Faye Kellerman - Moon Music

The old man’s brown face was creased with concentration. As usual, he wore a sand-colored leather shirt, a string tie with a turquoise pendant, and jeans. On his feet were Nike running shoes. His black hair was pulled back into a braid. With a touch of his hand, he discarded the eight of hearts. The machine replaced it with a two of diamonds. Again he crapped out.

Poe said, “Why’d you go for the three of a kind instead of the straight?”

“Odds are better.”

“The idea is to beat the odds.”

Y dropped another quarter into the machine. “The idea is to lose all my money, then pass out from too much alcohol.”

“Ah …” Poe licked foam off his lips, stubbed out his cigarette. “To aid you with your goal, I’ll buy you a beer.”

Y didn’t answer, steeped in indecision. He regarded the cards dealt to him on the monitor. Maybe Poe was right. Try to beat the odds. He’d try for the full house.

Poe frowned. “Go for the flush.”

“Stop kibbitzing.”

“I’m offering you sage advice.”

Again, Y crapped out. He was about to drop in another quarter. Poe put his hand over the slot. The old man looked up. “What?”

“As long as I found you—”

“Found me? I was never lost.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“I can hear and play at the same time.”

“What do you remember about the Bogeyman case?”

“Move your hand.”

Poe took his hand away. Y dropped two bits into the machine. He said, “What specifically?”

“Everything.”

Y tried for a flush. He wound up with a pair of aces. Still, it beat the machine’s queen high. He said, “Everything’s a tall order.”

Poe sipped his beer. “How about this for starters. I remember rumors that the guy had taken trophies from his victim—”

“Victims. There were two of them.”

Poe said, “Yeah, that was question number two. Why do I only remember one victim?”

“Because you were a kid and the second one wasn’t publicized. A drifter girl. No roots here. The police were able to keep it quiet. They needed to keep it quiet. ’Cause the first one caused such a storm.”

“Tell me about her … the first one.”

“A local high school teacher with local ties. The papers got wind of it, turned it into a circus. The shit really hit the fan.”

“How’d they tie the first and second victim to the same murderer?”

“How should I know? Do your homework. Go back and look in the police archives.”

Y fished out another quarter. Poe put his hand around Y’s bony fingers. “Could you stop one second?”

Y grunted, waited.

Poe said, “Do you recall something about … well, body parts?”

“You mean the eyes?”

“So the Bogeyman had removed her eyes.”

Y didn’t talk.

Poe said, “Yes? No?”

“You didn’t ask me a question.”

“Do you remember something about the Bogeyman removing the victim … victims’ eyes?”

“There was talk.”

“Do you know if it was true?”

Y stared at the younger man. “Why are you asking about the Bogeyman?”

“Similarities between it and this case I’m working on.”

“So go back and check the records.”

Poe nodded. “Did the Bogeyman ever have a name?”

“As far as I know, he was never caught.”

“Did he have anything to do with the murder of Alison’s mother?”

Y’s eyes locked with Poe’s. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Alison told me. She said that the police suspected her mother was the Bogeyman’s victim. Because she was sliced up pretty bad.”

Y continued to stare, his eyes cold and unforgiving. But Poe was not to be deterred. “You were close to the family. I thought you might know some inside information.”

Y stubbed out his cold cigarette, lit another one. “You thought wrong, Sergeant.”

“My mistake.” Poe returned his glare with one of his own. “I’m just doing my job, old man.”

“You’re opening up wounds.”

“Whose? Alison’s or yours?” Poe leaned close to the old man. “Y, we both know the Bogeyman disappeared after Alison’s mother committed suicide. Last night Alison told me that the suicide was suspect. It got me thinking. Especially after witnessing what I saw last night. You should see what this monster did to this poor girl. I want to find him.”

Y remained sour. “So why ask about the Bogeyman? You think he’s returned after a twenty-five-year hiatus?”

Poe threw his head back. “Maybe.”

Y inhaled his smoke, passed it to Poe. “So check the old records. Anything I’d remember is tainted with senility.”

Poe took a drag on the cigarette, gave it back to Y. “I don’t know about that. You’re a sharp old coot.” He snapped his fingers, then stopped. Studied the old man. “Are we related, Y?”

“Call me Dad.”

“I’m serious.”

“All Paiutes are spiritually related.”

“I’m not going to get a straight answer out of you, am I?”

Y didn’t respond.

“I’ve been thinking about doing a family tree,” Poe said. “I don’t think I’m going to find the Shoshones or the Southern Paiutes in the Mormon archives. Figured you’re my best bet.”

“You may be surprised. Mormons invaded our piece of the rock, lived on these fertile grounds at the same time we did. They taught us civilization. Meanwhile, the marukats reduced our thousand-year-old culture to a gift shop on Main Street.”

“But you’re not bitter, are you?”

The old man dropped another quarter into the machine. “Mormons and Paiutes had one thing in common.”

“What?”

“Polygamy.”

Poe smiled. “Guess pussy’s the great equalizer.”

Y managed to crack a begrudging smile. Then he turned serious. “You shouldn’t be talking to Alison about her mother. She’s delicate. Talking about the past sets her back.”

Poe sighed. “Steve already lectured me.”

“He’s right.”

“Are you staying here all night, Chief?”

“It’s warmer than the streets.”

“Want to crash at my place?”

Y considered the option. “But I haven’t lost all my money yet.”

“The machine’ll still be here in the morning.” Poe stood. “C’mon. We’ll take a cab to my car.” Y grumped as Poe helped him to his feet. “Where do you get all your chump money, old man? I’ve never seen you do a day’s work.”

“Uncle Sam.”

“That’s right. You’re a vet.”

“I’m a Korean vet. Then I went and signed up for Nam. Which made me a Nam vet. I was a real warrior in my past.”

“You’re a real warrior now as far as I’m concerned.”

“Then I get money for being an Indian or Native American or whatever shit they want to call us. Compensation for living in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Y staggered and tripped, but regained his footing. “Yeah, I am a vet of foreign and domestic wars. Old Uncle Sam got his money’s worth outta me. And now I’m gettin’ my money’s worth outta him. Do I have to sleep on the floor?”

“You can have the bed.”

“Such genuine Christian charity.”

“Call me Saint Romulus.”

The phone was ringing as Poe crossed the threshold of his single-room clay house. Still cradling the old man, Poe turned on a battery-operated lamp, then picked up the receiver, tucked it under his chin while spitting out the grit of sand. “Yo?”

“Detective Sergeant Poe?”

An unfamiliar voice who knew his title. Not a good sign at one in the morning.

Poe closed the door with his foot. “This is he.”

“Sergeant, this is Sergeant Willis Hollister up here in Reno.”

“Oh boy.” Y was getting leaden, his deep snoring interfering with Poe’s hearing. “Could you please hold on a second?”