Still, when he had spoken to the reporter, he had acted as if he were dealing with a group of criminal masterminds. It was always best that way. The more threatened the public felt, the greater the likelihood of someone turning the perpetrators in. That was why he had intentionally failed to mention that the idiot security guard had shot his own partner. As usual, the reporter just took down everything he said without asking any relevant questions and rushed to say it, word for word, in front of the camera.
The security guard hadn’t wanted to admit he had shot his own partner. He had tried for at least thirty seconds to suggest that these guys had been armed, but that had fallen apart quickly when both the mother and daughter said they hadn’t seen any of the robbers with a gun. The fact that the injured guard, getting loaded into an ambulance, had been repeatedly screaming “You stupid fucking moron!” at his partner, who had been trying, red-faced and pathetic, to keep his composure, also served to discredit the fat guard’s claim.
A uniformed officer came up behind Scott, his feet crunching in the snow. “No tracks from the other vehicle, because of the snow,” the officer said. “No prints in the Impala. No info on the plate. Nevada DMV says, a thirty-year-old plate like that, we’ll have to wait until Monday morning to get the info from Carson City. The government offices are already closed.”
Scott gritted his teeth and shook his head. He hated when things happened at the end of the day on Fridays. Of course, most criminals knew this would slow down an investigation, which was why Friday afternoons were a particularly busy time.
“We could call the mayor of Carson City and get authorization,” the officer suggested. “We can do that now. The new antiterrorism laws…”
Scott shook his head. “This really doesn’t qualify. What about the VIN number?”
“The last time this vehicle was registered was in 1988. To a Reginald Wright, lives in Newcastle.”
“Let’s go talk to him.”
The officer, a young man whom Scott only knew in passing, usually worked traffic detail and had almost finished his shift when the bank got robbed. He had already been kept past his end time for the three hours since they had found and printed the Impala, and Scott noticed a look of reluctance pass across his face.
“How about those guys over there?” Scott said, pointing to a few officers milling around the Impala. “Did any of those guys just come on shift?”
The officer nodded eagerly. “Peskey did.”
“Send him over here. You go home.”
“Yessir.”
THE CONTINGENCY PLAN was not complicated. Doug and Kevin were going to take five thousand out for emergencies and bury the rest of their money where they had agreed: in the exact same place they had parked the Ferrari.
Mitch would take his money and stuff it in a duffel bag. He also made himself an emergency escape kit with all the things he needed to hit the road in a hurry: a few changes of clothes, his favorite bowl (a glass-blown piece of art he had bought off eBay), and something to fill it with. Everything else he owned he figured he could kiss goodbye, and it didn’t amount to much.
Getting their story straight was another thing. They all agreed on that. Since Kevin had been the driver and had been wearing his ski mask, his name should never come up. In the event that Doug or Mitch, who might have been identified, got questioned, they would just say that the third guy was a mysterious stranger who ran off with all the money. Kevin didn’t seem enthusiastic about being protected, but he did acknowledge that, as he had a wife and child and a criminal record, it might be best.
So the only one with a plan was Doug.
“We should both take off, man,” Mitch said. “You gotta come with me.”
But Doug knew he couldn’t. It was all coming full circle, like some beautifully laid cosmic plan. He would be the one who would convince the cops Kevin wasn’t involved. If he took off too, Kevin would get arrested. Now he saw how he could make things up to Kevin. Not by selling pills, because that had mostly been for him anyway. The only way he could make things right with Kevin, without telling him anything, was by going to jail for him.
Of course, that would only happen if the cops figured anything out. And as Kevin kept repeating over and over, and Mitch kept contradicting, that was never going to happen.
After The Contingency Plan had been made, they settled back on the couch and packed a bowl. Kevin called Linda and told her he was going to be late. He had dogs to walk.
“If Mitch leaves town,” Doug asked, “can I walk dogs for you? I’d rather do that than work at Chicken Buckets.”
“Sure,” Kevin said. “But Mitch isn’t going to leave town.”
“Are you going to leave town, Mitch?”
Mitch said nothing.
“MR. WRIGHT? MR. Wright?” Detective Scott hammered on the decaying screen door again. The noise echoed back into the trees, shattering the peace of the gently hissing snowfall. Scott could hear a television inside and figured the guy was old or just nearly deaf. Judging by the look of the yard, which contained only things that had been bought before 1980, he guessed old.
Detective Scott knew from twenty-seven years on the police force that old people were hard to deal with. Civilians always thought it was young people who were rude to the police. It was certainly young people who committed most of the crimes, but old people were less likely to show respect, more likely to scream curses at you. Maybe they figured that, as death was relatively near, they had less to lose. Scott hoped this was one of the other kind of old people, the deferential, friendly kind, but something about the appearance of the house made him suspect otherwise.
The door flew open and an old man glared at them. “Whaddya want?”
“Evening, Mr. Wright. Are you Reginald Wright?”
“Whaddya want? Goddamn hammering on my door at this time of night.”
It was only eight thirty, but Scott let it go. “Mr. Wright, I’m Detective Robert Scott of the Wilton Police Department, and this is Officer Peskey.”
“Whaddya want?”
“Mr. Wright, do you own a 1980 Chevy Impala?”
“What? That’s was this is about? I took the ad out of the paper. Sold it… last week.”
“Did you transfer the title and get the paperwork-”
“I sold it, I tell you. What would the goddamned cops want a car like that for? It was a piece a’ shit.”
“Mr. Wright, we don’t want to buy it. We want to know who you sold it to. When you sell a car, you have to do a title transfer and-”
“I’m eighty-four years old,” said Mr. Wright.
“Well, that’s actually not an excuse to not transfer the title.”
“That’s bullshit. All a bunch a’ bullshit.” Mr. Wright started to slam the door shut, but Detective Scott gently inserted his foot in the doorway to stop him.
“Mr. Wright, that car was used in a robbery. And if you don’t talk to us, I’m going to assume you had something to do with it and have Officer Pesky here arrest you.”
Mr. Wright, who was used to having his demeanor interpreted as lovable elderly dottiness, became lucid and agreeable in a hurry. “What do you want to know?”
“What did the guy who bought the car look like?”
“There were three of them. One of them looked like a hippie.”
“A hippie?”
“Long-haired. You know. A damned hippie.”
Scott wondered whether it was feasible to get this guy to a sketch artist with a snow storm developing and decided to leave it until tomorrow. This wasn’t exactly the crime of the century. The guys had been unarmed and he didn’t want to force either the sketch artist or this old guy to be out and about on icy roads at all hours of the night. He was about to suggest a visit in the morning, when Mr. Wright offered one last piece of information.