Step To The Graveyard Easy Part 7

Edges of daylight and street noise woke him. Nine-fifteen. Four hours' sleep, but he didn't want much more than that. Downtime was lost time; each night's rest was one less place to see, one less thing to do.

Before he left the room, he wrapped Tanya's little automatic in a plastic clothes bag from the closet. Outside he hunted up the motel's Dumpster, tossed the bag in. The satchel he locked in the 'Vette's trunk.

Breakfast in a nearby coffee shop. Then he drove around the neighborhood until he found a chain drugstore large enough to have a stationery section. He bought five self-sealing padded mailing bags and a black marking pen.

Back in his room, he sat down with a couple of sheets of motel stationery and worked his memory. Names, faces, numbers-the salesman's stock-in-trade. Over the years he'd developed an almost total recall in all three categories. It didn't take him long to sort out and set down the loss amounts of the other five vies at last night's game, starting with their buy-in figures. Then he divided by six the two thousand that no longer belonged to Boone and Tanya, added those amounts to the individual totals. That ensured that everybody, himself included, would not only get his money back but make a small profit for his trouble.

Once he had the final figures, he opened the satchel and counted out the money into six piles. His cut he stuffed into his wallet; the others went into the five mailing bags. He considered writing some kind of note to go with the cash, but he'd have to write it five times-too much work. Unnecessary, besides. The smarter ones would figure it out for themselves, even if they never knew for sure who their benefactor was. The others wouldn't care. Free ride on a gift horse.

With the marking pen he wrote their full names on each of the bags and then sealed them. Fifteen minutes later he was checked out and on his way downtown again.

The desk clerk at the Conover Arms said, "The Judsons are no longer with us-checked out early this morning. No forwarding address, I'm afraid."

"Not a problem," Cape said. "I know where they're going."

Three of the five insurance agents were staying at the Sir Francis Drake. Cape dropped off their money first, requesting that the packages be kept in the hotel safe until claimed. The clerk there didn't ask any questions. Neither did the one manning the desk at the Hilton, the overflow convention hotel nearby where the other two players were booked.

When he was done, he picked up the 'Vette and got directions to the Bay Bridge from the parking garage attendant. Half an hour later he was on the other side of the bay, on Highway 80 headed east.

The High Sierra.

Highway 50 now, the long, steep descent from Echo Summit.

Cape pulled off onto an overlook, got out, and stood squinting into the cool mountain wind. Lake Tahoe Basin spread out below, part of the lake a bright blue blot in the distance. White-rimmed peaks, vast stretches of evergreens, ma.s.sive juts and scarps of bare rock. Rugged beauty, harsh wilderness. Somewhere off to the north, where Highway 80 crested the Sierras on its asphalt path to Reno, was Emigration Gap-the place where the Donner Party had been trapped and perished, and the still living had fed briefly on the dead.

Behind him cars and trucks hissed by in a steady stream. He stayed there like that for a long time, hunched against the force of the wind, focused on the far reaches.

Up high like this, standing alone with your back to civilization, you felt that your humanity was safe.

Down below, among the roaming herds, where you couldn't tell the weak from the strong, the predators from the prey, you had to be d.a.m.n careful not to become one of the cannibals yourself.

9.

Lake Tahoe.

Ma.s.sive, sun-spattered, placid. Cupped by mountains all around, its far sh.o.r.es obscured by a bluish haze. Pleasure craft and paddlewheel excursion boats skimming like waterbugs over its surface.

South Lake Tahoe.

Not much of a town. Most of it stretched out along Lake Tahoe Boulevard, following the curve of the lakesh.o.r.e. Malls, strip malls, wedding chapels, winter and summer resort businesses, a big new ski tram leading up to the flanking mountain. The last mile or so at the eastern end, it became a gamblers' town, with strings of medium-priced motels lining the road, offering gambling-related specials.

Stateline.

On the Nevada side, a short strip of high-rise casino hotels. Harrah's, Harvey's, Horizon, Bill's, Caesar's Tahoe, Lakeside Grand. Huge marquee signs advertising entertainment, come-on promotions, nonstop action-the usual ballyhoo. Mini Las Vegas, poor man's Las Vegas. A place for a quick visit, an even quicker getaway.

Cape parked in the free lot behind the Lakeside Grand. The side entrance to the hotel was the one in the photo background, all right. He pushed through into a purple-and-gold lobby ringed with boutiques and specialty shops. Crossed that and entered the casino. Mirror-walled and -ceilinged, the usual banks of neon-lit electronic slots and gaming tables presided over by people dressed in purple and gold. The slots and blackjack layouts were getting some late-afternoon play; the c.r.a.ps, roulette, and baccarat tables were quiet. The high rollers, like vampires, only came out at night.

He wandered through the casino, showing the eight-by-ten glossies to a woman in one of the change booths, a sleepy-eyed croupier, an equally bored stickman. Head shakes and negatives. He entered the bar at the opposite end. The purple-s.h.i.+rted barman said, "Can't help you, sir. Unless it's a drink you want."

A drink was just what he wanted. But not yet. He took the photos into the hotel lobby. A tour group had just come in; all the people behind the reception desk were busy. Cape crossed carpeting as thick as new sod to the shops. Jewelry, objets d'art, Asian antiques, men's and women's clothing. One of the boutiques was called Milady's Pleasure. n.o.body in there now except a saleswoman in a gold blouse and purple slacks.

She said, "My name is Justine. How may I help you? A gift for milady?"

Tall, jet-black hair, pale skin, striking almond-shaped eyes. Eurasian, probably. About his age. Not beautiful, not even pretty by any conventional standard, but with the kind of features you'd remember long after one of the plastic-faced Hollywood clones. Those eyes, especially.

She was used to being scrutinized; neither her gaze nor her smile wavered. At length Cape shook his head, said through his salesman's smile, "Actually, I'm looking for someone. I wonder if you might be able to help."

"Well..."

He held up one of the photos of the tawny-haired woman. "Do you know her?"

"Oh... yes, that's Mrs. Vanowen."

"Vanowen."

"She's a customer of ours."

"Lives around here, then."

"Yes, she does."

"Would you have her address?"

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't possibly..."

"I understand. A phone number where I can reach her?"

"I'm afraid not. But there may be a listing."

"I'll check. What's her husband's name?"

"Andrew." Odd inflection. As if the name tasted bad in her mouth or stirred up an unpleasantness in her memory.

"And hers?"

"Stacy." Justine hesitated. "Is it important, your reason for wanting to get in touch with Mrs. Vanowen?"

"It could be. A personal matter."

Another pause. Then, "Rubicon Bay."

"Pardon?"

"They live in Rubicon Bay."

"Where would that be?"

"Southwest sh.o.r.e, on the California side."

Cape showed her the photos of the two men, side by side. "Is one of these Andrew Vanowen?"

She pointed to the one of the older, silver-haired man. The oddness was in her expression this time, a darkening that might have been dislike or old anger or maybe both.

"Do you know Vanowen?" he asked.

"No. We've met, but... no."

"How about the other man?"

"I've seen him before, but I don't know his name."

"Seen him here at the hotel? Or around the area?"

"Both."

"Another local resident, then."

"I think so, yes." Justine had had enough questions; she said in her by-rote voice, "Now may I show you something for your wife or lady friend?"

"Sorry. I don't have either one."

"Then if you'll excuse me..."

He watched her walk away. She had the kind of loose, rolling walk that makes a man wonder what a woman would be like in bed. h.o.r.n.y Cape, ever hungry to make up for all those faithful years. He almost felt ashamed.

Rubicon Bay.

One of a bunch of little enclaves strung along the lakesh.o.r.e, along an inlet with the same name. Highway 89 hugged the sh.o.r.eline here, running in twisty loops through trees and around vast protrusions of granite. Heavily forested slopes came down close on the west: Bliss State Park. There was woodland on the lake side to s.h.i.+eld a few score year-round and summer homes. On the south side of the park, he'd pa.s.sed through a couple of hamlets. None over here, though. Not even a roadside store where he could stop to ask directions.

Cape took the first side road that opened east off the highway. It led him down through pine and fir, past short dead-end lanes and driveways that accessed half-concealed houses. Some of the mailboxes had names on them, but none was Vanowen. He kept driving around, backtracking, until he spotted another car just swinging into one of the driveways. The car stopped at the box there, and the driver, a youngish brunette, got out to pick up her mail. Cape pulled over, put on the salesman's smile as he poked his head out the window.

"Excuse me. I'm looking for the Vanowens, and I seem to have gotten myself lost. It's like a maze in here."

The Corvette as much as the smile put her at ease. In her world, strangers driving beat-up old cars were a threat, but strangers driving expensive sports cars were just plain rich folk. She told him, readily enough, that the Vanowens lived in the last house on Waterwing Drive, right on the lake.

Cape followed her directions, found Waterwing Drive, and drove along it for two hundred yards or so to where it dead-ended at a steep, gated driveway. The gate was open, so he drove on through. Halfway down, the drive jogged, and he could see the house. Big, made of cut pine logs and redwood shakes, thick woods crowding in on both sides. T-shaped pier and a boathouse behind it. A carport on the near side was empty, but an older-model black Mercedes with Nevada plates sat slewed on a pine-needled parking area in front.

He stopped alongside the Mercedes, walked up on a narrow stoop, and rang the bell. No answer. After a minute he rang it again. Nothing. The third push finally produced results. Footsteps, the rattling of a lock, and the door opened and a woman stood there looking at him.

He'd been measured, dissected, and categorized by any number of less attractive women than this one. Seldom quite as fast or as thoroughly, though. There was a resemblance to the face in the photographs, but she wasn't Stacy Vanowen. Older, thirty or so. Dark-haired, sloe-eyed, wet-lipped. Wearing a one-piece black Spandex bathing suit and a sheer beach wrap. Long legs, narrow hips, smattering of freckles that trailed down into the front of the suit. In one hand was a tall gla.s.s of clear, bubbly liquid with ice and lime. The s.h.i.+ne in the sloe eyes said she had a lot more gin or vodka tonic inside her.

He rated high enough to win a slow, loose, slightly crooked grin. "Well," she said. "And what're you selling?"

"What makes you think I'm selling something?"

"You have that look. Don't tell me you're not a salesman?"

"I used to be. No more."

"Everybody's a salesman, in one way or another."

"Maybe so," Cape agreed. "I'm looking for Stacy Vanowen."

"Uh-huh. Lots of people do."

"Do what?"

"Look for Stacy. Look at her, too. She's a prettier piece than I am, dammit."

"Is she here?"

"Nope. n.o.body's here but me."

"When will she be home?"

"Who knows? Whenever she gets here."

"I'd like to talk to her. What's a good time to catch her?"

"If you want to catch Stacy, you'd better be a fast runner. What's your name, salesman?"

"Cape. Matt Cape."

"Short and sweet. I like it."

"I'm glad. What's yours?"

"Lacy."

"Vanowen?"

"G.o.d, no. Hammond. Stacy and Lacy. Cute, huh?"

"Sisters?"

"That's us. Stacy and Lacy, Daddy's little joke." All at once her face darkened and she made a spitting mouth. Just as quickly, it cleared and she was grinning again. "He was hilarious, he was. Hilarious old son of a b.i.t.c.h."

Cape said, "You live here?"

"Not me. I'm the poor relation. Little sister lets me come over and play with her toys when there's n.o.body else around."

"Uh-huh."