“I’ve been busy.”
“Have you found out anything yet?”
“A few things. Nothing definite. How’re you feeling?”
“I’m all right. But if I have to stay in this cabin much longer, I’ll start climbing the walls.”
“Your car fixed?”
“Yes. And yes, I’m up to the drive down there. Where are you?”
Fallon told her the name and location of the Best Western. “I’ll make a reservation for you when we hang up,” he said. “If I’m not in my room when you get here, wait in yours until I get back.”
“Where will you be?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“For God’s sake, don’t be evasive.”
“I’m not. I don’t know yet where I’ll be. You just have to let me do things my own way. I won’t withhold anything important from you.”
“… All right.”
“One piece of news: I just spoke to Vernon Young.”
“What? You called him? For God’s sake, why?”
“To get the money situation straightened out. It’s okay, he’s on your side. You can take as much time as you need to pay back the two thousand. And you can keep your job.”
“He… said that?”
“Yes. He sounded pretty worried about you.”
“You didn’t tell him what I tried to do to myself?”
“No.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I’m a friend helping you try to get your son back. Not much else. He wants you to call him to confirm it and that you’re okay. I think it’s a good idea. He seems to care about you.”
She didn’t say anything. Faint muffled sounds came over the line. Crying a little? If so, she didn’t want him to know it. He made it easier for her by saying he’d see her soon and then breaking the connection.
Different from any woman he’d ever known, Casey Dunbar. A bundle of conflicted, deep-seated emotions. He had a feeling that her depression and her self-destructive impulses were caused by more than the situation with Spicer and her missing son. Self-doubts, more than a little self-hatred. Other things, too, that he couldn’t fathom-like trying to see through dark, turbulent water.
Better not try too hard to understand her and her private demons. He had enough of his own to deal with.
SIX
HENDERSON WAS A DESERT community seven miles southeast of Vegas, off the highway that led to Boulder Dam. The fastest-growing city in Nevada, according to advertising billboards, as if that was an attraction to be recommended. Gateway to the Lake Mead National Recreation Area.
Fallon took the downtown exit and passed several big chemical plants, following signs that said HISTORIC WATER STREET DISTRICT. Once he got there, the whole character of the town changed. Luxury resorts and the usual casinos, art galleries, boutiques-much of the architecture art deco-themed. Henderson was no longer just an industrial center, where half of the state’s nontourist industry output was produced. It had changed its image, gone upscale. Home base now for the wealthy and the upwardly mobile who liked their surroundings and their recreations less gaudy than those in Vegas proper.
He found a parking garage off Water Street, went back and joined the flow of walkers and gawkers. All of the shops were open; no dark Sundays in places like this. He found a gift shop that sold local maps, bought one, and carried it into the lobby of a nearby casino hotel. There were several roads that snaked out into the desert to the east, he found. To cover them all, blind, would take too long.
Once he left the hotel, it took him less than five minutes to locate a real estate agency. The woman he spoke to was eager to please when he said he was in the industrial chemical business, in the process of moving to the area from California, and in the market for a new home.
“We have several excellent listings, Mr. Spicer. How large a home are you interested in?”
“At least four bedrooms. With some open space around it. Would you have anything in the vicinity of the Rossi home?”
“Rossi?”
“Works in the same industry I do. Big home on a mesa.”
“Oh, of course. David Rossi, from Chemco.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, you know, that’s quite an exclusive section…”
“Not a problem.”
That widened her smile. “Well, then, let’s see what we have on or near Wildhorse Road.”
Wildhorse Road ran due east through miles of new housing developments, finished and under construction, unchecked growth that would eventually swallow up every available mile of desert landscape west of the Lake Mead National Recreation Area. Beyond its present outer limits, where open desert still dominated, a few larger and more expensive homes appeared at widely spaced intervals. In the distance, then, he could see the low mesa rising up off the desert floor, the hacienda that stretched like a huge sand-colored growth across its flat top.
A little over a mile and he was at the base of the mesa, where a paved lane led up to stone pillars and a pair of black-iron gates. Stone walls extended out on both sides to make sure you didn’t drive onto the property unless you were invited. An electronic communicator was mounted on a pole just below the gates. Fallon stopped alongside, rolled his window down, reached out to punch the button that opened the line.
Pretty soon the box made noises and a Spanish-accented woman’s voice said, “Yes, please?”
“Is Mr. Rossi home? David Rossi?”
“What is your name, sir?”
Fallon didn’t hesitate. His own name wouldn’t get him in; only one name might. “Spicer. Court Spicer. It’s important that I talk to Mr. Rossi.”
“Wait, please.”
He switched off the ignition. With the window lowered and the Jeep’s engine shut down, the desert afternoon should have been quiet, but it wasn’t. Even out here he could hear the engines, literally. A small plane sliced through the air overhead, making a rumbling whine. When it passed, the accelerating roar of a couple of racing dune buggies rose out of the distance. That was the thing about the desert-eaters: they were never silent.
Ten minutes passed. He was thinking that he’d been blown off without a callback when a loud electronic buzzing sounded and the gates began to swing inward. He drove through, climbed the asphalt drive between low stone walls. When it leveled off at the top, he was in a sandy parking area large enough to accommodate fifty or more vehicles. Some view from up here, as long as you faced toward the east-sage-dotted desert and distant shimmering water.
Up close, the house seemed almost fortresslike. It was built of native stone with a tile roof that gleamed redly in the sun glare. Seven or eight thousand square feet, Fallon judged, maybe more. Yucca trees and desert plantings, and a flagstone walkway, separated it from the parking area.
A middle-aged Latina opened the door to his ring. She didn’t say anything, just stepped aside so he could walk in. Dim and twenty degrees cooler inside. The woman led him down a hallway, through a massive sunken living room: tile floors, muraled walls, dark-wood furnishings, Indian rugs and pottery. Casual elegance. Geena would have loved it.
The entire inner wall was floor-to-ceiling windows and sliding glass doors. Through the glass, Fallon could see that the hacienda had been built around a central courtyard as large as a parade ground: more yuccas and plantings, stone benches, a swimming pool surrounded by flagstones and outdoor furniture. Sitting at one of the umbrella-shaded tables was a woman in a floppy brimmed sun hat-the only person in the courtyard.
The woman got to her feet as the maid led Fallon outside, stood waiting as they approached. There was a glacial look about her despite the hot sun: thin white robe that covered a slender body from throat to ankles, the sun hat white with white-gold hair showing beneath the brim, white skin. Her expression was cold, too, but it changed slightly, her eyes narrowing and her mouth opening an inch or so, when she got a clear look at Fallon.