The other three came out to look curiously at Stan. Fitzroy said, “One of us? Which one?”
“Stan,” Stan said. “They asked me to come up because I’m the best driver, I’ll make the best time. I would of come yesterday except for the snow, and I didn’t have the plow anymore.”
Marjorie said, “Do you have a message for us?”
“Naw,” Stan said. “I got this.” And from his carcoat he pulled a Ziploc bag, which he extended toward Little Feather.
Who looked at it with some revulsion. Inside the bag were some strands of black hair. Unwilling to touch it, she said, “What’s that?”
“Your DNA,” Stan told her.
“Did that—did it come from a grave?”
Stan looked both astonished and disgusted. “A grave? No, whadawe wanna do with a grave? This come from a lady in New Jersey. Well, from her hairbrush.”
Fitzroy, sounding awed, said, “You got into Thurstead?”
“Sure,” Stan said. “Why not?”
“But—” Fitzroy was having a lot of trouble here. “It’s so well guarded. There are many valuable works of art at Thurstead.”
“There sure are,” Stan said. “We made out like bandits. Well, I guess we are bandits, so that’s how we made out.”
Little Feather had unzipped the bag and taken out most of the hair. It was a little finer than hers, but black, and mostly straight like hers. She sorted it into a kind of swatch while the others continued to talk.
Irwin said, “Do you mean you robbed the place? Thurstead?”
“Well, we were there,” Stan said.
“I’m not hearing this,” Marjorie stated.
Fitzroy said, “But what if the police catch you? Isn’t it possible they’ll, they’ll find us?”
“I don’t think they’re looking,” Stan told him. “Nothing in the paper yet. There was that big snowstorm over the weekend, you know, maybe they won’t even know it happened until weeks from now.”
“Oh-kay,” Little Feather said.
They all looked at her, and she held up the swatch of hair, which she’d arranged between her thumb and first finger so that it looked as though she’d just cut it off her own head herself just this minute. “Now it’s gonna be okay,” she said.
Fitzroy said, “Little Feather? Are you sure you can make the investigator believe that’s your hair?”
“Watch me,” Little Feather advised. “You don’t get a blackjack dealer’s license in Nevada without knowing how to use your hands.” She had gone in an instant from confusion and fear directly to absolute self-assurance. “Bring on that investigator,” she said.
“And if I can just make a quick pit stop,” Stan said, “I’m outta here.”
Marjorie said, “You’re going to drive all the way back? Today?”
“You bet,” Stan told her. “My pals down there are waiting for me. We’re gonna sell some property we just come into, and we all want to be there to cut up the jackpot. So, could I?”
“Oh, the bathroom,” Little Feather said. “Sure. It’s right down the hall there.”
“Thanks.”
Stan went down the hall, Marjorie moved into a corner to use her cell phone, to find out exactly when the investigator would arrive, and Fitzroy said, “Irwin. We’re off.”
“Right,” Irwin said.
As they shrugged into their coats, Little Feather said, “Where you two going?”
“We shall follow,” Fitzroy told her, “our new friend Stan. I believe he shall lead us to our former partners.”
“Former,” Little Feather said.
Irwin said, “And I believe we’ll find them counting a jackpot. See you, Little Feather.”
44
He isn’t in that much of a hurry,” Irwin commented. He was behind the wheel of the Voyager, Fitzroy beside him, the courier Stan in a recent red Lexus some distance ahead, southbound on the Northway.
“Then neither are we,” Fitzroy told him, smiling like a man who’s had an advance look at the test answers. Which, in a way, is exactly what he was.
Everything was about to come out right after all, and at long last. His simple but profitable scheme to produce the missing Pottaknobbee heiress had almost derailed several times, had been forced to undergo all the complications produced by Andy Kelp and Tiny Bulcher and John Whatever his name was—and their timely assistance once or twice as well, it had to be admitted—but through it all, the original concept had remained intact. The hair in Little Feather’s hand would prove her ancestry and open the casino coffers to her and to her partners. Oh, happy day.
Of course, Fitzroy had no doubt a little intimidation would be required to keep Little Feather from forgetting she had partners, but Fitzroy also knew that he and Irwin were up to whatever persuasive methods were called for. And the bozos—Irwin’s word, which Fitzroy was happy to borrow, now that they were in endgame—were about to be dealt with for good and all.
In addition to the usual sidearms that he and Irwin packed on their persons, they now had a pair of Glock machine pistols under the Voyager’s front seats, and Fitzroy firmly expected to use them before this day was done.
And with a profit attached as well. Not only would they rid themselves of all these unwelcome associates but those associates, according to Stan, had just performed a very profitable robbery. That profit would do just as nicely in Fitzroy’s pocket.
The only remaining problem that he foresaw was Irwin himself, and those blasted tapes of his. While the tapes existed, perforce Irwin must also continue to exist. Well, once the bozos were dealt with, and once Little Feather was installed as the new full partner in the casino, Fitzroy would be able to turn his attention to the problem of Irwin. He had no doubt it was a problem that would eventually be solved.
In the meantime, on this cold and sunny day, Monday, the eleventh of December, while Little Feather was palming off another person’s hair on an unexpecting investigator, Fitzroy and Irwin drove south, following that red Lexus, staying well back, observing that Stan was in no rush to be once again among his fellow thieves, but was taking his time, staying with the general flow of traffic, barely above the speed limit.
Nearly two hours after they’d started, they came to Albany, then made the transition from the Northway to the Thruway, and shortly afterward, the Lexus began to signal for a right. “It’s a rest area,” Irwin said.
“Good,” Fitzroy commented. “I’ve been feeling for some time I could use a rest area.”
“We need gas, too,” Irwin told him. “I’ll take care of that while you’re in the gents.”
“If I can find a bottle of soda or a sweet roll,” Fitzroy offered, “without our friend Stan piping me, I shall do so.”
“Just don’t still be gone when he comes back,” Irwin said. “I’m following him if you’re here or not.”
“Oh, I’ll be back in plenty of time,” Fitzroy assured him as they followed the Lexus into the rest area and to the passenger car parking lot next to the fast-food restaurant.
Irwin dawdled while they watched Stan on his car phone in there, absorbed in what he was doing, paying no attention to the world around him. “Reporting in,” Irwin commented.
“Establishing a rendezvous,” Fitzroy concluded.
Finally, Stan, too, concluded his phone call, and emerged from the Lexus, to lock it and head for the restaurant.
“Good,” Fitzroy said, “he’s decided to have lunch.”
“You can get me a sweet roll and a bottle of soda,” Irwin said.
“I shall.”
Irwin stopped in front of the restaurant entrance long enough for Fitzroy to climb down from the Voyager, then headed on for the gas pumps while Fitzroy went into the building and followed the sign to the men’s room, which was full of skier daddies and their tiny sons. Moving through all these elbow-height people, Fitzroy entered a stall and spent some time in there, listening to the families bond outside; it sounded like an aviary.