Hollow Man (17 page)

We sat on a graffiti-covered bench, a slight breeze coming through the trees and in the shade the temperature was almost bearable. But I could smell Otto beside me, dank and strong. I inched away.

“I know it sounds crazy,” Otto said. “But I really think he went back for it.”

“That makes no sense.”

“To you, maybe, but to me it does.”

“Explain.”

“It's not one thing he's done or said—it's a bunch of little things.”

“You being an idiot is one of them.”

“No, man, I'm serious. I'll run through them, and you can tell me if I'm still an idiot. First, he's way more worried about the dead guys than the money.”

“We shot two people. That's a big deal, Otto, how would he
not
be concerned about that?”

“Because he didn't do the shooting. And I know that doesn't make a difference legally, but as far as how he feels, that should matter. Plus, those guys weren't angels, and that's a shitload of money he doesn't seem to care about.”

“Weak. What else?”

“He's acting weird. He won't look me in the eye, and have you noticed how he's taken a backseat to all the planning and figuring out of stuff?”

“I didn't notice that, no. And he won't look you in the eye because he's a computer nerd and basically has Asperger's.”

“Yeah, well, I saved the best for last. We each rode out there to check on the police situation, right?”

“Right.”

“Get mad at me if you want, but I kept an eye on you both.”

“Otto, seriously?”

“Be glad I did. You drove out there, did a quick turnaround when you saw the patrol cars, and came home. Same thing I did. Tristan did something while he was out there, though.”

“Like what?”

“There's a patch of dirt on the other side of the road from the entrance to the mobile-home park. That's where I watched you both from, backed in between some trees. I think there's a bus stop there, but it's pitch black at night, no light there at all, so a good place to watch from. Anyway, like I said, you went in and out. Tristan went in, drove to the left side, where it all happened, where the woods are. He parked his car, and got out, walked in that direction.”

“What direction?”

“Toward the trees.”

“Did he have a bag with him?”

“I couldn't see. He went between a couple of double-wides; they had outside lights but it was like he was half in and half out of light, so I couldn't tell. Plus, he was about fifty yards away so it was difficult to see.”

“How long was he gone?”

“He was out of my sight for nine minutes and twenty seconds. Used the stopwatch on my phone.”

“Maybe he was just checking the place out.”

“Maybe. And maybe he was taking our money. You know, he's a lot smarter and sneakier than he acts.”

“Possibly, but then again he's not the one spying on his colleagues.”

“You should be glad I did, because I haven't told you the best bit. He went from the mobile-home park straight to a self-storage facility.”

“Oh? Now I'm mildly interested.”

“Yeah, figured.”

“What did he do in there?”

“No clue. They had a security gate so I couldn't get in.”

Two young black men walked toward us with that cocky swagger kids adopted when trying to look tough. One wore a red ball cap, Chicago Bulls shirt, and red shorts; the other was dressed in all blue. The first time I'd seen this, a Crip and a Blood hanging out together, I'd been on a police ride-along. “It's not like LA here,” the young cop had told me. “They don't take the gang stuff so seriously in Austin, except for the Mexican gangs. Here, it's about selling dope, not owning turf. There's even a saying: red and blue makes green. It's all about the money.”

We watched as the two men angled off to our right, heading for the outdoor swimming pool where half a dozen families were splashing about. They edged around the pool to the lifeguard. He hopped down from his high chair, and they exchanged fist bumps and half hugs. They were a hundred yards away, so I couldn't be sure, but it looked to me like the kid in blue handed off something to the lifeguard.

“So,” I said. “Nice as it is out here, I feel the need for some air-conditioning. Maybe lunch.”

“That an invitation?”

“No. Are we done here?”

“What about the storage facility? What are you going to do about Tristan?”

“Nothing. There's nothing to be done. Which means that you're going to stop being paranoid and leave him alone as well.”

“Seriously?”

“Look. I didn't know he had a storage locker. I also don't know
what kind of underwear he has on. I don't believe he has the balls to go back into those woods, while the police are standing right there, and haul out all our money.”

“You think that's more unlikely than someone wandering aimlessly around in the trees and stumbling on two bags that you buried?”

“I didn't bury them, I covered them up. And not very well, apparently.” I stood and looked down at Otto. “Look, it fucking sucks we lost the money. But we committed capital murder and so far we're free and clear. It's been a week and the police aren't anywhere near us. We need to hold it together, individually and as a group. We start pointing fingers at each other, Otto, things will go downhill very fast indeed.”

He nodded. “I guess. But keep an eye on him. If he starts buying himself expensive new shit, I want to know about it. And do me a favor. Call your buddy Gus. You seem to think we can trust him, but…just call him, will you?”

“Yeah, sure.” I smiled. “So how do you know I'm not in on some scheme to defraud you? With Tristan or Gus?”

Otto shrugged. “We go back, me and you. And I'm a good judge of character. I just don't think you have it in you to double-cross me like that.”

When I got back to the apartment, I called Gus's phone like I said I would, and left a message. Ten minutes later, my phone rang, and his name showed up.

“Howdy, Gus.”

“Dominic, it's me.” Gus's wife, Michelle.

“Oh, hey, how're you?”

“Not good. Have you seen Gus?”

“Not for a few days, actually. Everything okay?”

“I don't…I don't know. He went to work yesterday, had meetings all day so I didn't talk to him. He didn't come home, so I tried calling his phone and it rang by the bed, he'd left it at home.”

“Did he play a gig maybe? Get stuck out at a bar?”

“No, he'd have told me and there's nothing on the calendar on his phone. Plus, why would he stay out all night?”

“I don't know. Has he done this before?”

She hesitated. “A couple of times.”
So much for the perfect, doting husband.
“He's not…he loves me, he just sometimes gets…sidetracked. He gets so into his music when he's playing, and so do other people, girls. You know how it is. Then, if he stays at the bar and drinks, well…”

Only I'd never seen him like that. And no reason he'd hide it from me because I didn't care who he slept with, and I'd told him that. In fact, he'd screwed up a couple of great opportunities for me by bailing out of a foursome and going home. The idea that he'd go to work without his phone, stay out all night without letting Michelle know, not go home the next day,
and not include me
, just didn't compute.

“Honestly, Michelle, I've never seen him with anyone else. Even show interest in anyone else. I really mean that.”

“That's nice of you to say. But it's okay, I don't expect others to understand our relationship.”

“Hey, if you ask me, you never know anyone else, Michelle, unless maybe you're married to them. Whatever you guys have going on, I'm not doing any judging.”

“Thanks. Right now I just want to find him, make sure he's okay. It's not like Gus to not call.”

“I agree. I spoke to him a few days ago but haven't seen him or heard from him since…” I thought back, “I guess since Monday or Tuesday.”

That hesitation again. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“A few weeks ago, he was being weird. Not very weird, and with him it's hard to tell sometimes. But he was all excited about something, nervous but giddy as well, like that time he put his album together. This time, though, he wouldn't tell me what it was about, and I'm pretty sure it wasn't about his music.”

“I don't think I noticed…”

“That's the thing. It had something to do with you. He kept disappearing off to meet with you, and you came over here one time. I thought maybe you were working on something together.”

“No,” I said. “I mean, we play together sometimes, critique each other's songs, but I don't really know what to tell you. I don't recall him acting weird, and we weren't working on any project together.”

“What about that girl, the one who called here?”

“She's my girlfriend—he didn't tell you that?”

“He did. I just…wanted to be sure.”

“She is. Her idea of a practical joke, sorry.”

“Huh. Okay. Well, if you have any ideas, please call me. I'll have his phone with me. This just isn't like him.” Her voice caught, like she was going to cry. “If he's not back tomorrow, I'll have to file a missing-person's report.”

This didn't sound like Gus. Turns out he could be an asshole, like most men, but not getting in contact with Michelle for so long? Obviously I didn't know him like I thought I did; I'd swallowed the perfect house/husband line, but that wasn't even what Michelle was worried about. If he could get away with the occasional dalliance, why wouldn't he call home if he'd done it again? The closest you can get to knowing someone, as I'd said to Michelle, was being married to them. Apparently that didn't always pan out. Despite the prevailing wisdom about people like me, I'd never tried marriage.

I scored a rare zero on the Hare checklist question that asked
about “Many Short-Term Marital Relationships,” not because I didn't have the urge, the raging impulse to impress the hell out of some girl by professing my love and proposing marriage, but because the smarter side of me knew that it wouldn't work. She'd get to know me and my cover would be blown. And the marriage blown too, of course, but that'd be a big deal to her, not me. Maintaining cover was my main goal, not marital bliss. Or disaster, as the reality would be. But Gus…it sounded like he had some kind of accord with Michelle, if not acceptance then tolerance, and if not tolerance then studied ignorance. But that didn't include abandoning her, clearly, because that was her concern. That Gus had fallen in love and skipped off with a bar-room floozy.

I didn't think that for a minute.

Gus knew about our plan, and I was pretty sure I knew what Otto and Tristan were worried about. That he had some kind of revelation, some change of heart. They were wondering whether he followed us and saw where we put the money, then went back and helped himself. Maybe he filled his pockets with our loot and left his wife, because maybe that shack on a Costa Rican beach looked like a possibility to him. At Michelle's expense. And ours.