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CHAPTER 30

      HANNAH WAS in the bathtub when Rand let himself in.

      The house was almost dark except for the light in the bathroom and a dim light in the bedroom. The radio was playing Fats Waller jazz, "Blue Turning Gray Over You." Rand could see her through the open door. She hadn't heard him enter, and he was afraid he'd startle her. For a moment he admired the smooth flow of her wet soapy skin, the slim, tanned arm that hung over the edge of the tub. Then he went into the living room and sat in his chair, and lit a cigarette. He had left the front door open and a splash of moonlight came through the screen door.

      He had been sorting it out during the hour drive from Las Cruces.

      Vandergaard was the key piece. It was he who created the fake bars, so he was in it from the very beginning. And there was little doubt in Rand's mind that Vandergaard had a thing going with Noreen. Rand wondered if Nick knew it, and assumed he did. Some people didn't care about things like that, although Rand thought it would drive him crazy if Hannah was messing around with somebody else.

      The question was, how would Vandergaard know Uribe?

      It was stuck in Rand's craw and wouldn't go away. It was like an electrical circuit with a piece cut out of it. It just wouldn't work until the piece was patched in. Maybe Vandergaard knew Uribe from business dealings. Maybe they met at an acquaintance's house. Maybe Pritchard, who surely must have known a lot of shady characters recommended him. Once Rand knew the connection, he would be willing to give it up.

      He restarted the record. Hannah was out of the tub, drying herself off, when she saw him.

      "How long have you been home?"

      "A few minutes. I saw you in the tub but I was afraid I'd scare you, so I sat in the living room."

      "You scared me, anyway, when you started the record again."

      "I'm sorry."

      She smiled at him. "It's okay. It's your house."

      "You own half," he said softly. "You want to live in it with me?"

      "I guess." She squinted at him, "You've been in a fight."

      "Sort of."

      She touched his nose. "How did the other guy look?"

      He thought of Brennan and Petrie after being blasted with the shotgun. "They looked worse than me."

      "Done with your job?"

      "Sort of. I still have some questions."

      "Hungry?"

      "Yeah. Put some clothes on and let's go down to La Hacienda and grab a couple of decent enchiladas."

      They drove down to the old building at the edge of the Rio Grande, where Rand had enchiladas and chile colorado - red chile with big chunks of meat. The chile relaxed him. A couple of bottles of beer made him sleepy. He thought Hannah had never looked so good, or was so good to be around. Even when they fought, there was an innate fairness about her that touched him. Comparing her to Noreen was like comparing a genuine silver dollar with a counterfeit penny. He told her so and she seemed pleased.

      His head began nodding. She paid the bill and walked him to the car and drove him back to the house in Kern Place. She had to wake him up so he could get undressed and get into bed.

      But even in his sleep, it nagged him: Where did Vandergaard find Uribe?

      In the morning he felt better. He slept late, and when he awoke Hannah was dressed, reading the El Paso Times, eating toast and coffee in the kitchen. A hot shower loosened up the muscles he'd strained trying to get free of the ropes, and his nose wasn't so swollen. His wrists were still red, although the clothesline rope they'd tied him with was soft. It could have been worse. They could have used baling wire. Or killed him. Then he wouldn't have been around now to fit together the final pieces of the puzzle.

      He dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt and a light gray summer suit that he knew would be drenched with sweat before the day was out.

      He skimmed the paper while Hannah fixed him a couple of eggs, sunnyside up, and he ate them. There was nothing in it about the meeting in Las Cruces, although the paper had pretty good coverage there. There was a short article about Vandergaard's murder: he had been attacked in his garage by a burglar. So much for the Times' Las Cruces correspondent, or Navarette's ability at obfuscation.

      "What are you going to do today?" he asked her.

      "Make telephone calls. Look for a new job. Why are you all dressed up?"

      "I'm going to visit some people."

      "Nice people? Bad people?"

      "That's it, I don't know. I'll find out when I see them."

      "Well, look out for yourself. No more bruises."

      Rand gave the operator the number of the El Paso Police Department and asked to be transferred to Monty George.

      After a couple of minutes he got through to somebody who said he'd get him. When George found out who was on the line he said, "You again!"

      "Yeah. One quick and easy question. What do you know about a guy named Carlos Uribe?"

      "He's dead," George said. "They found his body in the desert near Las Cruces. Good riddance to a bad apple. The Sheriff down there tied up the case yesterday."

      "Who did Uribe work for?" Rand asked.

      "I don't know."

      "Got a rap sheet on him?"

      "Hey, I thought this was gonna just take a few minutes."

      "Look it up, and call me."

      George slammed the phone down without answering.

      Rand smoked a cigarette and had another cup of coffee. In fifteen minutes the phone rang.

      "Uribe didn't work for anybody" George said. "He was just a two-bit petty crook. He collected bills for people who lacked the ability to break arms and legs themselves."

      "Does the name Vandergaard ring any bells with you?" Rand asked.

      "He's dead, too. It came over the wire a little while ago. The case is probably already closed. That hot-shot sheriff publicizes his victories in a big way, but never says anything about his losses."

      "I don't think he ever loses any," Rand said. "Any connection between Uribe and Vandergaard?"

      "I told you everything. Anything else I can do for you?"

      "Yeah. Wait a minute." Rand pulled out his billfold and withdrew the scrap of receipt on which he'd written the burning Ford's license number when he was at the Mexican's place. "Will you check Texas license plate number E78943 for me."

      "I'll have to check with the driver's license bureau. You know that's public information. You could get it yourself."

      "You do it better," Rand said.

      "Shit! I'll call you back." George hesitated. "I'm expecting a bottle of Wild Turkey for all this."

      "You want a bribe?"

      George slammed the phone down again.

      Rand checked the name Uribe in the phone book. There were more than twenty them, but only one was surnamed Carlos. He dialed the number. A woman answered.

      He said, "Good morning, is this the residence of the Carlos Uribe who collects bills for people?"

      "This is the residence of Carlos Uribe, the dentist," she said. "If you want an appointment call his office."

      Fifteen minutes later the phone rang. Rand answered it.

      Monty George said, "Clever guy. You're on to something. The plates belonged to a guy named Felix Munn."

      "What does he do?"

      "Who cares? He reported that his license plates were stolen a couple of days ago. No doubt you think that Uribe stole them."

      "Maybe."

      "Well, you see, that's progress of a sort. I've helped you. Remember the Wild Turkey," George said, hanging up.

      Rand returned to the paper and turned to the page with obituaries. Uribe wasn't listed, but there were ads for 10 mortuaries on the page. Rand began phoning them. On his seventh try, the woman who answered the phone said they would be burying Mr. Uribe the next day at two o'clock at Our Lady of Guadalupe Cemetery.

      "I was a friend of Mr. Uribe's," Rand said. "I can't attend the funeral, but I'd like to send flowers to the family. Do you have their address?"

      "Just a moment, please." She was gone for a time, then came back. "The deceased's widow lives at 4571 Montana Street."

      Rand thanked her and hung up.

      Hannah had been listening to him. "You going over there?"

      "Yeah, want to come?"

      "Yes."

      "Maybe we ought to bring some flowers. That guy is going to help me crack this case."

      They stopped off at a florist and bought a good-sized bouquet.

      Uribe's house was close to Five Points up against Mount Franklin in a cul-de-sac with several other houses. There were five cars parked before it. Rand had to climb a dozen concrete steps to get to the front door. He knocked on the screen door, and he could see people sitting in chairs. Uribe's widow was dressed in black, stone-faced. He could see her profile. Several children were playing on the floor, aware that something terrible had happened, but not sure what it was or how they should act.

      The door was answered by a teenage girl who took the flowers and thanked him. Rand nodded and without saying anything went down the stairs and got into the car.

      Hannah said, "Well that was quick."

      "Quicker than I thought," Rand said. "I recognized Uribe's widow. She was the woman who brought Victor Soames a glass so I could drink with him the first time I was there. She was carrying around a little kid with wet diapers."

      "So that ties Uribe with Soames?"

      "Looks that way," Rand said. "I'm going to drop you off at the house and visit Mr. Soames again. If I'm not back in two hours, call Monty George so he can get points with the cops. Then call Navarette in Las Cruces."

      "You be very careful," she said. "This stuff is why I hate your job."

      "Just pray the guy doesn't sit on me," Rand said.

      Before he left the house, he dropped the little .32 into his boot. He ankle was getting a callus from carrying it around.

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