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                                                    CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

                                                Signs and Secrets

7:10 p.m.

The door was open between the two rooms. Joe tossed the large hermetically sealed snorkeling set on Leah's bed, went to his room, snatched his small overnight bag from the closet and stuffed it with enough clothes for a one-nighter.

Leah came into his room with the diving set. "What's this?" she whispered. Teddi lay on her stomach on top of Joe's bed covers.

"That's what the whole set looked like before the mask and fins were torn away from the snorkel half," he whispered back. "Perforated. Easier to get out of the package." In the bathroom, he tucked his toothbrush and toothpaste in the side pocket of the bag. "Bought it at Mojave Mini-Mart. Owner remembered a kid coming in Friday night who bought one of those."

"T.J.?" Robby said, entering the room with a hand of cards fanned in his fingers.

Teddi rolled to her side. Joe put his finger to his lips. "Maybe," Joe said.

"So where're you going?" Leah asked, suddenly noticing he was packing.

Joe went to Leah's room, picked up the phone. Robby and Leah followed him, Leah closing the door between the rooms. "Going to have a talk with Paul Tooley tonight."

"Are you going to sleep with him?"

Joe gave her one of her own looks and called the Paley police station. He asked for Lee, but he was gone for the night. He kindly asked the desk clerk to have Lee call him at his motel room as soon as possible.

"When he calls here–if he calls here–give him the car phone number."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

"Damn it," Leah swore, throwing down the diving set across the room and knocking the cards out of Robby's hand. "I've just about had it with your disregard for my participation in these investigations! I am not your secretary! I am your damn partner! I demand that you tell me what the hell is going on–in and outside of that thick, ego-coated skull of yours!"

She got his attention. Robby's, too. Robby looked from Leah to Joe. An amused grin spread across his face.

"She plays a mean game of rummy, too," Robby warned cautiously.

Am I really going to keep her in the dark? No damn way.

For several seconds, he watched Leah's face lose the red flush of anger. The connecting door opened. Teddi stood there half-awake.

"Found Reggie," he said finally. He abbreviated his conversation with Reggie across the street at the playhouse.

"You were across the street talking to that son-of-a-bitch?" Teddi asked.

"He's a prime suspect," Leah put in.

"Not with me. He didn't do it."

"How do you know?" Teddi asked.

"I don't. I think."

Leah asked: "So where's the cop?"

Joe tried not to, but the grin showed itself anyway. "Las Vegas."

* * *

Brenda Doone wiped her hands on her apron, then followed Reggie outside to the trash Dumpster. Her wariness was apparent by the distance she put between them.

Sorry about last night, he signed. She nodded. Have you told anyone–? Before he finished signing, she shook her head testily and folded her arms. Reggie stepped nearer to her. I like you. Will not hurt you.

Slowly she signed: What you want?

Help. Want to know about Paul Tooley and John Quinn.

She raised her eyebrows to signal further explanation. Carefully, he explained that Tooley was a suspect in Jackie's murder, that the police were looking for him, and was there anything she knew about Tooley–or Quinn–that might help determine Tooley's guilt or innocence?

Tooley nice man. Know him all my life. Do not believe he kill Jackie. She stepped back. How do I know you did not kill her?

This angered him. Having to sign heated the anger more because of the slow pace of the communication. He wanted to grab her by the arms, shake her and say Look at me! Do I look like someone who could kill? Why would I kill her? Instead, he patiently explained that he was now working with a detective hired by Jackie's mother to find her killer.

You must believe me. The police think I had something to do with her death. Her eyes canvassed his face. She let go a sigh of belief. What about Quinn? Reggie signed. She shrugged, thinking. Are Quinn and Tooley friends?

Again, she shrugged. Come to my house for meetings. Not see them other times together.

Reggie asked about the meetings. She said her father and Quinn, both on the city council, had been organizing a campaign to have the mayor turn over more control of the town to residents and owners of businesses. Tooley and a handful of others had joined in the planning and negotiations. When Paley died, the meeting scheduled for Friday was canceled. She assumed because they figured their main obstacle was dead and buried.

What about Lucilva? They were not worried about her? Brenda shrugged. When was the last meeting?

She thought a moment. Week.

Before Paley died?

She thought again. He die on Sunday. Meeting same day.

Who was there?

I think ten or twelve--father, Tooley and others you do not know.

What was the meeting about?

I read lips okay. When I bring coffee they talk about a deer.

He made sure she meant the animal by re-spelling it. D-E-E-R. She nodded. What did they say about the deer?

Her mouth pinched to express her own bafflement, then she signed: Deer take over town.

Reggie couldn't make sense of it. One deer or more than one?

She shook her head, but then signed: Female.

Reggie's exasperation showed on his face even in the dark because she repeated it. Female deer.

What the hell is this about? he wondered to himself. Why would these conscientious people of commerce be afraid of a stupid deer? Some epidemic or what? There's no deer in the desert!

May I talk to your father? he signed.

Unenthusiastically, she nodded. But he not here tonight. Do not say I told you about meetings.

Reggie raised his left hand and said: "Promise."

Brenda glanced at his up-raised hand, folded it down to his side and raised up his right hand. He had to grin–and it felt so good, he couldn't help himself. He took her in his arms, gazed down into her startled face and longingly kissed her on the mouth. Momentarily, she resisted. Her resistance succumbed to what he believed were her true desires.

"Don't let her old man catch you doin' that, man."

Reggie spun around, startling Brenda. That cocky Mexican dishwasher leaned against the back door, spinning a towel like a propeller, shaking his head in warning.

Reggie and Brenda looked into each other's eyes. She went back inside the restaurant. Renaldo followed her.

By 8:15 Reggie was approaching the hangar in the dark. A fulsome, chemical odor swarmed through the car window. He parked the Olds behind three Harleys. Pepsi lay completely nude on a cot under a tree, sound asleep, an empty bottle of Jose Cuervo on the ground beside her. Laughing rolled from the Quonset hut.

The door to the motorhome was open. Leaning against the outside wheel-well was a 10-gauge shotgun with a fancy trap-shoot rib down the barrel. Inside, wearing only his swimsuit under a red grocer's apron, gloves and a white dust mask, I.Q. was busy cooking the first batch of meth. His brow and hair were soaked with sweat. The strong fumes were almost unbearable. Reggie cupped his hand over his nose and mouth and came around the table. I.Q. looked up.

"I'm back," Reggie said.

I.Q. reached behind him, grabbed a blue grocer's apron and another mask. He handed them to Reggie, who put them on.

"Where's Adams?"

"Right here," a voice said from behind I.Q. in the doorway. Adams, also wearing a red apron, his dusk mask pushed up onto his forehead, ascended the steps into the motorhome. He carried three beers in one hand, offered one to Reggie. He took it. I.Q. took the another one, pulled down his mask to his chin, popped the tab and drank thirstily.

Two rifles lay on the bed. The grip of a handgun protruded from inside Adams pants.

Adams adjusted the gun and said: "Making progress. Get done what you had to get done in town?"

Reggie nodded. "Where's Lucilva?"

"Home."

"The others?"

He pointed his thumb towards the hut. "They brought back some good weed and a case of beer from Baker. I can twist one up if you want."

Reggie shook his head, finished his beer and tossed the can into the box beside the bathroom door used for trash. "Well, let's do it."

"We've been doing it," I.Q. snapped, upset about something. He guzzled his beer, the liquid soaking his mask and chin.

"I got back as soon as possible–what's your problem?"

"Nothing."

Louder, firmly, Reggie asked again. I.Q. glanced at Adams. Then to Reggie he said quietly:

"You're up to something, Reg. And not telling me about it. I don't get it. Why are you keeping secrets from me? I thought we were buddies."

"We are."

"Then what's going on? Even the guys in there know something I don't know."

Reggie snorted. "I doubt that."

"They do, Reg. I've noticed the way they whisper, and then when I come into the room they shut up. And you're running off to town everyday, doing who-knows-what. Something's going on. Why can't you trust me? If it's something really sticky, fine. I can handle it. I won't say a word." He raised his right hand, put it down again, then quickly reached over and turned down the flame on a burner. "I just feel...I feel like I'm being taken advantage of, you know, Reg. I mean, if it weren't for me, this whole thing wouldn't be happening right now. I'm not patting myself on the back or anything. I just don't want any surprises. I want in on things. I don't keep secrets from you, you shouldn't keep them from me."

Perspiration moistened the stern gaze Adams planted on Reggie's face. The secret had been tainted by everyone's carelessness, their miscalculations of I.Q.'s ability to grasp a situation. And now the dilemma had grown. From a secret seed into a weed that could destroy their friendship–and the enterprise.

I.Q. watched Reggie's face for a full minute, then took off the mask and apron. He turned off the burners, began putting chemicals away.

Adams said: "What's up?"

I.Q. didn't reply. Adams wasted a look on Reggie. He laid a big hand on I.Q.'s shoulder. "Hey, kid," he began, "it's nothing, really. Nothing to do with you or the deal. Honest."

"I don't believe it. I thought you were my friend, too."

Adams made a hissing noise and said: "Don't be a cry baby, all right? I don't like cry babies. Just do your job, I'll do mine, Reggie'll do his. We'll all get rich. None of this bullshit matters."

I.Q. excused himself, tried to squeeze around Adams, but Adams wouldn't budge. Looking up at him, I.Q. said angrily:

"I quit! Get out the way!"

Adams didn't move. I.Q. pushed against him, knocking him into the table, shaking the beakers, rattling his maze of equipment. Adams' attention abruptly turned to what he thought was a container of dangerous liquid tipping from its tripod, and he reached out and caught it before it spilled, allowing I.Q. the inches he needed to scoot by and out the door. Reggie followed him into the night.

He walked several yards down the road and stopped. I.Q put his hands on his waist and faced the dark blue sky. As Reggie approached, I.Q. turned around, his face muddled, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Reggie felt the pain of truth. The truth came as a hard lump in his throat. There was but one way to make it go away.

* * *

Calling the Las Vegas Hilton as Mrs. Paul Tooley, Leah had learned Tooley was staying in room 873, but when Joe arrived and called the room, there was no answer. Reggie's description of Tooley fit most Caucasian men of his age, and, although the description of his partner, Charlie Pitts, was slightly more unique, it still wasn't enough for Joe to pick him out of hundreds of gamblers. And who was to say they hadn't gone to another casino for the night?

He couldn't very well hang around the hallway of the eighth floor elevators either. The hotel wouldn't page them on the casino floor. The impish concierge had mopped his bald head with a hand, smiled, and reminded Joe that this wasn't an airport but a hotel.

Wandering through the organized confusion of bells and bandits, Joe sat at the bar and ordered a Tom Collins. He turned in his seat and watched the gamblers, a host of elderly folk mostly, working the slots, studying blackjack hands, and crapping out on the tables and enjoying every minute. An army of barelegged bar waitresses skittered around the players, balancing trays full of drinks, seemingly to know exactly where each drink belonged with no name to go with it. These ladies put the drink to the face.

And that's when Joe flagged down a squirrely blond at the end of the bar filling her tray with a new round of orders.

"Get you something, darlin'?" she said smiling.

Joe said he was looking for two friends and described Tooley and Pitts.

"Sorry," she said, glancing around the casino, "but that sounds like a lot of guys in here."

Joe thought of something. "Any say they were cops?"

"Cops?" She pointed to the poker area, roped off for a tournament. "Bunch of them right over there at the stud tables."

"Of course," Joe said. He slapped a fiver on her tray.

The poker games were busy, every table full. The poker room boss was talking to a dealer on break. Joe stepped around the rope post and checked the list of players on the waiting list. The first page were players waiting to play. The preceding page, which he flipped to, had the list of players' names that had been called and lined off. At the bottom of the page he found Tooley and Pitts. Tooley at table three; Pitts at table six.

Sometimes, I amaze even me, he congratulated himself, scanning the tables. Cops all looked alike to him.

"Hep ya?" said the poker boss.

"Which is table three."

Poker boss raised his chin at the table to his right. "Tournament's fer law enforcement–any branch, any place. You law enforcement?"

Joe shook his head. "Crook."

The poker boss chuckled. "Tournie's over at two–you can play then."

"Thanks," Joe said. He moved down the rope to watch table three. He picked out Tooley with no problem. The crew cut, the caterpillar mustache, the broad shoulders characterized about every cop at the table, but what gave Tooley up was his big, perpetual grin. Reggie had described it as a gassy grin, a wall of teeth.

Joe went to the café and ate a lumberjack's breakfast, spent all of three dollars, breezed through the sports page, sipped coffee that could double for furniture polish, and got back to the poker area a little before the tournament broke up.

An overweight man with no neck accompanied Tooley into the casino area. Had to be Pitts. Pitts had won big and counted his money as he walked and gloated. Tooley patted Pitts on the back. They went to the bar and sat at a table, called over a bar waitress, who brought them mixed drinks–tall ones.

Joe pulled a chair up to their table and sat down. Pitts leaned back like his space had been horribly violated. Tooley just looked surprised, glanced around to see if all the other tables were filled, but discovered they were empty.

"Gentlemen," Joe said.

Pitts narrowed his eyes. "We know you?"

"No, sir. I know you."

Pitts poked a cigar between his lips. "One tournament and I'm famous. Damn!" He cackled, lighting the cigar.

Tooley said: "Where you from?"

"Los Angeles. Look," Joe said to Pitts, lowering his voice, "I want to talk privately with Mr. Tooley here."

Tooley swallowed, exchanged a suspicious look with his partner. "What's this about? How do you know my name?"

"Could we talk somewhere?"

"Anything you got to say me–"

"I can say it in front of you partner–yeah, I seen the movie. All right. My name's Joe Cox, I'm a private eye and you're a prime suspect in a murder back in Paley."

Pitts coughed fitfully, sputtering smoke across the table at Joe. Tooley offered Pitts his drink. He accepted it and drank.

Tooley's pasted-on grin crumbled. "What the hell're you talking about, mister? Whose murder?"

"I think you know, sir. We have irrefutable evidence–eyewitnesses, in fact." Joe spied two big security guards standing by the cashier. "See those guys? They're here to make sure you don't decide to leave."

"You know who we are, fella?" Pitts growled.

"Yes, sir. You're Charles Pitts, he's Paul Tooley. Paley police officers. What do you say we give Detective Lee a call?"

The two cops paused, looked at each other and got up.

"Who did I purportedly murder?" Tooley asked.

"Jackie Weldon."

Tooley's surprise washed over him in a shudder. He brought his hand up to his mouth.

Pitts noticed. "You know this girl?"

Tooley nodded. "How'd she die?" he asked Joe.

"I hoped you'd tell me."

Suddenly Tooley grabbed Joe by the shirt, twisting it, and putting his face into Joe's. "I didn't kill her." He shoved Joe backwards into a couple at the next table. Their drinks jostled. The middle-aged man drunkenly complained, but Joe ignored him.

"Who did it then, Tooley?"

"She was alive the last time I saw her."

"You know where your handcuffs are?"

"My handcuffs?"

"That's right."

"Yeah."

"Where?"

Pitts got between Joe and Tooley. "Look, fella, why don't you take a hike? You ain't no cop and those two goons over there don't even know you're alive." He put the soggy end of his cigar back in his mouth, took Tooley by the arm and lead him away.

"Hey, buddy," the middle-aged drunk called. "Look what you did. What about our drinks?"

Joe took out a fiver. He used it to sop up the spill, wrung it out over the drunk's drink, then dropped the wadded wet bill into his glass.

When Joe got up to room 873 and knocked, the door opened immediately. Pitts pushed a .38 into his face.

"Won't you come in?"