She thought it over a moment, then reached into her shoulder bag and removed a sheet of coarse gray paper almost identical to the one Eddy had given Abatangelo his first night out. He took it from her, read the addresses, and noticed the combination matched Shel’s up to the three-year mark, then things were different. The most recent address, cross-referenced to the registration of Shel’s truck, was the one Abatangelo knew. The Akers’ place.
“I thought you couldn’t access DMV information unless you intended to serve process,” he said, handing the paper back.
Jill Rosemond froze. “Who told you that?”
He liked her response. “You’ve got some paper to hang on Frank. A subpoena? Summons?”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“Why didn’t you go out to the house, instead of the bar?”
“I did go out. No one was there.”
“When was this?”
“Not long before I met up with you and Ms. Beaudry.”
Abatangelo considered this. It made sense, he supposed.
She added, “It’s not an easy place to find.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
She cocked her head again. “You said- ”
“I have an address. I never said I’d been out there.”
“Don’t insult me. I’ve got eyes. I’m not stupid. You and Lachelle- ”
“We just met.”
Jill Rosemond sat back and laughed. “Not possible,” she said. “Not from what I saw.”
“Appearances deceive. I’m sure, given your line of work, you’ve discovered that to be true.”
“You seemed very protective.”
“It’s my way.” He reached out his hand. “What other printouts did you get on this Frank character?”
Jill Rosemond laughed again, a little less naturally this time. “Excuse me?”
“A rap sheet,” Abatangelo said. “Or does that take longer than just a few hours?”
She studied him. “You still refuse to give me your name?”
We’ve been through this, Abatangelo thought. You didn’t like my answer. I’m new here. A stranger, just passing through.
“Who I am isn’t important. Not yet.”
“What’s your stake in this?”
“This?”
“The Briscoe murders.”
“Not a thing.”
“In Frank Maas, then.”
The beaming counter girl appeared, bearing a coffeepot. Her braces gleamed, her eyes quivered, strands of hair erupted from under her hair net. Abatangelo accepted a warm-up for fear of making her cry.
“Given what you’ve told me,” he said once the girl moved on, “given what I learned from Shel tonight, I’d say everyone involved has known happier times. I’m a firm believer in happier times. That’s my stake.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Later.”
“Why not now?”
“I need a better sense of what’s relevant, what’s not, before I say something that might drag her into your orbit.”
“What orbit is that?”
“Punishment.”
Jill Rosemond smirked and waved her hand. “You sound like her now.”
“You’ve got to account for two dead twins. You’re trying to tell me, if you find out who killed them, that’s it?”
“It’s the end of the matter for me, yes. I don’t have any power to go beyond that.”
“You hand it off to the law.”
“That’s my client’s decision, not mine.”
Abatangelo laughed.
She said, “I asked what your stake is in all this.”
“Like you won’t listen to what I have to say, regardless.”
“I’ll listen to anybody. Your friend was right in that regard. It doesn’t mean I’ll believe them. Or say yes if they ask for money.”
“I haven’t asked for money.”
“I’m impressed. It’s saintly of you.”
“That’s me. A true believer.”
“In happier times.”
“There you go.”
“Even if you have to remove Frank Maas from the picture.”
Abatangelo looked down, sipped his coffee. “I have no particular interest in seeing him suffer.”
“Then nothing you’ve said here makes sense.”
“I don’t recall saying much of anything.”
“You’ve said enough. Believe me. Look, I need to speak with him. Frank Maas.”
“I understand. I doubt you improved your chances given your performance tonight. You won’t have much luck getting any further following the same tack.”
“Which means you might come in handy.”
“Could be.”
“Do you think he’ll run?”
Abatangelo’s sense of Frank was that he resembled any number of goofs he’d come across over the years, in prison and out. The kind that never mean any harm but always end up making somebody suffer. The kind that always forget and never learn. Run? Hell yes. And take Shel with him.
“I’d say that’s a distinct possibility.”
“He won’t be doing himself any favors if he does.”
“It’s been my experience,” Abatangelo said, “that the people who crow loudest about standing tall are the ones who’ve never had to do it.”
“I’m not saying he’s a suspect.”
“But he’ll do. Especially if he runs.”
“What will it take,” she said, “to get you to tell me the rest of what you know?”
“A little more time.”
“How long?”
“I wish I knew.”
She sat there a moment, then gathered her keys and bag and rose from the table. Extending her hand, she said, “Next time, if there is a next time, please don’t go to so much trouble to lie to me. It only makes you sound like a loser.”
He took her hand, gripping it cordially, but said nothing. She turned, then, and exited Zippy Donuts, crossing the parking lot to her car. It was a station wagon, several years old, the sort a mother would drive.
It brought to mind the issue of children again. Not hers. Not the Briscoe brothers. He recalled what Shel had said, about her and Frank and a baby boy. A boy that got murdered. He pictured Shel holding the child, cradling him, and then discovering that the boy was dead, the body sprawled bloody and lifeless in her arms. Beaten with a hammer, he thought. Good God.
He gathered his things. It was time to go; he had some pictures to develop.
Chapter 12
Frank figured Roy would drive straight for Rio Vista to a veterinarian the brothers always talked about in the context of gunshot wounds. Frank chose a different route, taking back roads empty this time of night, and down which a bullet-riddled Mercedes diesel with shot-out windows, no taillights and only one good headlight would draw scant notice. Just under an hour later he arrived at the gate leading to the ranch house. No one was stationed there. All was still. Even so he parked the car in the culvert and slinked in, thinking he could dive into the grass and hide if he heard a car coming in or out. No one came. He reached the ranch house without incident and studied it from a distance for a while. It was dark, but that could mean anything. No one there. Everyone there, waiting. Waiting for me.
But they think you’re dead, he told himself. They think Snuff killed you.
He checked the yard for other cars, but none were there. The barn they used for a garage stood open, and only his truck was parked inside. Where was Shel? Getting closer to the house, he circled it twice, crouching beneath the windows, listening. No sound from inside. Finally, he went up the back steps and tried the door. It was locked. You don’t set up an ambush, he thought, then lock the door. He felt above the door frame where the extra key was hidden, found it and opened the door. The kitchen was dark. He was still fishing for the light switch when the phone rang.
Run, he thought. Now.
Instead, he turned on the light. No one came forward to kill him all over again, and on the tenth ring the phone went quiet. He staggered to the breakfast nook and collapsed.
A newspaper cluttered the table, someone had tried the crossword, and beside it sat an ashtray filled with menthol butts. Rowena, he thought. Her and her boy, Duval, they must still be at their movie. Waiting for Roy to show up.