story he can come up with if it keeps a glass of hooch in front of him. He’ll tell you your brother met Elvis and they rode off together in a pink Cadillac.”

“You sound like you know something about that state of mind.”

“Maybe I do. I don’t mean any disrespect, but that’s how I see it. There’s no secret here; there’s no cover-up or conspiracy or whatever you want to call it. There’s just a guy who gets tired of it all one day, so he tidies up his life and gets himself a gun. And he does it in private, away from family and friends, and doesn’t leave a note. It’s a tidy way to go.”

“Unless you’re the hire company with a car that needs cleaning.”

“Yeah, agreed, but those fuckers can afford it.”

“All right, McCluskey. Thanks for listening.”

“Name’s Mike. Let’s talk again before you leave, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And don’t go buying Mr. Cantona too many more drinks, not if he’s driving.”

Detective Mike McCluskey put down the receiver and finished his pastry, washing it down as best he could with the scalding liquid that passed for coffee from the vending machine down the hall. While he chewed, he stared at the telephone, and after he’d swallowed the last mouthful, he tossed the paper bag into the trash (making eight first attempts out of ten for the week, which was not bad), then reached again for his phone, checking first that there was no one in earshot.

“Fucking Cantona,” he snarled, trying to recall the number.

Back in the bar, Reeve sat on his stool and took a mouthful of orange juice. He studied Eddie Cantona, who was studying the cocktail menu and looking like he was settling in for the day. Yes, Eddie looked like a boozer, but not a liar. But then a lot of people were real pros when it came to lying. Reeve knew; he was one of them. He’d had to lie to a lot of people about his real position in the army; he never said SAS or Special Forces, not even to other army careerists. He kept his mouth shut when he could, and lied when he couldn’t. Lying was easy, you just said you were in the regiment you’d been in before you joined Special Forces. Some people took pride in their lies. But nothing Cantona had said so far struck Reeve as anything other than accurate. It made sense that Jim would own a portable computer. But then it also made sense that he might ditch it…

No, it didn’t. He’d been writing a story. He’d have wanted that story published in some form, even after death. He’d have wanted his monument.

“Eddie,” Reeve said, waiting till the man had turned away from the menu, “tell me about my brother. Tell me everything you can.”

Cantona drove them to the car rental firm. Reeve had memorized the salient details of McCluskey’s report, and knew which firm to go to. He’d found the address in the telephone book. He was thinking about his own expensive rental car, the Blazer, and how it was spending more time at rest than in motion.

“You got a wife, Gordon?”

“Yes.”

“Kids?”

“A son. He’s eleven.”

“Jim used to talk about a nephew, would that be him?”

Reeve nodded. “Allan was Jim’s only nephew.” He had the side window open, his head resting into the airflow.

“You got any photos?”

“What?”

“Your wife and kid.”

“I don’t know.” Reeve got out his wallet and opened it. There was an old photo of Joan, not much bigger than a passport shot.

“Can I see?” Cantona took the photograph from him and studied it, holding it between thumb and forefinger as he rested both meaty hands on the top of the steering wheel. He turned the photo over, revealing a line of Scotch tape. “It’s been torn in two,” he said, handing the photo back.

“I get a temper sometimes.”

“Tell my arm about it.” Cantona rolled his shoulder a couple of times.

“They tried treating me,” Reeve said all of a sudden, not knowing why he was telling a stranger.

“Treating you?”

“For the violence. I used to get angry a lot. I spent some time in a psychiatric ward.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Now I have pills I’m supposed to take, only I don’t take them.”

“Mood-controllers, man. Never take a pill that screws with your mind.”

“Is that right?”

“Take it from one who knows. I was in Monterey in the sixties, then Oakland. I was twenty, twenty-one. I saw some action. Chemical action, if you know what I mean. Came out of it with a massive depression which lasted most of the seventies, started drinking around nineteen eighty. It doesn’t cure anything, but other drunks are better company than doctors and goddamned psychiatrists.”

“How come you still have a driving license?”

Cantona laughed. “Because they’ve never caught me, pure and simple.”

Reeve looked out through his open window. “Drinking’s one of the things that seems to start me off with the violence.”

Cantona said nothing for a minute. Then: “Jim told me you were ex-military.”

“That’s right.”

“Seems to me that might explain things. You see any action?”

“Some.” More than most, he might have added. Row, row, row your boat, Gently down the stream… He cut that memory off at the pass.

“I was in Vietnam for a tour,” Cantona continued. “Took some shrapnel in my foot. By that time, I was just about ready to do myself an injury to get me out of there. So you still get these spells?”

“What spells?”

“The violence.”

“I’ve tried self-help. I’ve read a lot of books.”

“What, medical stuff?”

“Philosophy.”

“Yeah, Jim said you got to like that stuff. Castaneda’s about my limit. What stuff do you read?”

“Anarchism.”

“Anarchism?” Cantona looked disbelievingly at him. “Anarchism?” he repeated, as though trying the word out for size. Then he nodded, but with a quizzical look on his face. “Does it help?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What do the doctors say?”

“They say I’m on my last warning. One more outburst, they’ll section me. I think they mean it.” He stared at Cantona. “Why am I telling you this?”

Cantona grinned. “Because I’m listening. Because I’m harmless. Besides, it’s a damned sight cheaper than therapy.” Then he laughed. “I can’t believe I’m sharing my car with a goddamned anarchist.”

The rental place looked like a used-car lot, dusty cars ranked behind a high fence. There was a metal gate, a chain and padlock hanging off it, and behind it a single-story prefabricated office. Reeve could tell it was the office because there was a big painted sign above it stating just that. Garishly colored notices in the window offered “the best deals in town,” “extra-special weekend rates,” and “nice clean cars, low mileage, good runners.”

“Looks like Rent-A-Wreck before they went upscale,” Cantona commented.

They knocked and opened the office door. There was a single room inside with a couple of doors leading off, both open. One showed a storeroom, the other a toilet. A man in shirtsleeves was seated behind the desk. He looked Mexican, in his fifties, and he was showing teeth around a long thin cigar.

“My friends,” he said, half rising. “What can I do for you?” He gestured for them to sit, but Reeve stayed standing by the window, occasionally looking out, and Cantona stayed there with him.

“My name’s Gordon Reeve.”

“Good morning to you, Gordon.” The Mexican wagged a finger. “I seem to know you.”

“I think you rented a car to my brother on Saturday night.”

The smile melted. The man slipped the cigar out of his mouth and placed it in the overspilling ashtray. “I’m sorry. Yes, you resemble your brother.”

“Was it you who dealt with my brother?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”

The Mexican smiled. “You sound like a policeman.”

“This is just for my peace of mind.” Then Reeve spoke to the man in Spanish, and the man nodded. Family, he was saying, I have to take these memories back for the family. The Spanish understood these things.

“See,” he said in English, “I’m trying to understand my broth-er’s state of mind on that night.”

The Mexican was nodding. “I understand. Ask your questions.”

“Well, one thing I don’t quite yet understand. My brother was last seen drinking in a downtown bar, then it seems he came here. A cab picked him up from the bar. But to get here, he had to pass three or four other car hire firms.” In his hotel room, with map and telephone book, Reeve had done his work.

The Mexican opened his arms. “This is perhaps easily explained. For one thing, we have the lowest rates in town, you can ask anyone. Being blunt, if you only need a car so you can drive somewhere quiet and put an end to your life, you do not need a Lincoln Continental. For a second thing, I open later than the other places. You can check this. So maybe they were closed already.”

Why would I want to “check this”? Reeve thought, but he nodded his head. “My brother had been drinking,” he said. “Did he seem affected by drink to you?”

But the Mexican’s attention was on Cantona, who was leaning against the noisy air conditioner. “Please,” he said. “It breaks easily.”

Cantona got up from the unit. Reeve noticed that the machine was dripping water into a bowl on the floor. He repeated his question.

The Mexican shook his head. “I would not have done business with him if I thought he’d been drinking. I have nothing to gain by seeing my cars wrecked or messed up.”

“Speaking of which, where is the car?”

“It is not in the lot.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It has gone for repair and… detailing. The police smashed the driver’s side window to effect entry. Remember, the car was locked from within.”

I know that, thought Reeve, but why are you telling me? “Before renting the car to my brother,” he asked, “did you take a look at his driving license?”

“Of course.”

Reeve stared at the man.

“What is it?” the Mexican asked, his grin looking queasy.

“He held a UK driving license, not valid over here.”

“Then I should not have rented him one of my automobiles.” The man shrugged. “A mistake on my part.”

Reeve nodded slowly. “A mistake,” he repeated. He asked a few more questions, trivial ones, just to put the Mexican more at ease, then thanked him for his help.

“I am truly sorry about your brother, Gordon,” the Mexican said, holding out his hand.

Reeve shook it. “And I’m sorry about your car.” He followed Cantona to the door. “Oh, you forgot to say which garage is fixing the car.”

The Mexican hesitated. “Trasker’s Auto,” he said at last.

Cantona started chuckling the moment they were outside. “I thought he was going to swallow that cigar,” he said. “You really had him going.”