Earl?”
“Earl?”
“The guy I bunked with.”
“He had a bad reaction, I heard. Had to go to the hospital. . . . Why?”
“No reason. So I’m free to go?”
“Absolutely.” He pushed Landry’s folded clothes and shoes across the desk toward him. “There is a restroom down the hall.” He gestured in the direction with his chin.
“So this was a mistake.”
“Yes. A mistake. I’m terribly, terribly sorry.”
Landry thought that the person who was truly sorry was Carla Vitelli.
Chapter 9
By the time Landry got back to the motel, it was going on three in the afternoon.
Someone had targeted him for death. As if whoever had jailed him went under the theory that Landry posed some kind of threat and should be eliminated, and that person had acted on that theory.
But it hadn’t panned out, so they let him go. Whoever wanted him dead had to have his hooks deep into the sheriff’s office, or at least the county jail.
He cut diagonally across the empty lot toward his room. It might be wise to move to another motel; leave the white car there and take the blue van. He needed to clean up first.
As he took the steps up to the second story, he glanced back at the white rental Nissan, still parked in the same place, nose to nose with a car in the next row. It was in the same place he’d left it. He approached the room from the back and from the right. The shades were drawn. He’d left the TV on to fool people into thinking he was still inside.
The room was clear, as he’d expected.
They—the sheriff’s department—knew where he was. They had searched his room, but he knew they had found nothing—everything but a change of clothes and a few traveler’s basics had been left in a storage unit two blocks over.
Probable cause these days, in certain towns, in certain counties, in certain states, in certain regions, could be stretched beyond recognition. Stretched, wrung out, hung on the line, ironed, folded, spindled, and hung up in a closet. If they’d been playing by the rule of law, they would have had no probable cause to arrest him. And they certainly had no basis to let him go, after he dispatched Earl.
Police in this town were a law unto themselves.
He wondered how Jolie had fit into this brave new world in Tobosa County.
The police had become paramilitary. Police and sheriff’s departments across the country were getting more and more hardware that they didn’t know what to do with. They had everything they needed to fight a ground war. Army surplus was king. SWAT gear, tactical vests, armor-plated vehicles called MRAPs (Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicles), tear gas, M-14s, grenade launchers.
Considering the fact that municipalities liked to get their money’s worth, he was lucky to be alive at all.
He checked the door for anything unusual. Saw nothing that would raise the alarm. Peered in through the tiny gap in the drapes. Unlocked the door, stood at the side, and kicked it open.
Nothing.
He made a quick search of the room. No one hiding in the shower stall, no one in the closet. No bogeyman under the bed. He checked for bugs, too—was quite thorough about it. Stood on the bed and unscrewed the light fixture. Nothing he could see stood out.
It was good to luxuriate under a hot shower.
It was going on five p.m. when he changed into the blue work shirt, jeans, and work boots, drove the blue van to Jolie’s neighborhood, and parked it out front.
He waited for Jolie’s fellow detective to come by. It didn’t take long. The woman drove up in a late-model car, on the inexpensive side but immaculate. She parked in the driveway and followed the stepping-stones to the front door, unlocked the iron door and the inner door, and went inside.
He looked around. No one was out and about. Going on dusk. The blinds to the house were closed.
Then he walked to the door and rang the bell.
She opened the front door but left the iron door locked. Peered out at him, her face betraying
“Earl?”
“The guy I bunked with.”
“He had a bad reaction, I heard. Had to go to the hospital. . . . Why?”
“No reason. So I’m free to go?”
“Absolutely.” He pushed Landry’s folded clothes and shoes across the desk toward him. “There is a restroom down the hall.” He gestured in the direction with his chin.
“So this was a mistake.”
“Yes. A mistake. I’m terribly, terribly sorry.”
Landry thought that the person who was truly sorry was Carla Vitelli.
Chapter 9
By the time Landry got back to the motel, it was going on three in the afternoon.
Someone had targeted him for death. As if whoever had jailed him went under the theory that Landry posed some kind of threat and should be eliminated, and that person had acted on that theory.
But it hadn’t panned out, so they let him go. Whoever wanted him dead had to have his hooks deep into the sheriff’s office, or at least the county jail.
He cut diagonally across the empty lot toward his room. It might be wise to move to another motel; leave the white car there and take the blue van. He needed to clean up first.
As he took the steps up to the second story, he glanced back at the white rental Nissan, still parked in the same place, nose to nose with a car in the next row. It was in the same place he’d left it. He approached the room from the back and from the right. The shades were drawn. He’d left the TV on to fool people into thinking he was still inside.
The room was clear, as he’d expected.
They—the sheriff’s department—knew where he was. They had searched his room, but he knew they had found nothing—everything but a change of clothes and a few traveler’s basics had been left in a storage unit two blocks over.
Probable cause these days, in certain towns, in certain counties, in certain states, in certain regions, could be stretched beyond recognition. Stretched, wrung out, hung on the line, ironed, folded, spindled, and hung up in a closet. If they’d been playing by the rule of law, they would have had no probable cause to arrest him. And they certainly had no basis to let him go, after he dispatched Earl.
Police in this town were a law unto themselves.
He wondered how Jolie had fit into this brave new world in Tobosa County.
The police had become paramilitary. Police and sheriff’s departments across the country were getting more and more hardware that they didn’t know what to do with. They had everything they needed to fight a ground war. Army surplus was king. SWAT gear, tactical vests, armor-plated vehicles called MRAPs (Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicles), tear gas, M-14s, grenade launchers.
Considering the fact that municipalities liked to get their money’s worth, he was lucky to be alive at all.
He checked the door for anything unusual. Saw nothing that would raise the alarm. Peered in through the tiny gap in the drapes. Unlocked the door, stood at the side, and kicked it open.
Nothing.
He made a quick search of the room. No one hiding in the shower stall, no one in the closet. No bogeyman under the bed. He checked for bugs, too—was quite thorough about it. Stood on the bed and unscrewed the light fixture. Nothing he could see stood out.
It was good to luxuriate under a hot shower.
It was going on five p.m. when he changed into the blue work shirt, jeans, and work boots, drove the blue van to Jolie’s neighborhood, and parked it out front.
He waited for Jolie’s fellow detective to come by. It didn’t take long. The woman drove up in a late-model car, on the inexpensive side but immaculate. She parked in the driveway and followed the stepping-stones to the front door, unlocked the iron door and the inner door, and went inside.
He looked around. No one was out and about. Going on dusk. The blinds to the house were closed.
Then he walked to the door and rang the bell.
She opened the front door but left the iron door locked. Peered out at him, her face betraying
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