Now that he had a reliable fix on Leonard, Walter considered how to play it. He had options. He’d go back and wait until Leonard showed up. Tonight or tomorrow morning. Did it really make a difference? He felt sure it did not. He’d already reconnoitered, gotten a feel for the property, found places where he’d park, sufficiently off the road to avoid detection, but close enough to see Leonard coming. “Or maybe,” he thought, “what is the downside of getting an all-day, all-night flat, blocking the road, striking up a friendly chat with whomever happened by?” How did he know that Leonard would use the road? He’d left his truck behind, so it was likely. Was likely good enough? If not, Walter could go back to the cabin and talk to Michael again. He might learn more. That might be the easiest way. Downside of that? Still not entirely clear. In any case, the situation looked good, almost as good as he’d hoped. A couple of words with Leonard, a phone call back to Tom. Job done. Walter gone. Everyone happy. Or not. The only thing off was the feeling he couldn’t completely shake, that very small grain of sand. The same feeling he had on the dock on St. John after reading Isobel’s story.
Despite bitter cold, the sheltered Plaza sidewalks were crowded with blankets covered by silver and turquoise bracelets, necklaces, rings. Heavy Indian women sat together fighting the cold with coffee or something stronger. Walter wanted a gift for Isobel. The old woman in front of him brewed tea on a hot plate, an outlet set in the wall behind her. She had brilliant black eyes and a smooth, cheerful manner. She did not move easily, though; he figured she might have arthritis. She gave him a bluish stone attached to a silver chain. Walter held the stone in his fingers and raised it to the sunlight. As he moved it, the pendant seemed to change color and even shift its shape.
“It’s a stone for love,” the woman said, leaning slightly over her tea.
“Very nice,” Walter said.
She winked suggestively. “It changes in your hand. It changes because of the sun and the warmth of your hand. It’s a good romantic gift for the lady. She will like it very much. Two hundred forty dollars.”
“I’ll take it,” he said, thinking maybe tomorrow he’d drive back to Leonard’s place one more time.
Clarksville
He rejected seeing the slow-witted handyman Michael DelGrazo a second time, and, in the clear light of a New Mexico morning, realized that waiting for Leonard’s return was useless. Instead, he decided to go where he knew Carter Lawrence had been, and where, he was almost positive, Leonard Martin had been too. Somewhere they might have been seen by somebody. Walter flew to Atlanta again, this time changing planes and continuing on to Nashville. From Nashville, the drive to Clarksville, Tennessee would be about an hour. Before he left St. John, he checked some of the credit card records for Nicholas Stevenson and Harvey Daniels. He knew they were the ones Carter had met in Tennessee-it had to be them-but he wanted to be certain. Preparation was always the key element in solving a puzzle. There were times when Walter had to act quickly without it, but this was not one of them. “Two plus two is always four,” he told himself. No matter the certainty of the math, he knew it was always best to check your work. He set about that task. He knew exactly what he was looking for, and it took little time to find it. Both men had flown to Nashville on the same day Carter Lawrence drove to Clarksville. In Nashville, Nick Stevenson rented a car that he returned the next day with 117 miles on it. On the map, Clarksville was about fifty-five miles from Nashville. He found no hotel charges and he knew why. He smiled at their amateurism. They had paid cash for their rooms, thinking they would go unidentified. It might have worked if they hadn’t rented the car. The airline tickets were fine, absolutely normal. “After all,” Walter thought, “two lawyers from Atlanta traveling to Nashville for the day-happens all the time.” The car gave them away. It is possible to rent a car for cash, but it’s not easy. It’s also possible to use your credit card to actually get the car and then pay cash when you return it. Thus, no record. But, of course, Walter knew you’d have to be experienced in the ways of such secrecy to understand things like that. If people realized how simple and quick it is to read the story of anyone’s life via their credit card activity, they’d pay cash for everything.
The Pakistani gentleman who registered Walter at the Holiday Inn in Clarksville told him the restaurant was open for dinner until ten o’clock. He’d been flying since early morning, and the drive from Nashville was so dull he almost fell asleep at the wheel. A nap was what he needed. He awoke around seven, washed his face, changed his shirt, and strolled toward the restaurant. The dining room was half filled. Syrupy recorded music, heavy on the strings, played too loudly. Walter found a table next to the window as far from the smokers as he could. A young Korean girl brought him a menu. For a moment Walter wondered how an Indian or Pakistani ends up a hotel clerk in a place like this, and how a Korean woman gets to be a waitress in a Holiday Inn in rural Tennessee. Then he remembered that Clarksville was an Army town. Fort Campbell, Kentucky was just up the road. In his sleepiness he must have missed the billboards. There are probably wives around here from every place on earth graced with the presence of U.S. troops in the last half century. He assumed this girl was married to a soldier in the 101st. When she brought him his Diet Coke, he asked, “Do you always work the dinner shift?” The Korean girl didn’t know what to make of this question. Walter saw her reticence and added quickly, “Have you seen this man?” He showed her a photo of Carter Lawrence.
“No,” the girl said.
“You’ve never seen him before?”
“No. I am just filling in tonight. I don’t usually work this late.”
“Oh, I see,” Walter said. “Thank you. Is there anyone else here who does who might have seen him?”
“I don’t know. You can ask someone else. Maybe Melissa. I can ask her to come over.”
“Please do. Thanks.” Walter ordered a chef salad and some french fries. Maybe a gut as hard as a rock wasn’t completely out of the question. When his waitress had taken the order, she walked over to where another waitress stood, killing time, hoping for a larger crowd later in the evening. Walter saw the Korean woman point to him as she said something to the other woman, who then looked in his direction too. Then the other waitress, a chunky, middle-aged white woman, walked over to his table. The little plastic pin above her right breast read “Debra Melissa.”
“Thanks, Melissa. Thanks for coming over.”
“You looking for somebody?” she asked, keeping her distance.
“No. Not exactly. But I am looking for someone who might have seen this man.” Walter showed her the photograph of Carter Lawrence.
“You a cop?” she asked, then answered her own question. “You’re no cop.”
Her eyes gave her away, and Walter saw it. Of course he saw it. He’d seen that same expression many times before in many places. She recognized the picture. “Of course I’m not a cop,” he said. “You’ve seen this man, haven’t you? You served him, right?” She said nothing. It appeared she was mulling it over, trying to decide if she ought to reveal anything to this stranger. “Where the hell is he from?” he imagined her asking herself. He was exactly correct. She was thinking, “Nobody comes in here with a tan like that just before Christmas.” She remained silent.
“Look,” said Walter, taking a hundred dollar bill and laying it down on the table, putting its edge just under his Diet Coke. “I just want to know if you saw him last month sometime.” Melissa looked at the hundred; a sight she saw not often enough to please her. She looked again at the photo. It was the skinny one, the one with the long wrists and geeky neck, the young one who sat next to the cowboy.