Strangers (12 page)

His hands opened and closed, opened and closed, but he didn't move. Didn't speak, just glared at me.

“Well?” I said.

“Tough guy,” he said, and damned if there wasn't a faint grudging respect in his tone.

“When the situation calls for it.”

“Make yourself some bad enemies that way.”

“You being one of them?”

“Not if you don't hassle me.” Zastroy leaned forward. “I'll tell you this, and it's all I have to say. I don't like Cody Hatcher worth a damn, he's a prick and a smart-ass and plenty of others around here feel the same way. He's the lousy raper, all right, guilty as hell, and you'll never prove different.”

I slid off the saddle stool. “We'll see about that.”

“Better watch yourself,” Zastroy said as I started away. “You and me, we're not the only tough guys in this town.”

 

11

In my room at the Goldtown, I hooked up the laptop and had a look at my e-mail. Longish one from Tamara, giving me the background data I'd asked for. A few items of interest, though nothing particularly eye-opening.

Cody Hatcher: no arrest record prior to the rape charges; two tickets issued by the Nevada Highway Patrol for excessive speeding. Max Stendreyer: the one arrest for marijuana possession, as Sam Parfrey had told me, that had gotten him nothing more than a fine because the law couldn't prove intent to sell. Matt Hatcher: three DUIs, the most recent four years ago that had resulted in a six-month suspension of his driver's license. Derek Zastroy: two arrests for aggravated assault, one complaint from a Horseshoe patron last year, the other from a woman in Winnemucca two years ago; both complaints withdrawn before charges were filed. The one in Winnemucca might have demonstrated a propensity for sexual violence against women, except that there was apparently some question as to its validity; the woman had dropped the complaint pretty quickly, claiming she'd overreacted to acts performed during consensual rough sex.

Nothing on Alana Farmer, Rick Firestone, Jimmy Oliver, Gene Eastwell. Tamara, ever thorough, had also done searches on Cheryl (no police record of any kind), her late husband (ditto), and Sheriff Joe Felix. Felix had an exemplary record: four years in the Marine Corps with distinguished service in the Persian Gulf; three years as a Bedrock County deputy after his discharge; two terms as sheriff, wide margins of victory in both elections; generally regarded by state and county politicos as tough but fair. The only blemish, if you could call it that, was a divorce eight years ago filed for by his wife on the grounds of mental cruelty; he hadn't contested either the suit or her demands for a substantial amount of alimony. I could see where he would be a hard man to live with, a man whose job always came first, whose attitudes were rigidly fixed, who would find it difficult if not impossible to practice the kind of indulgent give-and-take necessary to maintain a successful marriage.

I considered answering Tamara's e-mail with another of my own, decided to call her instead. Courtesy call. She hadn't said anything about other business, so I assumed the agency was running smoothly, but she'd want to know how I was getting along and I was not in the mood for a lot of typing tonight. Only I didn't talk to her because the call to her cell went straight to voice mail. Unusual; she almost always kept the line open. Involved in something or with somebody—her old cellist boyfriend, Horace Fields, maybe. As far as I knew, she hadn't taken up with Horace again after his recent move back to San Francisco from Philadelphia, but it was possible given the way she'd once felt about him. Love and sex are powerful and sometimes subversive motivators.

I left her a message, saying I was sorry I'd missed her and briefly outlining my progress. Then I called Cheryl, or tried to: after six by then, and for the second night in a row she wasn't home yet or answering her cell. Where did she go after she got off work? Well, it was none of my business as long as she wasn't being hassled.

I went out to eat at the same Mexican restaurant as the evening before, then tried both of Cheryl's numbers again. Still no answer. That little wriggling worm of concern started up, and I let it prod me into driving out to Northwest 10th Street instead of back to the motel.

Cheryl's house sat shrouded in darkness, the only vehicle on the property or in the immediate vicinity Cody's Jeep where I'd left it under the portico. I went up and banged on the door anyway. Nobody opened it, and the lock was secure. Likewise the one on the side door and all the windows. I used my penlight to check the Jeep and the rear of the house. No signs of disturbance anywhere.

But when I was in the car again, I couldn't quite bring myself to leave. I had questions for Cheryl tonight, the kind better asked in person. And nowhere to go except back to the sterile motel room, nobody else to see; after-dark visits from unpopular strangers wouldn't buy me anything except trouble. So I sat there and watched and waited, as if I were on another in the long string of stakeouts that had marked and marred my decades in law enforcement.

The wait lasted just about forty-five minutes. A cold, dark forty-five minutes; overcast sky, a gusty wind off the desert that blew ticks of sand against the car, the darkness relieved only by a scatter of houselights and widely spaced street lamps. Very dark night coming up—a vandals' kind of night, if the ones plaguing Cheryl had any more nasty tricks in mind. A few cars passed up and down the street, and one male pedestrian walking a large dog; otherwise I had the evening to myself. Until finally a set of headlights approached from the direction of Yucca Street, swirled brightness over my car as they turned into Cheryl's driveway.

She was still in the station wagon when I came up to the driver's door. It opened then and she got out, closing her purse as she did so. In the three or four seconds the dome light was on, I had a clear look at her face. Flushed cheeks, reddened nose, moist eyes, a faint glistening tearstain on one cheek. That was why she'd stayed in the car so long: trying to clean up the evidence with a handkerchief or whatever she'd stuffed into her purse.

“Bill,” she said. “I thought that was your car.”

“You okay?” I asked her.

“What? Yes, I'm fine.” But she couldn't stop a sniffle that came out with the word “fine.” She drew a breath, rubbing at her nose. “No, I won't lie to you. You can probably tell that I've been crying.”

“Any particular reason?”

“No. Just … feeling sorry for myself. I don't cry often, but sometimes everything just wells up and I can't help myself, it all comes pouring out.”

I couldn't help feeling a moment of tenderness toward her. “I understand.”

“Well. Have you found out something? Is that why you were waiting?”

“Nothing definite, no. Few more questions to ask you.”

“Have you been here long?”

“A while. I didn't know how long you'd be.”

“You must be freezing. If I'd thought to give you my spare key, you could have waited inside.”

“I wouldn't have felt comfortable doing that.”

“Well … come inside now and I'll make us something hot to drink.”

I followed her in through the side door. When she turned on the kitchen lights, I saw that she seemed tense, anxious even now that she knew I had no news for her. There was a thermostat on one wall; she turned on the heat. And then excused herself, saying she'd be right back, and hurried out without even shedding her coat. More repair work, I thought.

Right. When she came back, coatless now, her elfin face was no longer flushed after a wash and a dusting of powder, and she wore fresh lipstick. She said through a wan smile, “I'm sorry I'm so late getting home. I was at Sam Parfrey's office. He saw Cody today, after he spoke with you.”

“The boy doing all right?”

“As well as can be expected. He … well, he was feeling pretty low until Sam told him you were here. Now he has some hope, too.”

“That's good, as long as it's not all pinned on me. I'm not a miracle worker, Cheryl.”

“We don't expect you to be.” She was at the stove now, putting a kettle on to boil, taking cups and a jar of instant coffee from a cupboard. “Did you get anywhere at all today?”

“Bits and pieces of information that may or may not be significant.”

“Tell me what they are, who you talked to.”

“I will, but I have some questions first. This may sound strange, but I have to know: How are Cody's teeth? Does he brush regularly, keep his breath clean?”

Frowning, she said, “Yes, of course. I've always insisted on good oral hygiene.”

“Does he smoke?”

“God, no. He hates cigarettes as much as I do. His father was a heavy smoker—died of a heart attack because of it. I've never allowed anyone to smoke in this house since.”

“So Matt Hatcher told me this afternoon.”

“… You saw Matt? Where?”

“At the Saddle Bar. We had a little talk.”

She was silent for a few seconds. Then, “What else did he have to say about me?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“Well, he can be bitter and … critical sometimes, because I won't give him any encouragement. You know what I mean.”

“Then why do you let him hang around?”

“He's Glen's brother. Family. I can't very well shut him out of Cody's and my life.”

The explanation struck me as incomplete, a half or partial truth. As if there were some other reason she didn't care to share with me.

“I don't want to talk about Matt,” she said. “Why did you ask me about Cody's teeth and if he smokes cigarettes?”

I related what Haiwee Allen had told me about her attacker.

“Well, my God,” Cheryl said, “that
proves
Cody's innocent. He doesn't have bad breath and he doesn't smoke.”

“Proof to you, but not to the law.” And not to me, at least not on his mother's say-so. Cody might not hate cigarettes vehemently enough to avoid lighting up now and then when he was away from home—the macho and peer pressure prods. By his own admission and Alana Farmer's, he had no aversion to smoking pot.

“Still, it's
something,
isn't it?”

“Something, yes,” I said. “Just keep it in perspective. A lot more than that is necessary to create reasonable doubt.”

The animation in her voice faded as quickly as it had come. She wrapped both hands around her coffee cup as if to warm them.

I asked, “Do you know Derek Zastroy, works as a bartender at the Saddle Bar?”

“That one. Oh, yes, I know who he is.”

“And don't like him much?”

“I don't like him at all. One of those men who thinks they're God's gift. Always hitting on women, or trying to—any woman up to the age of sixty.”

“Including you?”

“Including me. I wouldn't spit on him.”

“Does Cody know he hit on you?”

“I wouldn't tell my son a thing like that. Why?”

“Zastroy used to keep company with Alana Farmer. Evidently he didn't like Cody taking his place with her and they had some trouble over it. Did you know that?”

“No,” she said slowly, “I didn't. What kind of trouble?”

“Words, and some pushing and shoving.”

“Threats? Did he threaten my son?”

“Jimmy Oliver says he did and Zastroy admitted it.”

“Then if he wanted to get Cody, and he's the rapist, it explains the knife and ski mask in Cody's Jeep—”

“Hold on, now. The threat is meaningless by itself. And apparently he has alibis for two of the rapes that satisfy the sheriff.”

“Alibis can be faked, can't they?”

“They can, depending on the circumstances. I don't know yet what Zastroy's are. Does his reputation with women extend to physical abuse?”

She thought about it. “Not as far as I know.”

“I'll see what Alana has to say. What's your opinion of her, by the way?”

“She's … all right, I guess. Not very bright.”

“She seems to care for Cody. Believes he's innocent.”

“I know, she told me that at the restaurant after he was arrested. But I haven't seen or spoken to her since.”

“How serious is their relationship?”

“Not very. At least I hope not.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He's too young to get seriously involved with a woman, any woman. Nineteen…” Cheryl shook her head. “It's all hormones at that age. You think you know so much about life and love, but you don't. I didn't, God knows. I wish…” Another headshake, and she lapsed into silence.

To break it, I filled her in on the rest of my day. She listened quietly, without interruption. When I was done, she asked, “You didn't try to see Max Stendreyer?”

“Not today. Tomorrow. I'll need to borrow the Jeep again for the run out to Lost Horse.”

“Yes, of course. Keep the keys as long as you need them.”

“Cody seems to have been pretty hard on the Jeep,” I said. “All the dings and scratches.”

“Too much fast driving on the desert roads,” she said. “I've told him and told him to be more careful, and he says he will, but…”

“But he likes to race. Wants to be a race car driver.”

A wince, a sigh. She'd set the coffee cup down and now her hands moved restlessly in her lap. “It's a foolish notion, but he seems to have his heart set on that kind of life. After this … this madness is finished and he's home again, maybe he'll listen to reason.”

But probably he wouldn't. If he came home again, and if Jimmy Oliver was right about his future plans, Cheryl wouldn't have him around for long.

“It's a pretty nice model, the Jeep,” I said. “Has he had it long?”

“Ever since he was old enough to drive.”

“Did you buy it for him?”

“No. It was his father's.”