Dark Reservations (17 page)

After disconnecting with Bluehorse, and still driving, Joe took out his notebook and wrote down “Gun” at the bottom of his notes on Grace Edgerton. Next to it he wrote “Helena Newridge.” She might prove useful after all. Who was her source? Someone who must have known Grace and Arlen well, unless it was all a lie. Was the source someone on Grace's staff? A family member? Someone from the other candidate's team trying to plant suspicion right before the election? Exactly what Staples had warned about. For now, he'd have to weigh Helena's information very carefully. He hated reporters. Even when they were helping, they were a pain in the ass. Her source could be anyone, perhaps even Grace's running mate. He wasn't exactly sure how politics worked in New Mexico, but he recalled that the candidates for governor and lieutenant governor ran on separate tickets in the primary. If Grace was dirtied up, would the running mate get a shot at the governor's ticket? He didn't know. He tried to recall the name of her running mate. Jackson Adler. The owner of Adler Advanced Materials, a New Mexico defense and aerospace company. A big player. Rich. Probably ambitious, too. Joe would consider the angle, but it was a little too far-fetched. KISS—keep it simple, stupid. A touchstone for investigators. And Stretch's recommendation. He needed to focus on probabilities, not possibilities. Another maxim. Besides, Joe hated politics.

He turned his attention to driving. Traffic was somewhat heavy heading back to Albuquerque. It would take at least another forty minutes.

He picked up his phone again and punched in his daughter's number. He loved talking to her, loved learning what was new in her life, loved hearing her say she was happy and her grades were great. They always were. She was smart. Her mother's genes, no doubt. The “Radiant Book Worms” he would call them both. That and “Brainy Bugs.” But there were days when he would avoid talking to her. The days he had difficulty accepting that Christine was gone. He would avoid Melissa then because he knew he would bring her down, make her worry about him. Even when he put on a happy front, she sensed his depression somehow.

She answered this time. He could hear voices and music in the background.

“Hey, Brainy Bug. How's the semester shaping up?” he asked.

“Would you be upset if I dropped out and returned home to start a broccoli farm?”

“You can always come home, but I know you're lying.”

“And how do you know that?”

“'Cause you hate broccoli.”

“Damn, I should have said cauliflower.”

“I'm sure Columbia's too easy for you. Maybe you should have chosen Harvard.”

She laughed. “Yeah, too easy. I study all night, every night.”

“Doesn't sound like you're studying tonight. You at a party?”

“Why, you worried?”

“Of course. New York. Big city, big worries.”

“There's a filmmaker here who's showing his latest documentary. They're playing music.”

He listened. “Mexican?”

“Mexican folk-festival music. That's what his film's about.”

“Okay, now I feel better. I know you're not mixing with the wrong crowd if you're going to events like that. So, anything new?”

Only the Mexican folk music came through the phone.

“Melissa?”

“No, nothing new.”

“What is it?”

“Dad, you're interrogating me.”

“Only because I love you. Now spill.” He held his breath, waiting for the worst.

“Well, it's really good news, but I don't know how you'll take it.”

“Honey, I never want you to be afraid to talk to me or tell me anything. What is it?”

“Well … I told you my grades were really good, and … well … I got invited to do a student exchange at Cambridge for next semester. It's really a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I don't know if I'll ever get the chance again and it's really a big deal and I really want to go and I hope you're okay with it.”

Several things ran through his mind. First and foremost was how far away she would be and that he wouldn't be there if she needed him. But then he realized he wasn't there for her now. She was two thousand miles away.

“Honey, that's great.”

“No it's not. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Now you're interrogating me.”

“I know you're worried, but I'll be all right. You know you can trust me.”

“Honey, I always trust you. It's the guys I don't trust. And of course I'm happy for you. I don't want you to pass up such a great opportunity.”

“I'm so happy you're okay with it, Dad. I have to put in my name next week, and I was worried about asking you. When I get home, I'll tell you all about it.”

“Just make sure you get me some pictures of Stonehenge, and maybe a little piece of it, too, if nobody's looking. Nothing big. A chip will do.”

“You got it. So what's new in Albuquerque?”

“Nothing. Except your over-the-hill father had a date last night.” He'd gotten caught up in her good mood and tossed it out without thinking. He hadn't intended on mentioning it at all. And never like that.

Only the Mexican folk music came through the line.

Idiot, he thought.

“Melissa?”

Folk music.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to throw it out there like that. It wasn't a date. Just dinner.”

“Dad, it's okay. You caught me off guard. I wasn't expecting it. I'm happy. Who is she?”

“Her name is Gillian and she works in Albuquerque at a big construction company.”

“She's a construction worker?”

“Yep, operates a jackhammer and rips cast-iron pipes out of the ground with her teeth. They call her Gillian the Giant.”

“Wow, a keeper. So, how did you meet her?”

“Hey, what's with the twenty questions? You're at your Mexican folk thing. How about we talk about this later?”

“It sounds like you're avoiding me.”

“I am.”

“Okay, but before you hang up, tell me how your job interview went.”

“Went great. Knocked the guy's socks off. Literally. He had to pick them up in between questions. Now get back to your fiesta. We'll talk later.”

“Love you, Dad.”

“Not as much as I love you, Brainy Bug.”

He pressed the disconnect key, not wanting to end the conversation but knowing she would start digging if he didn't. She worried about him probably as much as he worried about her.

S
EPTEMBER
29

W
EDNESDAY
, 6:30
P.M.

G
ATES
R
ANCH
, S
OUTH
OF
K
AUFMAN
, T
EXAS

Ellery Gates thumbed the television remote. Every station had news about the body. Talking heads spouted all kinds of nonsense and conspiracy theories. One idiot even suggested Ellery was somehow involved, explaining that it might have been an attempt to cover up his own corruption. “Everyone knows,” the moron had said, “Ellery was in New Mexico that day. He would be at the top of my suspect list.” Of course no one mentioned Ellery had not arrived in Albuquerque till after Edgerton had been reported missing. So, like any newsworthy item that held the nation's attention, lies and speculation took center stage over logic and reason. Ellery was being dragged back into the spotlight of political corruption. Joy.

But he supposed he couldn't complain. The last ten years had been peaceful for him. He'd left Oklahoma, his birth state, the state where two libraries, a section of highway, a federal building, and an overpass were named for Samson Gates, his father and the longest-serving United States senator to represent the Sooners. His father had left big shoes for his only son to fill. But Congressman Ellery Gates had given it his best. He had believed he was doing the right thing for the state. Thought he was even on the side of the angels. So what if he catered to the old-boy network? He used that very same network to do good, too. Some folks might even have considered his accomplishments
great,
but not anymore. Not after a fall. Never after a plunge from Mount Olympus.

He never took the money because he needed it—or even wanted it. It was just the way that sort of thing worked. The money was only so the other side felt comfortable about the arrangement, less chance of a double cross. And Ellery never sold his conscience. He always did what he felt was right, even when money was involved. If it wasn't right, no deal. The news had labeled his actions the result of greed. But Ellery was wealthy, very wealthy. His grandfather had been one of the largest wheat producers in Oklahoma, and later, when natural gas was found under his fields, owner of the largest gas reserve in the eastern part of the state. That same wealth had financed Samson Gates's run for the Senate and kept him in office for almost three decades. But it couldn't keep Ellery there. After Casinogate—CNN's coinage—Ellery became the old-boy whipping boy.

“Do you need anything else before I turn in?” Mariana stood in the doorway to the television room, where Ellery found himself most nights now. She wiped her hands on a dish towel.

Ellery looked at his almost-empty glass of Johnnie Walker Red, cradled, forgotten, in his left hand.

“No, I'm fine.”

“You shouldn't watch that, Mr. Gates. It's not healthy.”

“When you reach my age, you care less and less about what people think of you. Any visitors today?”

“A few, but Gustavo chased them off.”

“Sorry. It's been a lot for both of you. Why don't you and Gustavo take off this weekend. On me. Somewhere nice.”

“Thank you, but we should stay. Those news folks are loco. Gustavo caught one climbing the fence.”

“No. I insist. I'll get Ernesto to stay the weekend.”

She didn't look happy. “Thank you, sir.”

S
EPTEMBER
30

T
HURSDAY
, 8:17
A.M.

B
UREAU
OF
I
NDIAN
A
FFAIRS
, O
FFICE
OF
I
NVESTIGATIONS
, A
LBUQUERQUE
, N
EW
M
EXICO

“You old fox,” Cordelli said when Joe walked into the office. “I didn't know you were stepping out with the ladies. Where'd you meet that hot little number? Gillian, right?”

“Drop it,” Joe said, heading for his desk, not turning around.

“Hey, I'm trying to pay you a compliment. She seemed nice.”

“Glad you approve.”

Half a dozen “While You Were Out” notes rested on his keyboard. Ginny could easily have transferred all those calls to his voice mail, but she was old-fashioned and liked taking messages. The top one read “Sierra Hannaway—again!” He closed his eyes. Damn. She'd seen the news about the body. And he hadn't thought to call her. He let out a breath. Maybe the squad was right. Maybe he had lost his edge. Maybe a person's edge was simply staying on top of cases. Sierra deserved to find things out from him, not the evening news. He'd decided he would give that courtesy to her and to Grace Edgerton. And he'd do the same for the driver's family, too.

“You know your problem, Joe?” Cordelli said. He stood at the end of Joe's cubicle, his forearm on the filing cabinet. “You ain't part of the team. It's Team Joe or nothing. You're a dinosaur, man. You somehow survived the meteor, but now the world's a different place and you don't quite fit in, do you?”

“You're right. The world is different. I used to run with meat eaters. Now I'm stuck with toads like you.” Joe walked forward, shouldering past Cordelli.

Stretch and Sadi stood at the end of their cubicles, watching. Ginny looked up from a telephone call. Joe had an audience. A reality show free of commercials.
Joe Evers: A Life Faded.
He knew they were waiting for him to explode or fall apart like he had last year. Cordelli was still talking as Joe made his way to Ginny's desk. She hung up the phone as he approached.

“Ignore him, Joe,” Ginny said, her eyes expressing sympathy. Another person butting into his life. He didn't need her pity.

“Did you notify Nick Garcia's parents that we were reopening the case?” Joe asked. Ginny mailed out all the victim notifications.

“No,” Ginny said. “His parents died some years ago. He doesn't have any siblings. I even looked—”

“You didn't think to tell me that sooner?” Joe raised his voice. “I'm the case agent, Ginny. I need to know those things.” She cringed, but Joe continued anyway. “You don't think I can handle my cases, either, do you?”

“No … I never…” She looked around for help.

Cordelli's voice: “Now you're going off on Ginny. What the hell's wrong with you, man?”

Joe's jaw tightened. “Back off.”

Stretch whispered something to Cordelli that Joe couldn't hear.
Et tu,
my friend.

Cordelli raised his voice. “You lost your wife, Joe. Bad shit happens, but you have to move on and take care of what's in your life now, because that's all—”

“Shut your mouth, Cordelli,” Joe said, spinning around, advancing on him. “Don't you ever mention my wife again, you arrogant little prick.”

Cordelli fell silent, a look of uncertainty on his face. He took a step back. “Joe, all I'm trying to say is—”

“You've said enough already.” Joe was ten feet from him and closing, intent on smashing a fist into the little prick's smug face. Maybe two or three times. He wouldn't count.