Moon Music (13 page)

Poe said, "Yeah, that was question number two. Why do I only remember one victim?"

"Because you were a kid and the second one wasn't publicized. A drifter girl. No roots here. The police were able to keep it quiet. They
needed
to keep it quiet. 'Cause the first one caused such a storm."

"Tell me about her…the first one."

"A local high school teacher with local ties. The papers got wind of it, turned it into a circus. The shit really hit the fan."

"How'd they tie the first and second victim to the same murderer?"

"How should I know? Do your homework. Go back and look in the police archives."

Y fished out another quarter. Poe put his hand around Y's bony fingers. "Could you stop one second?"

Y grunted, waited.

Poe said, "Do you recall something about…well, body parts?"

"You mean the eyes?"

"So the Bogeyman
had
removed her eyes."

Y didn't talk.

Poe said, "Yes? No?"

"You didn't ask me a question."

"Do you remember something about the Bogeyman removing the victim…victims' eyes?"

"There was talk."

"Do you know if it was true?"

Y stared at the younger man. "Why are you asking about the Bogeyman?"

"Similarities between it and this case I'm working on."

"So go back and check the records."

Poe nodded. "Did the Bogeyman ever have a name?"

"As far as I know, he was never caught."

"Did he have anything to do with the murder of Alison's mother?"

Y's eyes locked with Poe's. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Alison told me. She said that the police suspected her mother was the Bogeyman's victim. Because she was sliced up pretty bad."

Y continued to stare, his eyes cold and unforgiving. But Poe was not to be deterred. "You were close to the family. I thought you might know some inside information."

Y stubbed out his cold cigarette, lit another one. "You thought wrong, Sergeant."

"My mistake." Poe returned his glare with one of his own. "I'm just doing my job, old man."

"You're opening up wounds."

"Whose? Alison's or yours?" Poe leaned close to the old man. "Y, we both know the Bogeyman disappeared after Alison's mother committed suicide. Last night Alison told me that the suicide was suspect. It got me thinking. Especially after witnessing what I saw last night. You should see what this monster did to this poor girl. I want to find him."

Y remained sour. "So why ask about the Bogeyman? You think he's returned after a twenty-five-year hiatus?"

Poe threw his head back. "Maybe."

Y inhaled his smoke, passed it to Poe. "So check the old records. Anything I'd remember is tainted with senility."

Poe took a drag on the cigarette, gave it back to Y. "I don't know about that. You're a sharp old coot." He snapped his fingers, then stopped. Studied the old man. "Are we related, Y?"

"Call me Dad."

"I'm serious."

"All Paiutes are spiritually related."

"I'm not going to get a straight answer out of you, am I?"

Y didn't respond.

"I've been thinking about doing a family tree," Poe said. "I don't think I'm going to find the Shoshones or the Southern Paiutes in the Mormon archives. Figured you're my best bet."

"You may be surprised. Mormons invaded our piece of the rock, lived on these fertile grounds at the same time we did. They taught us civilization. Meanwhile, the
marukats
reduced our thousand-year-old culture to a gift shop on Main Street."

"But you're not bitter, are you?"

The old man dropped another quarter into the machine. "Mormons and Paiutes had one thing in common."

"What?"

"Polygamy."

Poe smiled. "Guess pussy's the great equalizer."

Y managed to crack a begrudging smile. Then he turned serious. "You shouldn't be talking to Alison about her mother. She's delicate. Talking about the past sets her back."

Poe sighed. "Steve already lectured me."

"He's right."

"Are you staying here all night, Chief?"

"It's warmer than the streets."

"Want to crash at my place?"

Y considered the option. "But I haven't lost all my money yet."

"The machine'll still be here in the morning." Poe stood. "C'mon. We'll take a cab to my car." Y grumped as Poe helped him to his feet. "Where do you get all your chump money, old man? I've never seen you do a day's work."

"Uncle Sam."

"That's right. You're a vet."

"I'm a Korean vet. Then I went and signed up for Nam. Which made me a Nam vet. I was a real warrior in my past."

"You're a real warrior now as far as I'm concerned."

"Then I get money for being an Indian or Native American or whatever shit they want to call us. Compensation for living in the wrong place at the wrong time." Y staggered and tripped, but regained his footing. "Yeah, I am a vet of foreign and
domestic
wars. Old Uncle Sam got his money's worth outta me. And now I'm gettin' my money's worth outta him. Do I have to sleep on the floor?"

"You can have the bed."
"Such genuine Christian charity."
"Call me Saint Romulus."

The phone was ringing as Poe crossed the threshold of his singleroom clay house. Still cradling the old man, Poe turned on a battery-operated lamp, then picked up the receiver, tucked it under his chin while spitting out the grit of sand. "Yo?"

"Detective Sergeant Poe?"

An unfamiliar voice who knew his title. Not a good sign at one in the morning.

Poe closed the door with his foot. "This is he."

"Sergeant, this is Sergeant Willis Hollister up here in Reno."

"Oh boy." Y was getting leaden, his deep snoring interfering with Poe's hearing. "Could you please hold on a second?"

"No prob."

Poe settled Y onto the couch. He'd open it into the bed as soon as he'd dealt with this latest crisis. Because a call from Reno police always meant problems.

Into the phone, Poe said, "Is it my mother?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what it is."

"Where is she?"

"Unfortunately…at the moment, she's in jail."

"Oh my God."

"We tried to…avoid this inconvenience. In the past, your brother has always been cooperative in these kinds of situations. But we're unable to locate him at the moment."

Poe checked his watch. Sometimes when his brother had big assignments, he worked late. "Look, I'm going to make some calls. If you could stall the arraignment, I'm sure I can find someone to take her off your hands. Why clog up the courts—"

"It's gotta be soon, Sergeant. She's takin' up space and I gotta clear her from the books one way or the other."

"Give me your number, Sergeant Hollister. I can call back within fifteen minutes. Would that be okay?"

"I can give you fifteen minutes."

"Thanks. And if you're ever down this way—"

"When I go on vacation, I go fishing."

Hollister cut the line.

Frantically, Poe started dialing. His brother wasn't at work, he wasn't at home.

Shit, shit, shit!

Again, he checked his watch. Too late to catch a plane to Reno. And he really didn't feel like driving north. Even speeding it still meant hours of monotonous driving on winding roads. All this on little sleep.

He thought about Aunt Shirley, wondered if it would make matters worse. But with his brother absent, what choice did he have? He dialed her number. Luckily she picked up. Equally fortunate, she sounded reasonably sober.

"It's Romulus, Aunt Shir—"

"Romulus! How nice of you to call."

"Thank you very much." A beat. "I kind of need your help."

"Oh, what can I do for such a nice boy?"

"It's Mom."

"Now what has that woman gone and done this time?"

Nothing you haven't done yourself
. Poe said, "I think she drank a little too much. I think that's the problem."

"So…"

Y snorted, rolled over, and tucked himself into the crevices of the sofa. Poe sniffed and winced. The old man was sweating alcohol.

He said, "Uh, Mom's at the police station. I was wondering if maybe you could get yourself a cab and pick her up. I'd pay for it, of course."

Shirley tsked and tsked. Then she hemmed and hawed, whiffled and waffled.

Poe added, "And of course, I'd compensate you for your time."

"Oh, Romulus. How
kind
of you. But you know I don't expect anything for helping out my own sister."

"Of course. Just a little something. I insist."

"Well, if you insist." A pause. "Where is your brother?"

An excellent question.

"He must be working on something very important. Uh, could you call the cab now, Aunt Shirley? Better yet, I'll do it for you."

"Oh, that would be sweet."

"My pleasure. Just…you know…you might have to pay something in cash for her release and sign some papers."

"Dear, I know the drill."

Despite his fatigue, Poe smiled. "Thank you, Aunt Shirley."

"You know, Romulus, I've been thinking about coming down and paying you a visit. My arthritis is acting up…"

Groan.

But Poe said, "Aunt Shirley, you're welcome anytime." His head was throbbing—jackhammers in his brain. "I'm going to call you that cab now. Good-bye, and thank you."

"Good-bye, Romulus. And tell the taxicab to give me a minute to get dressed."

"Sure." He hung up.

That was rich. One drunk looking after another. Still, what was the
worst
-case scenario? The two ladies would get pickled together, go out, cause a scene, and then both get arrested.

By then maybe it would be morning.

The howling of the coyotes aroused him. A commonplace sound but particularly fierce tonight. According to native legends, coyotes meant death. But coyotes had also honored man by stealing fire for him. So which kind of coyote was out tonight? Poe opened an eye, realized he was sleeping on the floor. He repositioned himself, his back aching, his head pounding. He glanced up.

From his perspective, it appeared that Y was gone.

Slowly standing erect, Poe rubbed his face, yawned, blinked several times. Moonlight streamed in from his bare windows, the rays sparkling with dust brought in by last night's wind.

Indeed the bed was unoccupied.

Poe picked up his pants, checked his wallet. Being a hopeless compulsive, he made it a habit to start each day with five twenties in his main billfold with a single hundred-dollar bill tucked into a credit card slot for whores or emergencies. He diligently stocked his wallet every night before he went to bed.

Sure enough, two twenties were missing. Shrugging it off, Poe went to his hidden cache of money, refilled his wallet. He plopped down into the fold-out bed, then bolted up.

The sheet and cover were drenched with the stink of sweat and booze. He stripped them off the couch, placed them in his overflowing perforated bag. No getting around it. Tomorrow morning, he'd be at the Laundromat, drinking his coffee while soaping his clothes.

He picked up his sleeping bag from the floor. Sinking onto the bare mattress, covering his head with his bag, shuddering as the coyotes sang their dirges. The Mojave Desert hosted many wildlife preserves. Often Poe had espied bobcats, wild horses, mule deer, and errant bighorn sheep. And wherever there were free-ranging animals, there were coyote. Judging from the feral whooping, whatever the scavengers had caught was cause for celebration.

A big haul: Poe hoped it wasn't a human one.

THIRTEEN

H
E AROSE
just before dawn, stiff and cold. Poe put on a pair of slippers, turned on a battery flashlight, and carried it and a bottle of chemical solvent with him to the outhouse. Returning to his compound—an architectural composite of clay beehive and old shanty town—he swept the dirt floor, made the bed up with fresh sheets, then folded the ensemble back into couch form. He donned baggy sweats and took off for his morning run.

The sun had yet to break through a barrier of gray clouds, but the sky was endless. Not a hint of civilization as Poe jogged upon the desert floor, hugging the foothills of the Western mountain ranges. At these times, he realized why he put up with bare bones, trading in plumbing—even more desirable than electricity—for an outhouse. Yet, here he was at peace with nature as he raced in air filled with nothingness.

Arriving home sweaty and awake, he turned on a battery-operated TV, watching a staticky screen the size of a postage stamp. No new murders in Clark County, which was always a positive. In a backpack, he neatly packed his gun, a lunch of raw fruits and vegetables, and cold cuts kept fresh in a picnic cooler. He loaded the backpack and his laundry bag into his car. He planned on showering at the department's gym.

Once on the road, he dialed his brother's house in Reno on his cell phone. No answer.

Strange.

The next logical step would be to call up Aunt Shirley. But the day was too nice to be wrecked. If it was bad news, it'd keep. Instead, he punched in Rukmani's number. She picked up after the third ring; her voice was groggy. "'Lo."

Poe said, "Are we on for tonight?"

"Yes." Sounding furtive. "I'll talk to you later."

"Want to meet for breakfast?"

"Hold on."

She sent him into an electronic void, clicked back on a moment later. She whispered, "It'll take me about a half hour. I gotta clear house first."

Oh. That!

From the beginning, Poe had known he wasn't the
only
one, just the
favorite
one. His own fault. She had extended an offer last night. And he had refused. Well, work had refused for him.

He said, "I'll be at Beeny Boy's."

"You're doing your laundry?"

"What else?"

"I'll see you in about thirty minutes."

"I think it's fair to warn you that I haven't showered yet."

She laughed. "Romulus, I'm sure compared to the folks I work on, you'll smell like French perfume."

Weinberg dug into his pastrami omelet, shoveled a forkful into his mouth. He studied the composite drawing made by the police artist. "Mr. Bland White Guy."