He went inside and killed the TV. Gerry lay on the bed, still fully clothed, snoring away. His son had surprised him on this trip, and made him think there was still hope.
On the coffee table lay the photo of Mikey the mystery boy. He and Gerry had spent several hours trying to determine the photo’s significance. The photo had not been well taken care of, which had led them to believe that it wasn’t important to Bronco, and was something he planned to use when he established another identity.
Or maybe it meant something else. He sat down on the couch, and stared into space. Bronco had always been an enigma. He’d been chasing him for a long time, yet had never understood what made him tick. The things he’d learned about him on this trip had only added to the confusion. It had started with the tape of the woman named Marie. She’d obviously meant a great deal to Bronco, yet there was no evidence that she’d been in his life recently. So why had Bronco kept her dresses in his closet, and a framed photo on his night table? Had he been in love with her? It didn’t seem possible. Bronco had impressed him as someone incapable of love. That was true with most killers. They did not know how to love, or be loved in return.
Then Bronco had kidnaped Gerry. Bronco could have killed his son, only he hadn’t. Gerry’s comment about why Bronco hadn’t killed him had bothered Valentine. He has a heart. No, he didn’t. If Bronco had a heart, he wouldn’t have shot Bo Farmer on his honeymoon in front of his wife.
Valentine got a ginger ale out of the mini bar. It tasted good and cold. When it was gone, he went back onto the balcony, and thought about it some more.
Another strange thing had happened in Reno. Bronco had been nice to Karl Jr., buying him an ice cream cone, and later stuffing three hundred dollars into the little boy’s shirt pocket. Sociopaths didn’t do things like that, at least not the ones he’d encountered.
Did those things make Bronco a nice guy? Far from it. He’d killed Bo Farmer, stabbed Karl Klinghoffer, been responsible for his cell mate getting killed, and caused all sorts of mayhem in Las Vegas, including shooting the Asian in the back on Fremont Street. Bronco was a stone-cold, cold-blooded killer. Yet for some reason, he’d shown kindness to Gerry and Karl Jr., and revealed a side of himself that few killers had.
He has a heart.
That bothered Valentine. Going inside, he put on his reading glasses, and studied the faded photo. He stared until his eyes hurt.
It took a while, but he finally saw it. The resemblance was faint, but it was there. Mikey had Bronco’s genetic stamp.
Bronco didn’t have a heart, but he did have a son. That was who this kid was. And he’d died a long time ago. Otherwise, the photo would have been new.
He paced the room, and thought about it some more. Bronco had spoken to him inside the MGM that afternoon. I’ll send you a postcard when I get settled. He probably would, too, just to get under his skin.
Bronco was going to leave Las Vegas, and never come back. Would he say goodbye to Mikey, just like any loving father would do? Valentine had a feeling that he would.
Valentine shook his own son awake.
“What’s going on?” Gerry said groggily.
“Get up. We’ve got work to do.”
Chapter 61
Marie Marchese was buried at Woodlawn Cemetery on north Las Vegas Boulevard. She had died at age thirty-nine of an infection contracted in a prison hospital, a victim of neglect. Instead of a phone call, Bronco had gotten a letter in the mail.
He had picked Woodlawn to bury Marie because it was close to where he’d been living at the time. But the cemetery’s name had always rankled him. A wood lawn, made up of endless caskets, laid side by side.
At six-thirty the next morning, he drove his Lexus to the entrance of Woodlawn, parked in the visitor area, then got out and had a look around. A maintenance man in a gray work suit was tending to the grounds, but otherwise the place was deserted.
“Hey, Pops, you got a cigarette to spare?”
The maintenance man shuffled over, dragging a bad leg. He looked about seventy-five, with sagging skin around his mouth and eyes that had seen too much. Probably wasted his retirement money gambling, and been forced to take this crummy job. Las Vegas was filled with a hundred thousand people just like him.
The maintenance man dug out a pack, and threw it at him. Bronco grabbed the pack out of the air, pissed off at first, but then breaking into a smile. The old guy had spunk. “Marlboros, huh,” Bronco said, banging out a smoke.
“That’s all I’ve ever smoked,” the maintenance man said.
“Got a light?”
The maintenance threw a pack of matches and Bronco lit up.
“Look, the place doesn’t officially open until eight, but I won’t say anything if you want to visit,” the maintenance man said. “That’s my policy. Mind your own business.”
“Thanks.”
Bronco handed him the pack and the matches, and the maintenance man pocketed them. He’d left a rake on the ground, and used his foot to right it, then limped away. Bronco puffed on his cigarette and had another look around. Woodlawn was as dead as its inhabitants. He could say his goodbyes, and then be gone.
He finished the cigarette, and ground it out. Marie had hated tobacco, and he hadn’t smoked when they were married. Around Marie, he hadn’t needed to.
He entered the cemetery and walked down a maze of paths until he reached her marker. It wasn’t much, just a simple gray stone with her name, and the dates she’d been born and died. She’d wanted to be cremated, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, wanting a place to visit where he could be sad and then walk away, and not be sad any more.
The ground around her grave site was ragged, the grass unkempt, the flowers he’d brought the time before withered and gone. The rest of the graves didn’t look so crummy, just hers, and it made his blood boil and the anger pulse hot through his veins. His eyes found the gimp maintenance man and he yelled at him coarsely.
“Get your sorry ass over here.”
The maintenance man shuffled over with his rake, a butt dangling from his lip. “Put out that cigarette,” Bronco said. “Show some respect.”
The maintenance man lifted his foot and ground the cigarette into the heel, then pocketed the stub. Then he looked at Bronco with hesitant eyes.
“What do you want, mister? I’ve got work to do.”
Bronco pointed down. “My wife’s grave looks like shit. Fix it.”
The maintenance man stepped forward, and began to rake the dead grass from Marie’s grave, drawing the rake delicately across the parched earth. He was being gentle with her, showing some respect, and Bronco felt himself relax. He pointed at a marker several yards away.
“When you’re done here, I want you to fix that one, too.”
The maintenance man lifted his head. “Which one is that, mister?”
“Michael Marchese. My son.”
“I’m sorry, mister.”
“He died in a foster home,” Bronco said. “My wife was in prison, and the state put him in a foster home, and he died. We never got the complete story. Some bullgarbage about falling down a staircase, and banging his head.”
The maintenance man followed the direction of Bronco’s finger. “I’m sorry, but which one is it?”
Bronco felt the rage build up inside of him. He grabbed the maintenance man by the shoulder, and pulled him close. “You don’t listen too good. It’s right over there, third marker from the end of the path. It’s taller than the others.”