On my way back to the office, I stopped by the site where Patriot’s Blood once stood.
The area was surrounded by a hastily erected fence, built without even sight holes for the customary sidewalk superintendents. As a further deterrent to gawkers, Day-Glo CRIME SCENE stickers plastered all over the barrier warned people to keep their distance. I prowled back and forth along the fence in the dimming light, looking for entry but finding none. It probably didn’t make any difference, since I doubted if the ATF had left behind anything worthwhile. After I had circled the perimeter several times, a cool rain began to fall. When it hit the ash on the other side of the fence, the acrid smell of burned wood expanded for a moment, then dissipated.
As I hurried back to the Neon, I wondered if Gloriana’s memoirs had perished, too. The file cabinet storing them had looked fireproof, but I doubted if it was blast proof.
For some reason, I was reluctant to leave. While the rain fell, I sat in the Neon, staring at the remains of Gloriana’s dreams.
***
I was stepping out of the shower, getting ready to towel off, when someone knocked on my door.
Not Dusty’s knock. Not Jimmy’s.
Throwing on a robe, I grabbed my .38 and limped to the door. On the other side of the peephole stood Joanne, her wet red hair plastered to her head, a forlorn expression on her face.
“Put down your purse and show you hands!” I called through the door.
She did.
“Now take off your coat, lift up your blouse, and turn around!”
She did that, too, revealing that she didn’t need a bra to keep her implants pointed north.
Satisfied, I delivered the required warning. “Joanne, I’m letting you in, but be warned that I’ve got a gun, and unlike you, I know how to use it. Your handbag stays outside.”
She nodded wetly, and I opened the door, grateful that I had left my crutches in the bedroom. I did not want her to know how vulnerable I felt.
“Close the door behind you,” I ordered, as she stepped through. “But don’t lock it. You may be leaving real fast.”
Still obedient, Joanne did exactly as I said. “May I sit down?”
I waved the revolver toward the beige corner chair that faced the door. “Sit. Speak. Then get the hell out.”
She shuffled over to the chair and sat down. “I brought my checkbook. I want to pay for the damage I caused before I fly out in the morning.”
On her broom, no doubt. “Stay where I can see you.” I kept the gun on her as I eased myself out the door and recovered the handbag she’d obediently left on the landing. Still covering her with my gun, I rifled through the thing (Hermes, real leather, what appeared to be solid silver clasps) and found the checkbook in a side flap next to an expensive-looking pen. I tossed both to her.
“How much?” she asked.
I told her.
“May I see the invoice?”
“Only if you promise to shove it where the sun don’t shine.”
She blinked. “There’s no need to be rude.”
Did tourists leave their brains at the airport? “Joanne, you couldn’t get a Manhattan pedicure for the amount I quoted.”
She shook her head, and a few wet strands fell across her forehead. “I need to give it to my accountant.”
“Just write, ‘For drywall damage incurred during attempted double homicide’ on the subject line.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again and wrote out the check.
“Drop it on the floor.”
The check fluttered to the beige carpet.
“Bye.” I motioned the gun toward the door.
“No, wait.”
What now?
“I want my gun back.”
I began to laugh. “Are you completely out of your mind? Give you back the gun you tried to kill me with? As far as I’m concerned, it’s finders keepers.”
Joanne frowned. “That was a very expensive gun.” The amount she quoted me made me raise my eyebrows.
“A Desert Eagle only runs about half of that. Next time you want to shoot someone, do a little comparison shopping first.” But I suspected why the gun cost her so much. Not being an Arizona resident, Joanne would have trouble purchasing legal firearms on the spur of the moment here. She’d gone off-market.
“You’re going to keep my gun? Well, maybe I should tear up my check!” She made as if to pick the check up off the floor, but froze when I cocked the hammer on the .38.
“Time to leave now, Joanne.”
She burst into tears.
Normally, women’s tears do not affect me. I know how easily they can be manufactured, but Joanne’s held real heartache. Her haggling had been mere camouflage.
I eased the hammer home and let her cry until her sobs settled into mere gulps. “You’re not getting the Desert Eagle back and from the looks of you, you’re not getting Dusty, either. It’s time to cut your losses and go back to where you know how to play the game.”
“It wasn’t a game,” she said miserably. “I love him. When I was with him, it was like having a different life, a better life than product pitches and idea meetings. Dusty was from another world. Handsome. Tough. And yet so, so tender. I’d never met anyone like him before.”
Poor bitch. Softening my voice, I said, “The point is, he doesn’t love you, regardless of what he said while he was drunk.”
“He lied?”
“Men do lie to women, Joanne.” I wondered how often Dusty had lied to me. Not recently, I hoped. Then I remembered some of the things I’d told him. “And sometimes women lie back.”
“He won’t talk to me. And they won’t even let me on the ranch property now.”
“Then it’s time to go back to New York. I’m sure if you look hard enough, you can find a handsome, tough, and tender man there, too. It’s a big city.”
She gave a heavy, trembling sigh. “This has all been such a mess.”
I agreed with her. “It sure has, Joanne. Good-bye.” I stepped away from the door.
She got up, leaving the check lying on the floor. “Tell Dusty… well, tell him I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused.”
“Will do.”
She started to leave, then stopped.
I raised the .38 again. “What is it now?”
Her eyes were bleak. “He told me…he told me you didn’t love him. That you couldn’t love anyone. Is it true?”
I did not answer, because I did not know the truth. “Good-bye, Joanne.”
As soon as she walked through the door, I bolted it behind her.