I did not find my brother, he found me.
I had gone into a Gallup grocery store for a twelve-pack of Cokes and more ice cream to stock the mini-fridge that had been moved to the Lana Turner room. Wally Furman’s man waited outside near the front entrance while I parsed flavors, stooping down to inspect the bottom shelf, paying little attention to my surroundings.
“We heard about Ruby’s death,” Claude Dabley said from behind me.
I stood up, clutching a pint of vanilla Häagen-Dazs, and tried to recover my composure. “What are you, some kind of fucking ghost? Don’t you realize an FBI agent is standing right outside the front door?”
He handed me a cheap phone. “We’ll call you on this.”
It was as simple as that. The phone dropped into my trout bag, and I decided not to tell Wally or Blake.