Five O’Clock Shadow (27 page)

Convenient time to leave the table. Was he dodging the issue? She seemed to have struck a nerve. Maybe, if she tried a different tactic. But what was it he'd said earlier? Something that struck her as odd…something that surprised her. She had no idea why she'd accepted another drink; her thinking was fuzzy as it was. But she thanked Sam for the second margarita and took a sip and waited for him to pull his chair closer to the table.

“Enough about me for a minute.” Maybe if she changed subjects. “Sam, I have to ask, what do you know about my grandmother's involvement here, using the carnival to lure children into…well, some kind of porn ring?”

Sam's teeth clattered against the pipe's stem. She couldn't read his eyes but she felt his surprise.

“Your grandmother?”

“She seems to be at the center of all this—Grams and probably her sixth husband.”

“There are always a line of those, aren't there?”

Did he sound irked? Maybe. he'd been one of the suitors.

“I know how it must sound…a granddaughter suspecting her own grandmother.” She touched his arm, left her hand there for a second until he put his hand over hers. “I've found you very supportive. Thank you for listening…for understanding.”

“There's nothing wrong with questioning. Pauly, your grandmother won't have a sixth husband very long. She's a very independent woman. It's difficult for her to have a partner…for her to accept business suggestions.”

Pauly smiled. That was true.

“I've drawn up papers for an annulment. Her last marriage just didn't work out. Both parties will walk away no worse for wear. It's all fairly amicable.”

But Pauly doubted that. Somehow from the way he said it, she guessed things had not gone all that smoothly.

Pauly leaned forward, “Sam, who is number six?”

“Your grandmother's my client. The relationship was an embarrassment to say the least. I'm going to have to tell you to ask Lulu.”

Pauly sighed. Did it matter? Probably no…not unless.… “Sam, what do you think about my grandmother being involved in something illegal?”

She felt him go on guard, stiffen ever so slightly before he pulled his hand away.

“Could she know that young children are being lured to the carnival possibly to be used, exploited for child porn?”

“Lulu? Absolutely not. Surely you know your grandmother that well. I can't believe you even entertained the thought. And you have no proof that that's really the situation.”

His sharp tone didn't surprise her. Recrimination, she deserved it. How could she suspect her grandmother? But that didn't explain the cologne-soaked teddy bear.

“What do you know about Hofer?”

A flicker of something passed across his eyes. Was Hofer her about-to-be annulled husband—despite Ed's disclaimer? She knew for certain that Hofer was the “uncle”—the man Paco had said got him a job, the “preacher-man.” The one who might have taken the picture of Paco that was pieced together with one of Randy. She'd almost forgotten that. Maybe Hofer took other kinds of pictures, too.

“I guess I don't know much about him. He can't put two words together unless he's behind a pulpit.”

She returned Sam's smile. It was true, but the idea that Hofer was the deviant made sense.

“Do you trust him?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I'm just trying to figure out who could be behind a child porn ring, someone also involved with the circus.”

“Pauly, listen to me. I'm not sure you have enough evidence, proof, that such a thing exists.” He sounded exasperated.

This was the lawyer talking. And he was probably right. Just because Paco helped a friend under the fence.… Still, someone had to have taken those photos of a nude Paco and the others, suggestive, provocative poses.

“Is there anyone who was with you in El Paso who could vouch for your whereabouts, give you an alibi for the time that this Paco or the other child might have been abducted?”

Sam was trying to bring her back to where this discussion started. And this was the immediate priority, wasn't it? Keeping her out of jail? She thought of Steve. He knew where she was, and she had been with him when the child's mother had been interviewed.

“A man by the name of Steve Burke.”

“Your grandmother's newest partner?” Sam looked surprised.

“Yes. But that's not all he is.” Pauly quickly told him what Tony had said.

“Are you mixed up with this Burke fellow?” He scrutinized her features as he tapped tobacco firmly in the pipe's bowl.

What was “mixed up”? Some euphemism for “have you slept with him”? It had been a narrow escape, but no cigar. She was thankful for that. Was she bitter? Yes. And angry, boiling over angry at herself…at how she'd let Steve get to her. How she'd trusted him. So would he be a good alibi? Somehow she thought not.

“No, not mixed up with him,” she smiled.

“I tried to talk Lulu out of adding him to the team. One of our many disagreements.” He smiled ruefully and sucked on the stem of the pipe. “Where is this Steve now?”

“Still in El Paso, supposedly.”

“Think carefully. Could he vouch for your whereabouts on Christmas Eve?”

“For some of the time, up until about midnight.”

“But not after that?”

Pauly shook her head and didn't elaborate about falling asleep waiting on him, standing in front of him stark naked the next morning before getting into the shower…. She was still smarting, but hey, she just decided she had been lucky. Fortunate that there hadn't been an affair? And wasn't there a ski mask and evidence that he'd given false information to the police—that should make her doubly lucky that she'd be able to just walk away.

She stretched her legs. She was beginning to feel numb. One fishbowl-sized margarita had gone straight to her head. She'd take it slow with the second, not compound the slight buzz she already felt. Because there were still questions that needed answers.

“Why do you think Randy was killed?” She'd always wondered about Sam's opinion.

“I'm not sure anyone's proved that the pilot wasn't the primary target. He was the one shot.”

“True, but the police seem to think it was Randy.”

“Why do you think?” Sam asked. The question was punctuated with a couple of quick puffs of pipe smoke.

“Uh uh. No fair. I asked first.” Was she sounding a little slurred? She scooted the margarita out of reach.

“If your suspicions of pedophilia are true, that would give someone a reason.” More puffs from the pipe as he watched her.

She could cut the silence between them. This wasn't what she expected him to say.

He continued, “I honestly don't have an explanation for the pictures. I believe that we have to take into consideration the possibility of Randy's being a pedophile, however distasteful that might be. But nothing's been proved. I want to caution you not to let your imagination run wild. And if the detective gets back in touch, don't meet with him without me there. That's very important. I want you to promise me. Do you understand?”

She nodded. Suddenly, it felt like she was getting a lecture. Did Sam believe anything she had told him? She had proof, for God's sake…the pictures were fake. Randy was not a pedophile.

“The same goes for this Burke fellow. If the company hired him to spy on you, you don't want to give them anything to use against you. Your grandmother said that she thought they were trying to squeeze you out.”

Pauly was smart enough to know that; she didn't need him to tell her. She felt peevish. Uneasy. But she couldn't quite get her margarita-laden brain to work. But there was something just beneath the surface she needed to address, something that was important, if she could just think clearly.

“I should be getting back now.” She shook her hair away from her face and tucked errant strands behind her ears. Whatever it was that was so important, it eluded her. She was just tired.

“Of course.” Sam left a wad of four or five ones on the table and helped her on with her jacket.

It took an extra firm shove to open the restaurant's heavy wooden front door. The gust of wind was teeth-chattering cold, and the sting of sleet surprised her. Within the last hour the promised winter storm had descended on the city. Fourth Street was already glazed over. And it was dark now. Dark, but the street lights reflected brightly on patches of black ice. Thank God she wasn't driving. She hated this kind of weather. It didn't happen often in Albuquerque, but when it did, it was chaos; everything came to a halt.

“I hate to make you take me home in this mess.”

“We're not that far away. I think we can get there all right. Maybe I'll impose on your grandmother to put me up for the night.” A chuckle.

The Jag maintained traction up the short incline of the parking lot ramp that would put them on Fourth Street. Sam paused before turning to the right. Traffic was light, almost non-existent. The car slipped, then dug in and seemed solid in spite of the treacherous footing. They got on the interstate. He was probably going to take Paseo Del Norte. Pauly began to relax. He was a good driver and the sleet had turned to snow, big wet elephant flakes that collected along the wiper blades.

Half a dozen cars turned before they did, making slow careful arcs onto the four-lane. The uphill curve didn't bother the Jag. Sam straightened the car, settled into the middle lane and accelerated to twenty-five miles an hour. They were driving into the storm and the flakes stuck to the windshield, thickly limiting visibility.

The pipe was in a pocket somewhere and Pauly could see the line of his jaw, taut and determined. Sam backed off the gas as a tangle of lights appeared on the right. A fender-bender. Both parties were standing by their vehicles.

“Should we call someone?” His cell phone was on the dash.

“There are probably so many calls, you wouldn't be able to get through. They seemed to be all right.”

Pauly turned for another look. Both men were obscured by a wall of dense white flakes.

“Damn.”

Pauly turned back as she felt Sam start to tap the brakes. This time the accident was in front of them and stretched across all lanes. Pauly leaned against the dash, gripping its edge, and peered out the windshield. One car was on its side. Several others fit together in an accordion-pleated zig-zagged line, headlights aiming all directions.

Sam had almost stopped when the lights that swept across the interior of the Jag startled her, especially when they swung back to the right as quickly as they had first appeared. A car was spinning out of control, coming up fast behind them.

Pauly leaned over the back of the seat in time to see the whirling car sideswipe an eighteen-wheeler, which jack-knifed, skidding sideways, tractor and trailer skating across the highway in slow-motion accuracy aimed at the back of the Jag.

“Sam.” The scream was useless. There was nothing he could do. No place to go. Sitting ducks. They were going to be sandwiched between the truck and the pile of already wrecked cars in front of them.

The squealing and gnashing of gears gave way to the grinding of tearing metal. At the moment of impact, the back window of the Jag exploded inward, spraying the interior with sparkling bits of glass. Then the back of the car rose in the air to perch against the truck's radiator. They were pushed like a cow-catcher on the tilting Peterbilt to ram anything in front of them. The headlights and grillwork of the truck seemed to inhabit the back seat.

Pauly hugged her legs to her chest, burying her head in her thighs, bracing for the next impact. She was beyond screaming. She opened her mouth but there was no sound. All of her senses were frozen. She didn't look at Sam. There was no time. Only nanoseconds before the truck ground them into the pile of already twisted steel—the barricade that had been a line of cars just moments ago.

Her seat belt snapped viciously into her chest and lap, but held, holding her rigid and upright even when the Jag's roof caved in dangerously close to the top of her head. And then there was nothing, no motion, no sound. They were stopped. She was alive. She gulped in air and tried to stretch her legs, but she was wedged between seat and dash.

Sam. He wasn't moving. Blood spilled over his forehead, trickling unnoticed across his eyes, down his face. The cut across his forehead looked deep. She had to stop the bleeding. She had to move. She frantically pushed against the dash, and the seat gave way a couple of inches, allowing the glove compartment door to flop open. But at least she could put her feet down a little ways.

She rummaged through the compartment's contents, intent on purpose, fighting the hysteria that threatened to sweep over her, trying to shut out the smell of wrecked metal, of gasoline and fear, the feeling of claustrophobia that could make her crazy, make her flail against the smashed door, the collapsed roof as she sought a way out. No. She was needed. Sam could be bleeding to death. She couldn't leave him. Surely there would be something, some piece of cloth she could use to stop the flow.

The compartment's tiny light was a help. She pawed at the contents. The gun nestled in the back was a semi-automatic with extra clip. No surprise. Lots of people carried guns. The car's manual was in a plastic zip-locked pouch, loose papers, registration, insurance papers on top of it, not even a packet of Kleenex. But there was a deck of playing cards rubber-banded snugly together.

Pauly started to toss them aside, then stopped. The card on top was face up. Hadn't she seen enough of this sort of thing? Numbly, she slipped off the rubber band. They weren't playing cards but carefully matted photos of young children. Ten of them, two of girls, maybe one was five at the most. They looked like miniature advertisements. The statistics on the back gave particulars about each child. Particulars that would appeal to someone interested in children for sex. She fought nausea, swallowed and thumbed through them again. She didn't recognize any of the children.