Liar: An Irene Kelly Mystery Part 40

I thought back to our visit to their home. "There was a book inside the trailer," I said, "but maybe Gerald was reading it."

"Or maybe no one was," he said. "My dad used to do that. Put a book mark in a book and carry it around with him. Part of the ongoing fake-out." He handed the paper back to me and added, "My dad used to do this, too. Just write the numbers. Pretend he was in a big hurry, couldn't write out the rest."

"Whether she can read or not, I'm betting there's an El Camino stashed there."

"A what?"

I told him what I had seen when I studied the photos.

"And if it's at this address?"

"We'll consult Rachel on that. The police can probably tell if anyone has hauled explosives in that car."

He started looking through the photos again.

"One other thing," I said, "I can understand why your uncle didn't ask about my face being bruised. Unfortunately, not everyone will ask a woman where she got her bruises-they may be thinking, 'Leave that husband before he kills you, honey,' but not many people will comment aloud. Brennan and his neighbors didn't ask, several other people didn't ask. But you-have we met up with anyone who didn't ask or comment about your hand?"

He thought for a moment, then said, "Just Gerald."

"Right. And since the prenuptial agreement only covered a fortune that no longer exists, who stands in line to inherit if you and your mother are out of the way?"

"Before this new will, Gerald."

"If he has worked long enough in construction," I said, "he probably knows where he can get access to explosives."

After taking some time to think about all of this, he asked, "What should we do?"

"First, call Rachel. Talk to her about all of this, and tell her we're on our way to her place."

"I don't think this is such a hot idea," I said.

"Let's just see if we can find that car," Rachel said. "We don't need to touch it-but if it's there, we call the police, tell them to bring dogs trained in locating explosives. You can bet they'll be traces of it in the El Camino."

"I don't know-" I said, feeling more cautious than usual.

"You have some dark clothes in that trunk of yours?" she asked Travis, ignoring me.

"Yes," he answered, excited by the prospect of taking some action. "I might even have a dark T-s.h.i.+rt that will fit Irene."

She told us to change into the darkest clothes we could find; she had already done the same. In fact, she was shamelessly outfitted as though she were a burglar.

"You don't want to come along," she said to me, "fine. Stay here."

I let myself be swept along, even as I heard that inner voice say, Watch where you're going!

Rachel tried to make up for snapping at me by giving me a long-handled flashlight. I tried not to think about it being just like one I used to keep in the Karmann Ghia. I was putting D-cell batteries in it when Travis came into Rachel's living room, s.h.i.+rt unb.u.t.toned and frustration written all over his face. One-handed dressing. I'd been there once myself.

"You managed the pants," I said, before he spoke. "s.h.i.+rts with b.u.t.tons are a nuisance. Let me help."

"It didn't give me this much trouble in the store," he said.

"That was earlier in the day."

He was quiet as I worked on the b.u.t.tons. He thanked me, then paced while I finished putting the flashlight together. I supposed he was working himself up over the evening's adventures, but I decided talking about it wouldn't make him any calmer.

"Take a left here," I said. Throughout the drive to Los Alamitos, that type of phrase had been the extent of our conversation. Now that we were off the main boulevards, the streets we drove on were deserted. Rachel was driving-Frank's Volvo-and slowed to look at addresses. She pulled over to the curb.

"Its not in this block," I said.

"Before we get there, once again let's go over what we're going to do. Travis, you'll watch from the car. Any sign of trouble-if you see Gerald or Deeny, or even their cars-start the car. We'll be listening for it. Don't unlock the doors until we're close to the car. Use your cell phone in case there's real trouble-you just stay inside the car and call the police."

I thought he might protest that he wanted to take a more active role, but he simply said, "All right."

"The other thing you need to do is to watch for a signal from Irene. If she flashes her flashlight twice, start the car and if she flashes it three times, call nine-one-one."

"Since we're breaking and entering," I asked, "what is he supposed to tell them?"

Travis laughed.

"Actually," Rachel said, "that will do fine. Travis, tell them there's a burglary in progress."

"I hope none of the neighbors make the same call before he does," I said.

"You could have stayed home," she said.

Too late now. "Where do you want me posted?"

"We'll figure that out when we get there. You'll be outside the building, watching for anyone approaching on foot."

"What if they're already at the house?" I asked.

"Not sure. Depends on the setup."

"Do you two have weapons?" Travis asked.

"Yes, we're armed," Rachel said, not betraying herself by giving me any meaningful looks. While I knew she carried a gun, I wondered what besides my Swiss Army knife and a big flashlight counted as my weapons.

She pulled back onto the street again. There was an odd mix of buildings on the street; a church, small houses, a few duplexes, some light-manufacturing companies and other businesses. We crossed over railroad tracks that used to run through Papa DeMont's sugar beet farm, pa.s.sing a lumberyard.

The house Gerald Spanning had purchased was the only residence on its block. There was a new post office across the street, an abandoned foundry on one corner. There were several vacant lots between the house and the foundry.

The house was completely dark, its exterior illuminated by a street lamp. There were no cars parked in the narrow, unpaved driveway, which led to a pair of old-fas.h.i.+oned, carriage-style garage doors. The garage was separated from the house by a short, cracked and weed-choked walkway. A low, rusted and bowed chain-link fence gaped open near one corner of the front yard it enclosed. The lawn had been mowed, but the flower beds were dry and empty. The dark paint on the house and garage was peeling. One of the screens on a front window was torn. If he was fixing the place up, Gerald was working on the interior first.

I noticed there were no trees on the lot. "Very out in the open, isn't it?" I said.

"Yes," she said. "Not much cover, but no neighbors to speak of-no one with a view of this place. Looks like there's an alley in back. Let's check it out."

She drove around the corner and stopped the car just at the alley's entrance, illuminating it. There were no cars parked in the alley.

We drove slowly down it, past the graffiti-covered, empty corrugated tin buildings of the foundry, along the backyard of the house. There was less light here, but we could see two more double doors on this side of the garage, and a cluttered yard. An old bathtub, a sagging clothesline, a broken swing set and other objects were surrounded by weeds. The back screen door was off, propped up against one wall of the house. The chain-link fence on this side of the house was slightly taller than the one in front; there was another short drive leading from this end of the garage to the alley, but it didn't look as if it were much used; the weeds were taller, and a large padlock and heavy chain held a double gate shut.

We continued past the house; the opposite side of the alley was a high cinder-block wall, the back of a shopping center. The other end of the alley let out onto a street bordered by warehouses and a truck yard.

Rachel pulled around to the front of the house, parking on the opposite side of the street again. She seemed to be trying to make up her mind about something. She moved the car a few feet, and said, "This will give you a better view of the back gate, I think. If you need to move the car a little, do it when we first get out, okay? Otherwise you'll start it up and we'll be wetting our pants over nothing."

We all got out of the car. I walked around to the driver's side just as Rachel handed him the keys.

I was feeling uneasy, but when I looked at Travis, he seemed more worried than I was. He got into the car and rolled down the window.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Yes. Be careful." He looked over at Rachel. "Both of you."

"We'll be fine," I said.

"Piece of cake," Rachel said. "This shouldn't take long."

She never should have said that. Later I told her I thought she put the jinx on the whole deal right then and there.

33.

We crossed the street quietly. Following Rachel, I could see that she was much better prepared for this adventure: she wore gloves, a holstered gun and an equipment belt that wasn't bulky but kept her hands free -it held her flashlight and a few tools. Her dark pants had lots of pockets.

My pants were dark, too, but while my pocketknife was tucked away in one of the four pockets, I had to carry the flashlight. I hadn't thought of the knife as anything more than a last-ditch sort of weapon; I brought it because it might come in handy as a tool. Rachel would have-quite rightly-counted my carrying a gun in the liability rather than the a.s.set column. I hadn't thought of gloves.

I whispered this last concern to Rachel when we reached the foot of the driveway.

"You won't be touching anything-a lookout, remember?" She glanced down at my shoes. "Good-running shoes-that's all you need. You see Gerald, just warn me and then get the h.e.l.l out of here."

At the corner of the building, she asked me to stay close to her. "Don't get involved in watching what I'm doing, just keep your eyes moving on the local scenery."

She checked each side of the building, then moved to a door on the side facing the house. While the double doors at each end of the garage were locked with heavy padlocks, this door was locked with a much smaller lock.

"Watch the windows of the house, too," she whispered. "Just in case anyone is home."

She had pulled out something that looked like an eyegla.s.ses case. Less than a minute later, I heard a snick, and saw that she had managed to pick the padlock. She pocketed it, tried to open the door, and found the k.n.o.b locked as well. This took even less time than the padlock.

"Stay out here," she said. "If you hear or see anything, tap lightly on this door, then get yourself back to the car."

She went inside, closing the door behind her. I walked a few feet, looked quickly down the alley, walked back. I kept watching the house. There wasn't a sound to be heard from the garage. I heard the sound of a car, looked, realized it was on another street-the street at the end of the alley. I waited, but the car kept moving, didn't stop near the alley or Reagan Street.

What the h.e.l.l was taking so long? It should have only taken a few seconds to see if there was an El Camino in the garage, get its plate number and leave. Plates could be taken off or switched, though, so maybe she was getting the vehicle identification number instead. I moved around a little, checked the other side of the building, came back to the door. It shouldn't be taking so long.

It was with more than a little relief that I saw her open the door again and step outside. I was relieved until I saw her face. She looked angry; there was a harsh determination in her eyes and the set of her mouth.

"The car's not there?"

She had bent to open one of the pockets on her trousers, was pulling something from it. "The El Camino? No." She straightened up, held out a pair of latex gloves. "Here, put these on. You think you can go in there without being bothered by-you know, the confined s.p.a.ce?"

"I'll be okay." I took the gloves, started putting them on. "What's in there?"

"I'll show you, but we have to hurry. I don't want to keep Travis waiting."

She stepped inside, I followed. She closed the door behind me. She turned on her flashlight. The garage was more orderly than the backyard, but was nevertheless crowded with lawn equipment, tools and lumber. A fixed wooden ladder led to a half loft above us, where more lumber was stored. I couldn't see much of it, and wasn't really interested in the supplies for the renovation. My attention was focused on the dusty, dark-colored Camry sitting in the middle of the garage. The front b.u.mper was off, and on a workbench, but it was clear the car had been in an accident.

"The right headlamp has been replaced," she whispered. "But the old one is in that barrel-he's using it as a trash can." She moved the light toward a large cardboard drum with a metal rim. "I had a look underneath. There's blood, hair and fabric. It should be enough. You want to look?"

"No," I said, feeling sick.

"Okay. We'll lock up and call the local cops. I'll refer them to McCain. He should-" She suddenly stopped talking. We had both heard it. The sound of the Volvo starting up.

And then, almost immediately, the sound of breaking gla.s.s.

34.

Rachel's eyes widened. She turned and reached the door before me, peeked out, motioned me to stay back. "Listen!" she said. "Hide in here. I'll come back for you. If not, take that crowbar off the wall and pry the hinges off the door from the inside. Or smash your way out with a sledgehammer-whatever it takes."

"Rachel-!"

But she was shoving me back from the door, and to my horror, I heard her locking it.

"No!" I whispered, but I could hear her moving away from the door.

Do what she asked you to do, I told myself. Concentrate on that. I narrowed the beam of the flashlight, tried to work my way back from the door to find a hiding place. I heard a car door slam. I managed to get to the double doors facing the street; I turned the flashlight off and looked through the crack between the doors.

It didn't afford much of a view, but enough to see Travis being held at gunpoint by Gerald Spanning. As I watched, Spanning took hold of Travis's injured hand and jerked it hard behind Travis's back. Travis made a sharp cry of pain, stumbled slightly. The gun was pressed ruthlessly beneath his jaw. It was then I noticed that his face was bleeding.

It was all I could do not to launch myself against the doors in rage.

Spanning forced him across the street, toward me. Behind them I could see the Volvo, the driver's side window smashed out. Spanning stopped at the foot of the drive and said, "Come on out, all of you. I won't hesitate to shoot this b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Rachel didn't answer. I had a frantic impulse to shout back at Spanning, to do something, anything. Given the distance and the darkness and the fact that she had nothing more than a handgun, I knew Rachel was waiting for a better opportunity to act-but would she wait too long?