J Rain - The Mummy Case

I nodded again. “She was arrested with her boyfriend.”

“You have his name?”

“Chad Schwendinger.”

“You think he’s our man?”

“A good chance,” I said. “The Irvine Police checked out his last known address this afternoon. He moved out long ago. And no leads where he might be. Yet.”

“Maybe he’s been shacking up with his vandal girlfriend.”

I shook my head. “I checked out her place this afternoon. She lives alone. Although one neighbor mentioned she had seen a middle-aged man in a BMW come by on a few occasions.”

“Maybe he will want revenge for the arrest of his girlfriend.”

“What he wants and what he gets are two different things.”

“But you’ll still watch over me just in case?”

“Like a hawk,” I said.

Sanchez and I were in my car on a Sunday afternoon, parked outside the big Lutheran church on Fifth and Edinger.

“He’s the last one. Name’s Ricardo Gomez,” said Sanchez, consulting a list of names. There were eight names on the list, seven of which were crossed off.

“You do realize we’re outside a church,” I said.

Sanchez wasn’t listening. “Ricardo hasn’t been alone in nearly a week. This might be our only chance to nail him.”

“I think you’ve let this go to your head.”

Sanchez looked at me. “Hell, this went straight to my head the day I heard my boy was in the hospital. This went straight to my head the day eight boys kicked his face in.”

“Take a deep breath,” I said.

He ignored me. “Besides, we’re doing the neighborhood a service. My son has single-handedly broken up this so-called gang. According to his school principal, these kids have been harassing students all year, not to mention vandalizing property.”

“Did the principal know what happened to your son?”

Sanchez nodded. “And he knows my son is picking them off one at a time.”

“What did he say about that?”

“Hallelujah.”

“That because your kid’s name is Jesus?”

“Hay-zeus, asshole.” Sanchez looked at his big cop watch. “Church will be out soon.”

“Kid named Jesus kicking ass at church,” I said. “Maybe it’s the Second Coming.”

There was a box of donuts balanced on the console between us. I had insisted on getting the donuts at the Von’s grocery store this time, which often had better donuts than most hole-in-the-wall chains. Sanchez thought getting donuts at a grocery store was sacrilegious but he ate them anyway.

“Church is out,” Sanchez reported, leaning forward eagerly. “And there he is, walking home alone.” I thought Sanchez might wet his pants. He pulled out his notepad and made an entry. I leaned over his shoulder and read the entry: 11:53 AM. Sunday. Church out.

“Don’t you have murderers to catch?” I asked.

“Not on Sundays,” he said. “Day of rest.” Then he made another entry: Intercept target. Next Sunday. Noon.

“Target?” I said. “You need to get a life.”

“I’ll get a life after next Sunday.”

“You have a sprinkle on your chin.”

“Fuck you.”

“Such language at church.”

I met Rawhide’s assistant museum curator at a coffee shop in Barstow. I was nursing a Diet Coke when Patricia McGovern arrived straight from work, wearing low heels, jeans and a red cowboy shirt.

“Would you like something to drink?” I asked her.

“Coffee would be nice.”

“In a coffee shop? Surely you jest.”

She smiled at that. I think she thought I was funny. Or retarded.

The waitress was older than the surrounding rock-encrusted hills, although she was sprightly and had a certain spring to her step. She took our orders. One coffee, black. One refill of Diet Pepsi, also black. Everyone at the table laughed at that one. I was on a roll.

“So what did you want to see me about?” asked Patricia, leaning forward on her elbows. She was as cute as I remembered, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. I was flattered by the intensity of her gaze, as if I was the only person important enough to look at in the diner. I happened to agree.

“Just have a few routine questions about Willie Clarke.”

Her gaze intensified. “I’m not supposed to be talking to you, Mr. Knighthorse. I could get fired.”

“I know,” I said. “Which is why we are meeting secretly in a coffee shop, and why I am bribing you with coffee. I promise to make this quick.”

She inhaled deeply. Held it for a few seconds and then let it out. The mother of all sighs. “How can I help you?”

Our drinks came, with two complimentary biscottis. The old gal winked at us and shuffled off in a springy sort of way.

“Could you describe your first meeting with Willie Clarke?”

She shrugged. “It was about two months ago. He just showed up out of the blue one day asking about the mummy.”

“What did Jarred think of that?”

“Jarred didn’t like it. Or him.”

“Why?”

“I can’t say for sure. I can only speculate.”

“Speculate away.”

“Jarred’s trying to make a name for himself in Rawhide. He purposely staked out Rawhide because very little has been written on it. He calls the town an untapped vein.”

“Fitting for a mining town.”

“Yeah, he thinks he’s pretty clever.”

“So Jarred didn’t exactly roll out the welcoming wagon for Willie.”

“Exactly. Jarred was just plain rude. Willie was just doing his job. Which, I might add, was an impossible task. I mean, how many historians before him have looked into Sylvester’s identity?”

“A million?”

She grinned. “Okay, maybe not that many, but there have been a lot.”

“Maybe it takes a detective.”

“Someone like you?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it. Anyway, Jarred doesn’t own Rawhide, and he certainly doesn’t own its history. Willie had a valid reason for being here. After all, the man who now owns Sylvester hired him. And all Willie wanted was to be shown the site where Sly was originally discovered. Against Jarred’s wishes, I agreed to help Willie.”

“How did that sit with Jarred?”

“Oh, he was furious. But I didn’t care. Willie was sweet. And harmless. I mean, he really didn’t know what he was doing out here. He was barely out of graduate school. Hardly makes him a qualified historian, and certainly no threat to Jarred.”

“Tell me about the trip with Willie.”

She did. She met Willie in Rawhide on a Saturday morning, her day off. They were just about to head out into the desert when Jarred showed up out of the blue and insisted on joining them.

“Insisted?” I asked.

“He wouldn’t have it any other way, and told me in private that he didn’t know if Willie’s intentions were honorable or not. What a load of crap that was.” She actually snorted, which was very unbecoming of her. “Willie was nothing but sweet.”

“Was Jarred jealous?”

“I don’t know. If so, he never showed much interest in me before.”

“Maybe he’s blind.”

“Thank you, Mr. Knighthorse. But to be honest, at the time, Jarred seemed to be on something. He was jittery, excited, as if he was amped on a half dozen espressos.”

“So what happened next?”

She shrugged. “Jarred insisted I go alone with him in his truck. Willie was to follow us.”

“There wasn’t enough room in Jarred’s truck for the three of you?”

“Sure, if we all sat together. But Jarred thought Willie would be uncomfortable.”

“Okay,” I said. “Go on.”

“We drove out to the site, with Willie following behind us in his own truck.” She paused and leaned forward, leveling her considerable gaze on considerable me. “Get this: once we arrive, Jarred suddenly changes his tune. Now he couldn’t be more helpful.”