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CHAPTER 30
HANNAH WAS in the
bathtub when Rand let himself in.
The house was almost dark except for the light in the bathroom and a dim
light in the bedroom. The radio was playing Fats Waller jazz, "Blue
Turning Gray Over You." Rand could see her through the open door. She
hadn't heard him enter, and he was afraid he'd startle her. For a
moment he admired the smooth flow of her wet soapy skin, the slim,
tanned arm that hung over the edge of the tub. Then he went into the
living room and sat in his chair, and lit a cigarette. He had left the
front door open and a splash of moonlight came through the screen door.
He had been sorting it out during the hour drive from Las Cruces.
Vandergaard was the key piece. It was he who created the fake bars, so
he was in it from the very beginning. And there was little doubt in
Rand's mind that Vandergaard had a thing going with Noreen. Rand
wondered if Nick knew it, and assumed he did. Some people didn't care
about things like that, although Rand thought it would drive him crazy
if Hannah was messing around with somebody else.
The question was, how would Vandergaard know Uribe?
It was stuck in Rand's craw and wouldn't go away. It was like an
electrical circuit with a piece cut out of it. It just wouldn't work
until the piece was patched in. Maybe Vandergaard knew Uribe from
business dealings. Maybe they met at an acquaintance's house. Maybe
Pritchard, who surely must have known a lot of shady characters
recommended him. Once Rand knew the connection, he would be willing to
give it up.
He restarted the record. Hannah was out of the tub, drying herself off,
when she saw him.
"How long have you been home?"
"A few minutes. I saw you in the tub but I was afraid I'd scare you, so
I sat in the living room."
"You scared me, anyway, when you started the record again."
"I'm sorry."
She smiled at him. "It's okay. It's your house."
"You own half," he said softly. "You want to live in it with me?"
"I guess." She squinted at him, "You've been in a fight."
"Sort of."
She touched his nose. "How did the other guy look?"
He thought of Brennan and Petrie after being blasted with the shotgun.
"They looked worse than me."
"Done with your job?"
"Sort of. I still have some questions."
"Hungry?"
"Yeah. Put some clothes on and let's go down to La Hacienda and grab a
couple of decent enchiladas."
They drove down to the old building at the edge of the Rio Grande, where
Rand had enchiladas and chile colorado - red chile with big chunks of
meat. The chile relaxed him. A couple of bottles of beer made him
sleepy. He thought Hannah had never looked so good, or was so good to
be around. Even when they fought, there was an innate fairness about
her that touched him. Comparing her to Noreen was like comparing a
genuine silver dollar with a counterfeit penny. He told her so and she
seemed pleased.
His head began nodding. She paid the bill and walked him to the car and
drove him back to the house in Kern Place. She had to wake him up so he
could get undressed and get into bed.
But even in his sleep, it nagged him: Where did Vandergaard find Uribe?
In the morning he felt better. He slept late, and when he awoke Hannah
was dressed, reading the El Paso Times, eating toast and coffee in the
kitchen. A hot shower loosened up the muscles he'd strained trying to
get free of the ropes, and his nose wasn't so swollen. His wrists were
still red, although the clothesline rope they'd tied him with was soft.
It could have been worse. They could have used baling wire. Or killed
him. Then he wouldn't have been around now to fit together the final
pieces of the puzzle.
He dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt and a light gray summer suit
that he knew would be drenched with sweat before the day was out.
He skimmed the paper while Hannah fixed him a couple of eggs, sunnyside
up, and he ate them. There was nothing in it about the meeting in Las
Cruces, although the paper had pretty good coverage there. There was a
short article about Vandergaard's murder: he had been attacked in his
garage by a burglar. So much for the Times' Las Cruces correspondent,
or Navarette's ability at obfuscation.
"What are you going to do today?" he asked her.
"Make telephone calls. Look for a new job. Why are you all dressed
up?"
"I'm going to visit some people."
"Nice people? Bad people?"
"That's it, I don't know. I'll find out when I see them."
"Well, look out for yourself. No more bruises."
Rand gave the operator the number of the El Paso Police Department and
asked to be transferred to Monty George.
After a couple of minutes he got through to somebody who said he'd get
him. When George found out who was on the line he said, "You again!"
"Yeah. One quick and easy question. What do you know about a guy named
Carlos Uribe?"
"He's dead," George said. "They found his body in the desert near Las
Cruces. Good riddance to a bad apple. The Sheriff down there tied up
the case yesterday."
"Who did Uribe work for?" Rand asked.
"I don't know."
"Got a rap sheet on him?"
"Hey, I thought this was gonna just take a few minutes."
"Look it up, and call me."
George slammed the phone down without answering.
Rand smoked a cigarette and had another cup of coffee. In fifteen
minutes the phone rang.
"Uribe didn't work for anybody" George said. "He was just a two-bit
petty crook. He collected bills for people who lacked the ability to
break arms and legs themselves."
"Does the name Vandergaard ring any bells with you?" Rand asked.
"He's dead, too. It came over the wire a little while ago. The case is
probably already closed. That hot-shot sheriff publicizes his victories
in a big way, but never says anything about his losses."
"I don't think he ever loses any," Rand said. "Any connection between
Uribe and Vandergaard?"
"I told you everything. Anything else I can do for you?"
"Yeah. Wait a minute." Rand pulled out his billfold and withdrew the
scrap of receipt on which he'd written the burning Ford's license number
when he was at the Mexican's place. "Will you check Texas license plate
number E78943 for me."
"I'll have to check with the driver's license bureau. You know that's
public information. You could get it yourself."
"You do it better," Rand said.
"Shit! I'll call you back." George hesitated. "I'm expecting a bottle
of Wild Turkey for all this."
"You want a bribe?"
George slammed the phone down again.
Rand checked the name Uribe in the phone book. There were more than
twenty them, but only one was surnamed Carlos. He dialed the number. A
woman answered.
He said, "Good morning, is this the residence of the Carlos Uribe who
collects bills for people?"
"This is the residence of Carlos Uribe, the dentist," she said. "If you
want an appointment call his office."
Fifteen minutes later the phone rang. Rand answered it.
Monty George said, "Clever guy. You're on to something. The plates
belonged to a guy named Felix Munn."
"What does he do?"
"Who cares? He reported that his license plates were stolen a couple of
days ago. No doubt you think that Uribe stole them."
"Maybe."
"Well, you see, that's progress of a sort. I've helped you. Remember
the Wild Turkey," George said, hanging up.
Rand returned to the paper and turned to the page with obituaries.
Uribe wasn't listed, but there were ads for 10 mortuaries on the page.
Rand began phoning them. On his seventh try, the woman who answered the
phone said they would be burying Mr. Uribe the next day at two o'clock
at Our Lady of Guadalupe Cemetery.
"I was a friend of Mr. Uribe's," Rand said. "I can't attend the
funeral, but I'd like to send flowers to the family. Do you have their
address?"
"Just a moment, please." She was gone for a time, then came back. "The
deceased's widow lives at 4571 Montana Street."
Rand thanked her and hung up.
Hannah had been listening to him. "You going over there?"
"Yeah, want to come?"
"Yes."
"Maybe we ought to bring some flowers. That guy is going to help me
crack this case."
They stopped off at a florist and bought a good-sized bouquet.
Uribe's house was close to Five Points up against Mount Franklin in a
cul-de-sac with several other houses. There were five cars parked
before it. Rand had to climb a dozen concrete steps to get to the front
door. He knocked on the screen door, and he could see people sitting in
chairs. Uribe's widow was dressed in black, stone-faced. He could see
her profile. Several children were playing on the floor, aware that
something terrible had happened, but not sure what it was or how they
should act.
The door was answered by a teenage girl who took the flowers and thanked
him. Rand nodded and without saying anything went down the stairs and
got into the car.
Hannah said, "Well that was quick."
"Quicker than I thought," Rand said. "I recognized Uribe's widow. She
was the woman who brought Victor Soames a glass so I could drink with
him the first time I was there. She was carrying around a little kid
with wet diapers."
"So that ties Uribe with Soames?"
"Looks that way," Rand said. "I'm going to drop you off at the house
and visit Mr. Soames again. If I'm not back in two hours, call Monty
George so he can get points with the cops. Then call Navarette in Las
Cruces."
"You be very careful," she said. "This stuff is why I hate your job."
"Just pray the guy doesn't sit on me," Rand said.
Before he left the house, he dropped the little .32 into his boot. He
ankle was getting a callus from carrying it around.
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