“To complete the scenario.” Soliano waited until he’d regained our attention. “Had the crash not occurred, the driver would have made his delivery of the dummy talc cask — along with the rest of the shipment — to the dump. And the swap would have gone undetected.” He regarded Miller. “This is possible?”
“Perp’d need some serious mojo.”
Walter said, “There might be a way to test the theory.”
“Yes?” Soliano said.
“If the perp does have the necessary mojo,” Walter said, “perhaps he tried the swap before. On a previous shipment. And that time things went as planned and the talc cask did arrive at the dump. In which case, it could be located?”
Miller shook his head. “Too late now. Casks get buried right away, way down deep where the sun don’t shine.”
My gut constricted, down deep. I hated Walter’s idea. Because if the perp tried the swap only once, tonight, and screwed it up — as he clearly screwed up tonight — then there was some hope he’d fail at whatever plans he had for that cask of hot resins.
I got a crazy vision of the cask on little cat feet chasing the stick figure. The stick’s not laughing. Stick’s scared shitless.
I wasn’t laughing either. I dearly hoped the perp was a one-shot screwup with deeply flawed mojo. Because if he’d tried this before, and succeeded, that level of competence did not bode well for our side. I hated Walter’s theory but it was a good one, and testable. I had to give due credit to my mother and brother. I said, “Ever put talcum powder on a baby?”
Silence. Nobody had, it seemed.
Come on, I thought, it’s a defining characteristic. “Talc’s highly dispersible. It gets on the changing table too.” I pictured white talc on steel cask skin. “And then you track it all over the place.”
7
Jersey wouldn’t sit still.
When Roy Jardine had returned home two hours ago from his reconnoiter, Jersey as usual bounced like a windup toy. He’d petted her, fed her, welcomed her onto his lap when he settled into his Lazy-boy. But she wouldn’t calm down. He’d finally had to toss her onto the floor so he could work.
She paced. She felt his jumpiness. Normally he’d appreciate that, her understanding him. Poodles were smart as pigs and his bitch Jersey was the smartest poodle he’d ever owned.
“Sit, girl,” he said, and she quieted, giving him her adoring look.
It was like normal — Roy and Jersey holed up at home. His place was a tidy little homestead, a pink stucco box of a house with a red tile roof. Colors like Jersey’s belly. His place was isolated, at the far end of town. And Beatty was a desert town with nothing around it. He blessed hick towns.
Of course once you left Beatty you went into the action zone. Six miles down the highway from Beatty was the CTC dump and beyond that, another six miles or so, was the crash site. Lights, action, busy busy busy.
He got up, checked the front door lock, sat back down. Jumpy as Jersey. He didn’t feel safe at home anymore. Maybe he’d better go to the hideout in case things went critical again.
And they would, one way or another.
Jersey barked. He shushed her. He had work to do.
He picked up the yellow notepad. For the past two hours he’d been chewing over what he had learned at the crash site. Now he was ready to draw up a plan. He made two columns, one marked Enemy and the other marked Roy’s Action Items. In the Enemy column he wrote Sheriff, Fire Department, RERT, CTC, seven unmarked vehicles, one FBI helicopter. In the Roy column, he wrote Find Out What They Know About Roy Jardine. Find Out What They Are Going To Do Next.
He put aside the notepad in disgust. He’d learned almost nothing. His action items lacked implementation details. Find out how?
He went into the kitchen and got a pint of strawberry ice cream.
Jersey was on his heels.
He took the pint back to his Lazy-boy and fed the first spoonful to Jersey. Pink ice cream on pink dog tongue. He took the next spoonful. Technically, sharing the spoon was unhygienic but he’d been sharing with Jersey for years and never got sick. Of course he bathed her every other day and never let her into anything disgusting like the trash can. He fed her two more bites and then no more. He didn’t want to upset her stomach. “Mine now, girl,” he said, and the smart bitch stopped begging. The ice cream cooled his mouth and sugared his belly and by the time he’d worked his way through the pint he knew what to do.
More recon. Reconnoitering, he meant, but he liked calling it recon. It would have been foolish to write some Rambo action in his Action Item column, just to look ace. He bet outlaws reconned in detail before they launched an operation. At least, the smart ones in the history books did.
The limitation of his recon at the crash site, he realized, was that he’d been too far away. He needed to get close where things were happening to get actionable information. And things would sure be happening at the dump. He pictured it. He’d worked at the dump for three crap years — job eighteen — and he knew exactly what everybody would be doing at any given time. Except this morning. This wouldn’t be a regular morning, this would be an emergency morning. So how should he act? Normal, he thought. Just go into work and act normal. But in reality, doing recon.
Was that doable?
The ice cream soured his gut. What if he was already a suspect? What if the cops were at the dump waiting for him?
Jersey whined. When he didn’t pet her, she started barking.
“Enough, girl.” He had to smack her, lightly, on the rump to shut her up.
Now think Roy. He thought.
He picked up the phone and called his shift mate — not a buddy, Jardine didn’t have buddies — but a dim dude who sometimes swapped shifts with him. Sorry it’s so early but would you mind taking my shift this morning? — I’m hungover. Jardine wasn’t, he’d never been, but this was an excuse any of the guys would buy. What the excuse bought Jardine now was an info dump from his shift mate. Oh Roy, man, ya gotta come in cuz Ballinger’s callin in everybody cuz — shit man you dunno? — and then the dimwit went on to tell Jardine what three other guys had told him.
Roy Jardine concluded he was presumed as innocent as the next guy.
He went to the kitchen and rinsed out the ice cream carton and put it in the trash and washed his spoon and put it in the drainer. Jersey followed, nosing around the trash. “No, girl.” She knew something was up. She knew he wasn’t going to bed and so she wasn’t going to be curling up in her plush dog bed on the floor beside him.
He went back to his Lazy-boy and picked up the yellow pad. Under Roy’s Action Items, he wrote Undercover Recon At The Dump.
He moved into action. He packed up emergency supplies — extra clothing, toothbrush, paste, soap, deodorant, washcloth, all the things he’d need at the hideout. Freeze-dried food, bottled water, and sleeping bag were already stored there.
Jersey sat on his pack and wouldn’t get off.
He squatted beside her. He ruffled her curly topknot and scratched under her chin. He wished he could take her along, but she’d hate the hideout. Too cold, too dark, no soft bed. No ice cream. Easy to get lost. He wished he knew how long he’d be there. He scooped her in his arms and carried her into the bathroom. He set her on the sink and turned on the water. She loved to lap out of the faucet. He leaned over and slid his left hand under her belly, hugging her to him. She kept lapping. So thirsty. He felt bad; he hadn’t checked her water dish. He opened the drawer and took out the Buck knife and slid his right hand beneath her chin and made the cut quick and deep. She shuddered but made no sound and went limp in his arms and he held her close while she bled out and the water washed the blood down the drain. When she was finished, he laid her on the counter. He had to use the sink himself, then, to wash away the tears.