Т Паркер - The Last Good Guy

“Your files on Paradise are coming through,” said Lark. “How many SNR soldiers are usually out there?”

“It changes. At least six, the night they jumped me. I’ve seen as many as eight or ten at a time from the wasp-cams.”

“I’m looking at Connor Donald and Eric Glassen right now,” said Lark. “The date stamp says four days ago.”

“They’re the ones who picked up Daley Rideout from school,” I said.

“And put a bullet in her boyfriend’s head,” said Lark.

“If my gut is right, they’ve got her right now. I don’t know where, or even why. But it has to do with Reggie Atlas.”

Silence then, as Lark tried to get his head around the hydra: Paradise Date Farm, SNR, Pastor Reggie Atlas, and a missing fourteen-year-old girl.

“How much life do those camera batteries have left?” he asked.

“They’re down to half-charge,” I said. “Two weeks. Clevenger said the heat will wear them out fast.”

“No way to replace them?”

“The Bureau might be able to get inside,” I said. “But Paradise has seen enough of me and my people.”

“Thanks for this,” he said. “If I see what looks like evidence of a federal crime being committed, we’re going to be knocking on some doors out there pretty damned fast.”

“They won’t be happy to see you.”

“About as happy as they were in Oregon and Nevada.”

“I don’t want your job.”

“I don’t want yours. You’re on your own. But it suits you, Roland.”

“Thank you for Alfred and Marie,” I said. “But Daley Rideout is who I want most, Mike. She’s in the hands of bad people. Anything you can find out. Anything.”

“I’m sending you a link you’ll like,” said Lark.

I pocketed my phone and returned Burt’s calm gaze.

“Why does the San Onofre nuclear power plant keep coming into my mind?” asked Burt.

“Because it’s patrolled by SNR Security,” I said. “And because Daley frolicked with her SNR pals on the beach there.”

“Why would they take her to that particular beach?” asked Burt.

“Maybe it was a simple diversion to keep her happy and busy and not missing home,” I said. “They took her to that particular beach because they know it. Home turf. Remember, that was the day she ran away. She wasn’t quite a captive yet. Or didn’t know she was.”

Burt gave me a doubtful look.

“We need another look at the San Onofre power plant,” I said. “Now that we know Paradise Date Farm is bristling with radioisotopes.”

“And the same security company is guarding them both,” said Burt.

My phone chimed when Mike Lark’s texted link came through. I opened it.

Late that afternoon, Grandpa Dick made a point of me joining the Irregulars for dinner and a “group discussion,” say, around seven o’clock sharp.

“We haven’t seen much of you since your last title defense,” he said. “We miss you. And Violet spent half the day hand-fashioning raviolis. One of your favorites.”

I figured their discussion topic would be Penelope Rideout. She had showed up unannounced at Rancho de los Robles not once but twice, successfully honked her way into the property on the second occasion, invited herself to dinner, dressed my wounds, kissed my split lip, and showered me with gifts. And I had spent a recent night away from home, which my tenants would have duly noted and attributed to Penelope.

The discussion began over shrimp appetizers and Liz’s potent martinis.

It was after sunset and a cool breeze came up the San Luis Rey River Valley from Oceanside. Faint smell of ocean, mixed with sage. A half-moon had begun its rise over the hills. I propped my phone against my water glass, to view wasp-cam streams, if any came online.

We sat around the big picnic table, four men, two women, and a pitcher of martinis sunk deep into a bowl of ice. A stray black dog lay at Frank’s feet. Somehow the dog had managed to travel the acres of coyote-heavy scrub and chaparral that surround this property. And shown up the previous day, to be swiftly adopted by Frank, who had named him Triunfo, after his home in El Salvador.

“We’re concerned for you,” said Liz. “We don’t unanimously approve of the behavior of your current client. And the bad luck she has brought you.”

“We don’t unanimously disapprove of her, either,” said Dick.

Liz: “Of course not. We’re individuals. There are dissenting opinions about her, but the general drift is that you should be careful of deepening your involvement with this woman, beyond the PI-client relationship.”

A moment of silence, during which I glanced at my phone and lifted my drink. “To you, my friends,” I said. “The Irregulars.”

Followed by a careful raising of martini glasses by everyone.

I noted that Violet, usually a temperate drinker, was at least one drink ahead of the rest of us at this early point in the evening. And that she seemed more subdued than usual. Maybe just tired. She had run around the pond for nearly two hours today. I’d seen her from my upstairs office window, while taking brief breaks between my virtual tour of Reggie Atlas’s House of Fallen Angels and the wasp-cam action from Paradise Date Farm, and my conversations with Burt and Mike Lark.

“Penelope is an attractive young woman,” said Liz. “She’s had a hard life. But she’s plainly out to claim you. And her aggression reveals neediness.”

“Or just knowing what she wants,” said Dick. “Liz would be the first to stipulate that she’s hard on her own gender.”

“Discerning,” she answered.

“Well,” said Violet, “I mostly agree with Liz about Penelope. She’s obviously interested in you. Beyond just hiring you.”

Dick: “First of all, women often unionize against other women they don’t like. So I think Roland will benefit from a male perspective. I for one think that Penelope is lovely, generous, spirited, and quite a catch for you, Grandson.”

Liz: “A catch ?”

“I’m not hearing wedding bells,” said her husband. “Just some loud and low-down rock-and-roll.”

“You used that line on me fifty-something years ago.”

Dick grinned at her over the top of his martini glass as he took another sip.

“I very respectfully disagree with Liz on one big point, though,” said Violet. “I don’t blame Penelope for your bad luck. In you getting beat up like that. Luck is an invisible hole into which anyone can fall, and it can be good or bad. You don’t make your own luck, and other people don’t bring it to you. You fall in.”

“Es verdad,” said Frank.

Triunfo gazed up at his new master, clubbing his tail against the flagstone. He looked like a Lab cut with a German shepherd, well proportioned and strong. Brown eyes in a black, serious face. Tan brows.

Frank leaned down and petted him, apparently done with his opening statement.

Burt: “We could give Roland enough credit to make up his own mind about her. Last I checked, he was all grown up.”

“Of course we will,” said Liz. “I just want to be sure that he can see things from a different point of view.”

“More talk from the women’s Local 666,” said Dick. “Really, what don’t you like about Penelope besides she’s pretty, gets things done, and is half bonkers over my grandson?”

“I know a liar when I hear one,” said Liz. “For starters, her husband being a fighter pilot out at Miramar? It didn’t ring one bit true, all her Top Gun this and Tom Cruise that. Everybody knows the Top Gun school was moved to Florida, anyway. It took Roland a little longer than it took me, but he saw through that one. The night she barged in here, showed us those pictures of her sister? Before Roland and Burt came home? Well, nobody shows a picture of their little sister. They show you a picture of their kids or grandkids. Maybe their dog. It was her own daughter, even just by the looks of her. Roland and I had a talk after his night away from home, and he indicated some doubt as to whether he was searching for a sister or a daughter. Correct, Roland?”