Cruz was limping down the block, moving along like a broken-down cowpoke on his way to a gunfight. Thumps had to hurry to keep up.
“Al’s is the other way.”
Cruz kept walking.
“The Quick Claim? You kidding? High prices, bad food?”
“It’s quiet, and it’s got nice booths.”
The Tucker had been hard hit by the initial COVID surge, and while it had recovered, the coffee shop had stayed closed. Then it opened. And then closed again. Thumps hoped it was still closed so he could suggest someplace else for a late-morning meal. He had already been to Al’s, but given the difference in prices and quality of food, he was willing to make a same-day return appearance.
As well, there was Dumbo’s. Surely there were one or two recommended food groups in a cup of coffee and a doughnut.
Adrian, of the buffed and polished Adrians, was not at the front desk. Today, it was Allison, Adrian’s fraternal twin.
“Gentlemen.”
“Food,” said Cruz.
“Absolutely,” said Allison. “The Quick Claim is across the lobby and to your right.”
“So, it’s open?” said Thumps, not trying to hide his disappointment.
“It is,” said Allison. “It’s been remodelled. And there’s a new menu.”
THE QUICK CLAIM was open. No salvation there. And it had been remodelled. Thumps could smell the snap of fresh carpet and wet paint. He couldn’t remember the old version, and the new version wasn’t much better.
“You ever wonder why we call them ‘fraternal twins’?”
“What?”
“I mean, that only makes sense if both the kids are boys. But what if it’s two girls, or a girl and a boy? Clearly, they’re not brothers. Why don’t we call them sororal twins, or familial twins?”
“A booth,” said Cruz. “I want a booth.”
PETER WAS THEIR SERVER, and clearly not related to either Adrian or Allison. Dark, swarthy, twice-a-day shave required, receding hairline, gleaming face and neck, as though he had jogged to work in a light rain.
“Coffee,” said Cruz. “Leave the pot.”
Now that Thumps thought about it, Peter reminded him of the guy who played Adrian Monk in the TV series. What was his name? Tommy? Tony?
Cruz put his menu to one side. “We could ask Peter.”
Thumps frowned. “About?”
“Twins.” Cruz turned to Peter. “My friend here is interested in the different kinds of twins.”
“No, I’m not.”
Peter cleared his throat. “The number most frequently cited is eleven, though depending on how you organize them, you can have a few more or a few less.”
“You hear that,” said Cruz. “Eleven different types.”
“Everyone knows about identical twins and fraternal twins. But you also have semi-identical twins, polar body or half-identical twins, mirror-image twins, mixed chromosome, superfecundation, superfetation, parasitic, twinning, and vanishing.”
Thumps opened his menu.
“I’m pre-med,” said Peter. “And there are four sets of twins in my family.”
THE NEW QUICK CLAIM menu was larger than the old Quick Claim menu, more the size of a tanning reflector. Cruz held it open on his lap, so the selections could shine on his face.
“How much do you think two chickens would cost?”
“A lot less than the two-egg omelette,” said Thumps.
“Yeah, but it comes with toast, potatoes, sausage or bacon, and a fruit cup.”
“And a flower,” said Thumps. “The last time I was here, they put a pansy on my plate.”
“Quit complaining,” said Cruz. “I had to spend an evening in your holding cell.”
“You could have stayed at the house.”
“Sure,” said Cruz. “Where I would have been assaulted by Mom and her two-ton son.”
“Wait. If you weren’t there, who fed them?”
THE BREAKFAST PLATES arrived. Cruz poked at the eggs with his fork. “No pansy.”
“Liars don’t get flowers.” Thumps took the Jenga block out of his pocket, set it on the table.
Cruz put some jam on his toast. “Are you waiting for me to ask you what that is?”
“I am,” said Thumps.
“It’s a block of wood.”
“It’s a Jenga block.”
Cruz cut the sausage into pieces. “You think they have ketchup in this place?”
“This is the piece that you don’t want to pull out. This is the piece that holds the tower together. You pull this piece out, and the whole thing falls down.”
Cruz sighed. Put his knife and fork to one side. “This piece got a name?”
“Sorin Dalca.” Thumps sat back. “This piece is Sorin Dalca.”
Cruz wiped his hands on the napkin, smiled, began a slow clap.
“Shit.” Thumps could feel the exasperation overtake him. “You knew, didn’t you.”
“That Dalca is dead? That he had been killed in a sailing accident in French Polynesia?”
“You knew that all along.”
“Suspected,” said Cruz. “We suspected that he was dead. How about you? Lucky guess?”
“Car windows,” said Thumps. “Greeley’s rental. The side windows were covered with dog slobber. The same dog slobber that Howdy slops all over Duke’s car.”
“Dog slobber?”
“Greeley didn’t have a dog. I’m guessing that Gage used the car to pick up Howdy from the shelter, and then left it at the airport for Greeley.”
“Not something you could take to court.”
“There’s only one reason why Gage and Greeley would be sharing a car.”
“You jumped from dog slobber to Dalca being dead?”
“Not right away. But it got me thinking. And if Dalca is dead, he couldn’t have shown up at Gage’s place.”
Cruz sat back, a smile on his face.
“Which is why we’re having breakfast here.” Thumps turned toward the lobby. “I’m guessing, after we eat, you’re going to arrest Gage.”
“She’s already left.”
“What?”
“Took off last night. Just after we talked. Roughed up the room a little. Even spread some blood around this time.”
Thumps nodded. “So it would look as though Para Bellum came back for her.”
“The blood was a nice touch. Left everything else behind. Clothes, purse with all her ID, half-eaten room-service dinner.”
Thumps could feel the exasperation fade and exhaustion take its place.
Cruz checked his watch. “She drove to Great Falls and is about to catch a flight to Denver. From there, she’s going to New York. New York to London, London to Dubrovnik, Dubrovnik to Podgorica.”
“Podgorica?”
“It’s in Montenegro,” said Cruz. “Nice place. No extradition treaty.”
Thumps spun the Jenga piece on the table and started kicking himself. There it was. Clear and complete. He should have seen it sooner, but he hadn’t.
“Dalca and Gage.”
Cruz nodded. “So, you’re not just a pretty face.” “They set up the Vault together. Gage must have known about the shell company in Nevis as well.”
Cruz nodded. “When Dalca died, Gage saw her chance. She had the code. She just needed the right opportunity.”
“Use Dalca as the bogeyman.” Thumps leaned back from the table. “Coming out here to get away from Dalca was a ruse. Gage hired Stan Greeley to suggest that she was in danger. She used Island Consolidated to rent the motel room and the car. She put the sniper rifle in the trunk for show, faked the kidnapping.”
Thumps took a breath. “It was all theatre.”
“A miniseries,” said Cruz.
Thumps ran through the scenario one more time to make sure all the pieces fit. “Does Gage know you know?”
“Not sure,” said Cruz. “I guess we’ll find out in the next little bit.”
“Because?”
“She left the room in a mess to suggest another kidnapping. The storyline is supposed to read that Para Bellum is tying off loose ends. Gage is snatched, killed, and her body dumped along with Dalca where we won’t find it. In the meantime, Gage sneaks out the back door with the keys to the Vault.”
“And if she can pull off being dead,” said Thumps, “no one is going to go looking for her. She doesn’t have to live the rest of her life in some Third World backwater. Maybe some plastic surgery, a new identity, and she can live where she pleases, in comfort and luxury.”
There was a strawberry on Cruz’s plate. Thumps reached out and speared it with his fork.
“Hey.”
“That’s for keeping me in the dark.”
“You would have just given the game away.”
“Speaking of which.” Thumps put the Jenga piece in his shirt pocket. “Doesn’t it bother you that she’s getting away?”
Cruz went back to his breakfast. Ate the rest of the sausage. Finished off the fruit cup. Thumps would have expected the ninja assassin to be more animated. But there he sat, as though he was on vacation.
“Except she’s not getting away, is she?”
Cruz gestured with his fork. “We may be meeting her plane in Denver.”
“And by ‘we,’ you mean . . . ?”
Cruz smiled, picked up the coffee cup. “You think they have any pie?”