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                                            CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

                                                      The Lone Ranger

4:45 p.m.

After leaving Doone's Cafe, Reggie walked north on Mojave River Avenue, then left on First Street. The narrow, tree-lined business and industrial district followed the foothills in a straight climb to the northwestern corner of the canyon. A quarter hour later he reached the Paley Police Department on the side of a craggy hill at the end of First Street. A paved road, colorfully bordered by yellow and orange flowers, wound up to the three-story red brick building. It was girded in steel, enclosed by a high fence topped with curls of barbed wire.

He was out of breath as he came through the gate. The officer at the gate didn't give him a second look. The flagpole flew the American flag at half-mast. Two patrol cars were parked in the lot to the side and a couple of black and gray-uniformed officers talked by the gas pumps. He climbed a double tier of steps to a boardwalk landing and entered the police station. When he was there before, they'd brought him in through the booking office in back. The inside was as warm as the outside. He approached the shellacked pine counter. A young female officer–Gannon read her name tag–rose from a metal desk, where stacks of papers in perfectly squared volumes were piled over every inch of it.

"Can I help you?" she said like a department store clerk.

"Yes. Officer Lee, please."

"He's not here right now."

"What about the police chief?"

"What's this regarding, sir?"

"Just tell him Reggie Thomas is here. Please."

She sauntered off through a back door and returned in half a minute to inform him that the Chief would be out. Sure enough, the Chief wound his way through the desks to the counter and looked at Reggie like he'd never seen him before.

"What can I do for you?" the Chief said.

"My friend Jackie Weldon was seen leaving Doone's Café yesterday about two with one of your officers. She was on her way home. She didn't get there. Her mother needs to know if she's been arrested for something, if she needs bail, or what?"

He sighed. "She's not in my jail."

"You're sure?"

Patronizingly, he said: "I'm sure there are no women in my jail."

"Was she questioned?

"I'm unaware of it if she was. I've never heard the name."

"She left with one of your officers."

"So what's that got to do with me?"

"You're the police chief. A seventeen-year-old girl was leaving your town and one of your officers stopped her from leaving. She was going home. Who was at Doone's Café yesterday?"

"Any number of officers," he said. "We all go in there. Best food in town."

"Wouldn't there be a record or something–with dispatch?"

"Depends. If he made a call there, we would, but if he was code seven, probably not."

"Code seven?"

"Lunch."

"Then there's a record of when they take their lunch," Reggie said, getting testy and restraining himself with deep breaths.

"You're correct. Confidential records."

"Let's do it this way," Reggie said, moving up to the counter, talking softly. "Why don't you get a pad and pencil and take down some information. I want to put in a missing persons report."

"I don't take down information, sir," he whispered back. "Officer Gannon. Take this gentleman's report, please." Gannon jumped up and squeezed herself by the chief as he marched back to his office.

The desk officer was poised to take his report, when the phone rang. "Can you wait a minute?" she said, going to the phone on her desk.

"Do I have a choice?" Reggie replied to no one.

* * *

Leah's Mustang wasn't parked in the area when he came out of the café and from his car he called the Paley Police Department. An officer Gannon answered. He asked to speak with Officer John Tooley and was told he was on vacation.

"You have a Jackie Weldon in custody?"

She hesitated. "No, sir. Who's calling?"

Joe hung up. If she wasn't in custody, why would she want to know who was calling? He'd go find out for himself. Take two minutes to get there. Last thing he wanted was to get the local police involved, but he had to know if she was in their jail.

* * *

Gannon looked at Reggie during the call, as if someone on the other end of the line had asked about him. Gannon didn't say goodbye when she hung up. Only one reason for that: the caller hung up on her. Short call.

Back at the counter, pencil poised over the triplicate forms, her perfume beginning to make him gag, Gannon said: "Your name, address and phone number, please."

"Reggie Thomas. No address, no phone."

She checked off a box, mumbling, "Homeless."

"No, no, no. I live in a motorhome."

"Oh, sorry." She erased the checked box, checked another box. "Transient....Name of the missing party?"

"Jacqueline–c-q–Weldon–d-o-n."

"Your relationship."

"Pretty good."

"No, sir, I meant–"

"I know what you mean. I'm her friend."

Gannon's eyes narrowed. "You're not related?"

"No."

"Uh...someone related to her would have to–"

Reggie was already walking out. He stopped on the wide porch. Mr. Friendly, Tammy's brother, was coming up the steps. As he passed Reggie he nodded and went through the glass doors. He tacked it up to coincidence in a small town and headed down the long narrow road, trying to keep down his foot speed. He heard the sound of tires on gravel up behind him. He stopped and turned suddenly. Coming down the hill, much too slowly, was a white Mustang. He stared up the hill at it. When it was obvious he saw the car, it picked up speed again, reached his position and he recognized the woman behind the wheel to be the ditz from the café. Must have dropped off her brother. Coming alongside of him, she slowed to a crawl.

"I thought that was you," she said through the window. "Need a ride?"

No thanks, he wanted to say. But he felt impulsive. And the impulse was driven by a trickle of suspicion. "Sure." He got in beside her.

"Long time no see," she giggled. "Where you headed?"

"The Plunge," he said.

She nodded. "God, that's a dumb name for a lake."

He agreed.

* * *

Through the double glass doors, Joe watched to see what kind of car the husky kid drove, but he walked down the driveway instead. And who appeared from nowhere? And what did she do? Picked him up! He banged open the glass doors, ran to his car, and tried discreetly to take up pursuit. As the driveway curled down the mountain, he caught sight of the white Mustang turning left onto First Street. At the stop sign at the bottom of the hill, Joe waited until the Mustang was about three blocks away before pulling out. Completing his turn, the Mustang made a right on Shale Road, heading for Paley Lake Blvd. At Shale and Paley Lake Blvd., Joe didn't make the light. The Mustang headed for The Plunge. He considered burning the light, but there wasn't any cover on Paley Lake. And Leah's passenger had a side mirror; he didn't want to attract attention. He couldn't think of a reason for her to pick up this local punk or for him to be watching for a tail, but his instinct was leading the way. It was best to follow it.

The light turned green. Joe punched the pedal, chirped the tires. There was one lane in each direction. It was his luck that a tourist in an Oldsmobile turned onto the main drag in front of him at sight-seeing speed. Up ahead, the white, topless Mustang galloped into the canyon and disappeared.

When he reached the main gate to the lake, Joe had a choice: to the right were the beaches, the tent camping and picnic areas; to the left were the cabins, motorhome camping, snack bars, a restaurant and recreational rentals.

He turned left.

Cruising the shore, he was surprised to find several vacationers out in the lake, paddling canoes and aluminum boats. Towards the center of a wide cove was a floating platform anchored to the bottom of the lake. Hanging from the side of it was a pair of stainless steel pipes that looped up to the platform to help swimmers up the ladder. A small, aluminum boat was tied to the back side. A boy, or a small man–Joe couldn't tell which–wearing a mask and snorkel, sat on the edge of the platform.

On a scalding day like today, Joe thought, that guy has the right idea. But snorkeling?

A flash of white got his attention. To his left, across the road, parked under a big tree, was an old cabin set up as an office for the Lakeshore Cabins. Leah's Mustang grazed beside it. They were talking. He found a suitable vantage point across the street under a gnarled tree that grew on the shore. The low curve of the lake and the tall reeds growing along one section added cover. From there he watched Leah's passenger get out, wave goodbye. Leah u-turned in the dirt around a planter of cactus and headed for the main gate.

Without first knowing the identity of the husky kid, there was no reason to stay. Moreover, he wanted to find Tooley. Slowly, he rolled from his shady spot and sped to catch Leah. He turned on the Motorola and called her. No answer. He turned on his car phone. It tweedled. He clicked off the radio and picked up the phone.

"Yeah."

"Where the hell have you been?" Leah squelched. "We got radios, we got phones–you don't have them on! What good are they, for crying out loud?"

"I–"

"You are not even going to believe what happened!"

"Besides picking up local punks?" Joe yelled back.

"What're you yelling for?"

"What are you yelling for?"

"Wait a damn minute–"

"You wait a damn minute!" Joe growled. "First you get a ticket, let the local police know you're here, then you pick up some punk! Go find Robby. I'll find Jackie. We don’t have time for these stupid mistakes–but, boy, have you managed to cram a bunch in your first hour here."

Leah was laughing. A mysterious chuckle actually.

"What's funny about it?" Joe said. Something in her throaty chuckle worried him.

"Stupid mistakes, you say?" Leah said loftily. "You mean like sitting beside Reggie Thomas all through lunch and not realizing it?"

The name bounced between his ears before it settled in the right brain compartment. And when it found its place, and the impact of Leah's disclosure had grabbed him by the big ego, he could think to do only one thing: lie.

"You don't think I knew that?"

"Nope."

"Why do you think I left when I did? Huh? You think about that? Huh? I knew he'd hit on you–and he did."

"So why'd you call him a local punk?"

"Because," was all he could think to say–and that was worrisome. As a professional liar, he should always have a good answer.

"Joe," she said, "give me a break. Admit it. You sat there and missed everything. Had a chance to get him to talk and you didn't even see that he fit Thomas's description." Joe cleared his throat, then wished he hadn't. "Come on, Joe? Be a man. Accept it. You blew it."

What could he say? If he admitted it and told her she did a good job, she might start believing she was an investigator. It could go to her head. Be a man.

"Good job," he said.

"Well," she said, surprise flexing her voice. "Thank you, Joseph." Joseph? Is that what a man gets for doing the "man" thing? Gets called by the version of his name only his mother was allowed to use? Get on with it, he told himself. Let her have her success. Maybe she'll stop trying so hard.

"Where are you?"

"Uh...Gratzke and Paley Lake Blvd."

"Stay put. I'll be there in a minute." Joe hung up.

On Gratzke, he found Leah sitting in front of a barbershop reading a newspaper and eating a chocolate-covered banana. It was melting faster than she could eat it. There was a Coke beside her in the bench. She handed it to him.

"Thanks."

She squinted up at him, a smudge of chocolate at the corner of her mouth. "Just lucky, Joe. He introduced himself. If I hadn't been a woman, he'd never said a word to me."

You're right, he thought. As long as we both know that, maybe we can see that I didn't make a mistake–your femininity did what it was supposed to do. She paused in mid-lick, drilled his eyes with hers. Good thing she can't read minds. Leah grinned, shook her head, as if recalling a particularly private joke.

Joe said: "It was more than luck." He left it at that. The truth would have pissed her off.

She pointed to the paper. "Did you know Paley's grave was robbed? Some citizens are offering ten grand for Paley's body."

She cleaned the ice cream stick with a wet pass over her tongue on both sides. Her eyes never left his.

"That's not why we're here," Joe said, shaking his head.

"Don't you want to make some real money?"

"Let's get our rooms."

"You're the boss," she said. And like she meant it.

At the center of town, it didn't take Joe long to decide which of three motels to choose from. He picked the Desert Inn. Not because it had a pool and Jacuzzi. Not because it had HBO. Not because it was only $28.00 a night per room. Because it was across the street from The Paley Playhouse.

They got adjoining rooms–number 13 and 14; he gave her 13. He unloaded his trunk–one suitcase–and left behind his 12-gauge shotgun. When he was done, he helped Leah with the other four bags in her trunk. Six bags in all. Laying the complete, matching set of luggage across her double bed, unpacking every imaginable piece of clothing and accessory, she jumped right into what he wanted to hear.

"He said he was checking out the town for a movie, that he was from Santa Monica, and that he'd be leaving in a few days." She sputtered her lips and added: "He thought I'd hang out at some bar until he decided to drop by some night. He wouldn't give me his number or anything."

"What bar?"

"Twinkies or Winkies," she said, unsure of herself.

"You have to fix names like that in your memory. What else?"

"That's all I got out of him. Not a talker."

"Why was he at the police station?"

"It's in the papers," she explained. "So he couldn't really hide it, I guess."

"You mean the grave robbing?"

She nodded. "Said they let him go because he didn't do it."

"Did he admit to working for Paley?"

"No–but I didn't ask."

"Good. That would have tipped him off. What did you tell him we were doing here?"

Leah took her make-up bag into the bathroom. "I made it simple. Said we were starting a business–looking into it. I didn't tell him what kind or anything. I wanted to leave it open for your two cents worth."

"Are we...are we married?" Joe asked. He held his breath for the answer.

"No way," she replied, astounded. "We couldn't pull that off. Especially since we're going to be off on our own most of the time. I said we were brother and sister."

Joe liked the idea. It made the relationship flexible.

"Your name, by the way," she added, "is Bob."

"Bob?"

"Epperson."

"Bob Epperson," Joe repeated distastefully. "And yours?"

"Tammy Jones."

"Why not Epperson?"

Leah appeared from the bathroom, curling the cord around her hair dryer. "I was married before–what else?"

Joe slapped his forehead. "Dummy me."

"So where did you go?"

"Reggie came back to the kitchen while I was interviewing Walter Doone." She didn't recognize the name yet, so he explained what had transpired, about the officer taking Jackie after she'd made her call to her mother.

"Is she in jail?" she asked, hefting her largest empty suitcase into the closet and closing the door.

"They say 'no.'"

"Where else would a cop take her?"

"That's what I was doing when I saw you pick Reggie up at the police station." A pause to let that sink in. She needed to know who did the real thinking in this partnership. "Big question: Reggie say anything about Jackie?"

"I asked him if he had a girlfriend. He said he didn't. I didn't press it."

"Good," Joe said. That was twice she'd shown good sense. She was back up to zero on his scorecard.

"Is he staying at the cabins?"

Leah sat on her bed and fell backwards, arms flung out, groaning in comfort. "Yeah, but he said he was checking out."

"Then I better get back out there."

"I didn't have the chance to find out anything else because he started asking me questions."

"Like?"

"Like why I was at the police station and did I drop you off and what you were doing there...you know, he was a little suspicious, after just seeing us at the café. I said you were trying to get me out of the ticket I got."

Joe suggested to himself that maybe, just maybe, he'd misjudged her. She was up a point.

"Let's talk about Robby." Joe rose from the orange and brown upholstered chair at the window. "If he's here, he's with T.J."

"Right."

"Canvass the entire town, street by street, alley by alley, check the hotel and motel lots, the camping areas–the entire canyon."

"That'll take forever."

"A few hours. Find him."

"And if I do?"

"Call me immediately. I'll call Melissa–"

"So you can take the credit–"

"Then you call her–Jeez! Why do you always have to read between the lines? Why do you think every decision I make, every suggestion, is designed to pounce on your self-esteem?"

He turned away and mechanically parted the curtains over the window.

"Because," she said. "When I stop thinking like that, it'll happen."

The front and side doors of the theater were in clear view from Leah's window. His room didn't have the same angle. But he'd be damned if he was going to stay in room 13.

And as he admired his luck at getting a room with a vantage point on Dutch's theater–even though Dutch said not to, it was one more thing he could resolve while he was there–a bright red sporty-looking car cruised by. Looked like a VW Jetta. One male driving. Then it was gone.

"Come on!" he ordered. "I saw the Jetta!"

Leah grabbed her room and car keys. "He hasn't seen my car."

Joe got in the Mustang's passenger seat by jumping over the door and landing in the seat. Leah paused for a stern look at him.

"Behave," she said, getting behind the wheel. To Joe's dismay, she laid rubber out the driveway. She threw the car into an intentional spin in the middle of the street. By the time he caught his breath, she'd turned it around and was streaking down the boulevard, turning every pedestrian's head.

Her hair flapped like fire in the wind. She looked over at Joe. "Hi ho, Silver!" she caroled.

Joe half-heartedly responded, "Away."