But when he turned north at Coeur d’Alene, the strip malls thinned, and the forest seemed to shoulder its way back toward the road, as if to intimidate the drivers, he thought. It certainly worked with him. Forty miles later, the trees broke, and he was on a long bridge crossing a huge lake, the sun streaming through the windshield with an intensity he wasn’t used to. On the other side of the lake, twinkling through a pine forest, was the town of Kootenai Bay, and beyond that, thirty-five miles north, was Canada.
THE DOWNTOWN was small, the vestige of another era, when it was more of a railroad outpost than what it had become. The primary route into Kootenai Bay stretched three tree-covered blocks, then ended with a sharp turn to the left. Old brick buildings-none above two levels-sported signs for snowboards, espresso, bicycling, fishing, real estate. He turned right, away from downtown, dipped under a railroad trestle, and emerged on the lakefront near the Best Western where he had a reservation.
Pulling under a slumping veranda, he uncoiled from the small car and stretched, heard his spine pop with a sound like shuffling cards. The boy at the car rental counter had been right, he thought. A larger car would have been better for his back. As he entered the small lobby, he instinctively hit the remote control lock button on his key ring.
Three people were waiting to check in before him, two large men with crew cuts and a short, heavy woman with big hair and lime green shorts. All three held sixteen-ounce cans of Budweiser and spoke loudly, and he gathered they were in town for some kind of reunion. While he waited, Villatoro looked over the rack of real estate brochures near the door, and took several because they contained maps of the area. When the guests got their keys and left to find their rooms, Villatoro stepped up to the counter.
The check-in clerk was flustered from the three conventioneers, and she blew back a strand of graying hair away from her face and sighed loudly. “You’d think they’d put another person on the desk at check-in time, wouldn’t you?” she said. “Especially when there’s a Navy ship crew reunion in town.”
He shrugged, and smiled. Checking in four guests didn’t seem to be an exhausting task.
She nodded at the brochures he had picked up. She was in her late forties, he guessed, and had lived a hard life. Blooms of small threadlike veins mapped her cheeks. Alcohol. Nevertheless, she had an attractive, open face and smile.
She said, “A girlfriend of mine sold her house for $189,000 last week, and the guy who bought it resold it the next day, the next day, for $250,000.”
“Goodness,” Villatoro said.
“Damn right,” she said, finding his reservation card. “Makes me wonder what my place is worth. I bought it for forty grand twenty-five years ago.”
These people, he thought, talk to you like they’ve known you all their lives.
“Probably a lot,” he said, thinking how familiar it sounded. His own community was filled with tales like that, as longtime homeowners sold their homes to new residents for three or four times what they had originally paid.
“Business or pleasure?” she asked, looking up at him. He felt her eyes sweep over his wrinkled brown suit, his cream-colored shirt, his olive skin.
“Business,” he said.
“What kind of business?” she asked pleasantly.
“Unfinished business,” he said, a little amused at how it sounded.
“Sounds interesting and mysterious.” She laughed. “Come on, fess up.”
He felt his face flush. “I’m retired,” he said. He was still having trouble actually saying it without being self-conscious. It reminded him of the weeks after his wedding thirty-two years ago, when he stumbled as he introduced Donna as “my wife.” It just didn’t sound natural at the time, just as retirement didn’t sound natural now.
“How long?”
He flushed. “Two days. I was a police detective in Arcadia, California. ” As soon as he said it he didn’t know why he had volunteered the information.
“You have a badge and a gun?” she asked, making conversation.
“Not anymore.” He was very conscious of not having either. Like he was walking around without pants. Not that he’d ever drawn his gun, except at the range.
She scribbled something on the reservation card. “You held this with a credit card,” she said. “You want to keep it on that card?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Do you have a real estate agent yet? I can recommend a couple of good ones.”
“Excuse me?”
She looked at him. “I assume you’re looking for a house or land up here. You don’t need to sneak around. Half of the guests who stay here are looking to buy and retire. And believe me, not all of the real estate agents are trustworthy. There are some real crooks, and they don’t care if you’re a cop. Or an ex-cop. They’re used to ex-cops, believe you me.”
“I’m not interested in retiring here,” Villatoro said, somewhat defensively.
“Hmmm.” She clearly wasn’t sure she believed him. “Mr. Mysterious, you are.”
“No one ever said that before.”
“You seem like a nice guy. How about I cut you a deal, then,” she said, almost whispering. “I’ll give you the AAA rate instead of the rack rate. Saves you $20 a night.”
He wanted to refuse. But $20 a night for six nights would be helpful. “Thank you,” he said.
“You bet, Mr. Villatoro.”
She pronounced it “VILLA-torro.”
IN HIS ROOM, which was on the lower of two floors, Villatoro opened his curtains and looked out. While the hotel itself was tired and dowdy, the view was magnificent. Through a sliding glass door was a lawn that led to a beach, and a marina half-filled with boats. The lake was smooth as a tabletop all the way to the mountains on the other side that were white with snow. The afternoon rain clouds opened up, and columns of sun lined up across the horizon. He expected an orchestra to swell at the sight.
He dug in his pocket for his cell phone and powered it up. He had forgotten to turn it back on after the airplane landed, to check for messages. Maybe something from his wife, he hoped.
There was no signal. He had not even considered this possibility. He tossed the phone on the dresser.
He turned and looked around his room. Nothing special. A television, two double beds with worn bedspreads, a telephone on the desk with a phone book no bigger than a quality paperback beside it. Faded prints of elk, deer, and geese were on the walls.
Sitting on the too-soft bed, he opened his briefcase. After placing the hinged photos of his wife and daughter on the bed stand, he pulled out a manila file and laid it near the pillow. The file was two inches thick, the edges worn, the tab stained by his own fingerprints. The writing on the tab was smeared, but he remembered sitting at his desk, eight years before, and inscribing:
SANTA ANITA RACETRACK
Case File: 90813A
This is what had brought him to Kootenai Bay. This was the unfinished business. This is what had imposed such a strain on his marriage and family and the last few years in the department. The file contained the black cloud that loomed over him, blocking sunshine, preventing him from truly retiring and starting his new life.
Eduardo Villatoro got up and went to the sliding glass door and looked out on the lake and across it to the mountains. What a different world it was than the one he had left that morning. He could not imagine fitting into this world, or wanting to. He wished he still had his badge and gun.
Friday, 5:30 P.M.
THEY SHOULD BE home by now,” Monica Taylor said to Tom, who had just come into the kitchen from the living room where he was furtively watching an NBA game with playoff implications. He was wearing his brown UPS uniform shirt untucked over dark shorts. He had muscular legs that were already tan, she noticed. She wished, though, that he didn’t shave them. But he had explained that it was what bodybuilders had to do before a competition: shave, wax, and oil.