There were days, more and more of them, when he could imagine starting over, at age forty-two, as a photographer, a park ranger. But he had no doubt that ten years from now he would still be Detective Raney. Why? To continue with something implies hope.
His phone rang. The sound startled him. Bay’s name lit up the caller ID.
“Sheriff?”
“Raney, this is weird. Real goddamn weird.”
“What is?”
“I ran Mavis’s background like you said. I used the name on her son’s birth certificate: Mavis Adler. I even called up a fed buddy to make sure I had all the databases covered.”
“And?”
“There is no Mavis Adler. There never was. Not our Mavis.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there are plenty of Mavis Adlers out there, but not one comes close to Mavis Wilkins. Either they turn up deceased, or the age is all wrong.”
“Huh.”
“Is that the best you can offer? Where are you, anyway? Sounds like a video arcade.”
“The casino. Look, you know what to do. Run her Social against the dead Adlers. And send her prints to Interpol.”
“Could it be some kind of witness protection thing?”
“Maybe. There was more to her than a crafts store, that’s for sure.”
“Forty years in a town this small and no one knew a goddamn thing about her. How’s that possible?”
“Practice,” Raney said. “And luck.”
“I guess her luck ran out.”
“I guess it did. What does the birth certificate say about the father?”
“Unknown.”
“We’ll have to ID Mavis before we can track him down.”
Bay clucked his tongue, hung up.
A half hour later Raney’s forty dollars had dwindled to fifteen. A church congregation occupied the machines around him, adults of all ages wearing T-shirts that read IN CHRIST WE ARE WON . They called across to each other as though Raney weren’t there. The day’s frenzy had arrived.
Clara tapped him on the shoulder.
“I don’t know if it’s good news or bad,” she said.
“Was he here?”
“He still is. Or at least he never checked out.”
“You get a room number?”
“Seven thirteen.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Very good.”
“So what do we do now?”
Raney handed her his depleted stash of nickels.
“Your turn,” he said.
“I’m not coming with you?”
“You’re too pretty for the cameras.”
He walked away wishing he’d said something—anything—else.
He stopped in the gift shop, bought a baseball cap featuring a Zuni sun and an oversize sweatshirt with the name of the casino painted across the front. He changed in the men’s room, bent the brim of the cap and pulled it low, folded his shirt and blazer into the gift-store bag. He kept his eyes on the carpet as he walked to the bank of elevators, mugging tourist for the cameras.
A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung outside room 713. Raney knocked just in case, then jimmied the door with a credit card, slipping the hard plastic between latch and frame quickly enough to pass for lawful entry.
The room gave an immediate impression of slovenliness: bed unmade, pajamas in a heap on the floor, iron and ironing board left out, towels scattered around the bathroom, power cord on the desk plugged into nothing. A second look revealed someone who was orderly to the point of obsession. Unlike most people, Kurt used every space the hotel provided. A half dozen identical salmon-colored dress shirts hung in the closet by the door, neatly pressed, buttons facing in the same direction; perfectly creased pants lay draped over the tiers of a slacks hanger; argyle socks, black T-shirts, and patterned boxers filled the dresser drawers. None of Kurt’s clothes showed the slightest sign of wear, as though he mail-ordered a new wardrobe every few weeks.
A picture began to form. Kurt had been preparing for his day, ironing his shirt, still in his pajamas, when…had Mavis called? Did she make Gonzalez’s man before he reached the house? Unlikely: Mavis and Junior had been killed in the early
His phone rang. The sound startled him. Bay’s name lit up the caller ID.
“Sheriff?”
“Raney, this is weird. Real goddamn weird.”
“What is?”
“I ran Mavis’s background like you said. I used the name on her son’s birth certificate: Mavis Adler. I even called up a fed buddy to make sure I had all the databases covered.”
“And?”
“There is no Mavis Adler. There never was. Not our Mavis.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there are plenty of Mavis Adlers out there, but not one comes close to Mavis Wilkins. Either they turn up deceased, or the age is all wrong.”
“Huh.”
“Is that the best you can offer? Where are you, anyway? Sounds like a video arcade.”
“The casino. Look, you know what to do. Run her Social against the dead Adlers. And send her prints to Interpol.”
“Could it be some kind of witness protection thing?”
“Maybe. There was more to her than a crafts store, that’s for sure.”
“Forty years in a town this small and no one knew a goddamn thing about her. How’s that possible?”
“Practice,” Raney said. “And luck.”
“I guess her luck ran out.”
“I guess it did. What does the birth certificate say about the father?”
“Unknown.”
“We’ll have to ID Mavis before we can track him down.”
Bay clucked his tongue, hung up.
A half hour later Raney’s forty dollars had dwindled to fifteen. A church congregation occupied the machines around him, adults of all ages wearing T-shirts that read IN CHRIST WE ARE WON . They called across to each other as though Raney weren’t there. The day’s frenzy had arrived.
Clara tapped him on the shoulder.
“I don’t know if it’s good news or bad,” she said.
“Was he here?”
“He still is. Or at least he never checked out.”
“You get a room number?”
“Seven thirteen.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Very good.”
“So what do we do now?”
Raney handed her his depleted stash of nickels.
“Your turn,” he said.
“I’m not coming with you?”
“You’re too pretty for the cameras.”
He walked away wishing he’d said something—anything—else.
He stopped in the gift shop, bought a baseball cap featuring a Zuni sun and an oversize sweatshirt with the name of the casino painted across the front. He changed in the men’s room, bent the brim of the cap and pulled it low, folded his shirt and blazer into the gift-store bag. He kept his eyes on the carpet as he walked to the bank of elevators, mugging tourist for the cameras.
A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung outside room 713. Raney knocked just in case, then jimmied the door with a credit card, slipping the hard plastic between latch and frame quickly enough to pass for lawful entry.
The room gave an immediate impression of slovenliness: bed unmade, pajamas in a heap on the floor, iron and ironing board left out, towels scattered around the bathroom, power cord on the desk plugged into nothing. A second look revealed someone who was orderly to the point of obsession. Unlike most people, Kurt used every space the hotel provided. A half dozen identical salmon-colored dress shirts hung in the closet by the door, neatly pressed, buttons facing in the same direction; perfectly creased pants lay draped over the tiers of a slacks hanger; argyle socks, black T-shirts, and patterned boxers filled the dresser drawers. None of Kurt’s clothes showed the slightest sign of wear, as though he mail-ordered a new wardrobe every few weeks.
A picture began to form. Kurt had been preparing for his day, ironing his shirt, still in his pajamas, when…had Mavis called? Did she make Gonzalez’s man before he reached the house? Unlikely: Mavis and Junior had been killed in the early
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