Chapter Fourteen
Miah had watched those taillights until they disappeared around the bend, wondering if Nicki had been watching him in her rearview, if she could even make him out by the distant glow of the porch light.
Before he’d turned in he’d tossed the quilt and pillowcases in the washer, hoping he’d manage to get the guest bed remade before his mom noticed. A glance at the clock had told him it was after two by the time he climbed into bed.
It was probably only on account of the sex that he slept at all that night—maybe three paltry hours before his alarm went off, but he dragged himself out of bed and down to the kitchen. The coffeemaker worked on a timer, and he filled a mug and a Thermos, drinking the former while he fixed himself toast.
I ought to be happy. He ought to be indulging in guilty, sexy memories of the night before, and suffering his fatigue as a badge of honor as he staggered through his workday . . . but other thoughts nagged. Other worries, ones that saddled him with an entirely different breed of guilt, knowing that Nicki—or his mom, come to that—would skin him alive if they knew what he had planned for the afternoon.
He sipped his coffee and stared out the window above the sink, stared into the darkness where the unseen range waited, sunrise still an hour away. His life, of late, felt like the aftermath of his father’s death, like all the answers he needed were out there waiting to be found, yet beyond his ability to see.
He only prayed today’s mission would shed some light. Even the faintest, dimmest little glimmer.
* * *
“Afternoon, motherfucker.”
Miah rolled his eyes at that greeting, unseen by Casey, who was now busy locking the back door to his apartment. Miah was leaning on his bike in the little rear lot, feeling punchy, edgy, eager. He’d knocked off early so he and Casey could go on a mission to find that Devon guy who worked for Steve Rawlins. Vince would’ve been Miah’s preferred backup, but he was working.
“Thanks for coming,” Miah offered when Casey walked over. They clasped hands and gave each other a slap on the arm. The two had never been close the way Miah and Vince were, but Casey had earned Miah’s respect this past year. He’d gone from flighty con man to business owner, husband, and father in less than a year.
“Thanks for an excuse to take a ride,” Casey said. He went to where his bike waited, chained to a post and draped in a tarp. “Where’re we headed?”
“Out near the migrant workers’ camp. Vince tell you about the place?”
“Said it looks like a bus that’s in denial about Jerry Garcia being dead.”
Miah nodded. “Unclear if its owner’s a hippie himself or just looking to attract the clientele. You got something?”
Casey patted his jacket, just under his armpit. Miah supposed that must mean he’d finally gotten himself a holster. That was something, he supposed—no more of that pistol-tucked-in-his-waistband shit.
Casey stashed the tarp and climbed onto his Harley. “Lead the way.”
It was a blinding day, late summer’s heat in full effect. It was hard to fathom how cold it had been when Miah had kissed Nicki goodbye, like it had happened in another life. He kept his jacket open and let the wind whip the leather out behind him and flutter the cotton of his tee, drying the anxious sweat dampening his underarms. He wouldn’t get his hopes up that he’d learn anything worth knowing from Devon, if indeed the guy was even home when they called. He only hoped it went half as well as his meeting with Rawlins had.
When they reached the spot, Miah was relieved to see that the sign was gone from the side of the bus. They cut their engines and Casey said, “Fuck, man, I feel high just looking at that shit.”
The bus was trippy as hell. A massive pair of longhorns were bungeed to the front grille, and apart from the words school bus, the entire thing had been painted over, looking tie-dyed in a hundred shades of red, orange, and yellow. The roof was home to some cross between a cactus garden and a sculpture park. At least four of the windows had dream catchers hanging in them.
“Makes Dancer’s camper van look uptight,” Miah said.
“I bet this dude has amazing weed.”
Miah shot Casey a look.
“Just kidding. When the fuck do I have time to smoke?”
“Just wait in plain sight and look tough.”
“You sure this is smart?”
“Not at all.”
“What if he talks?” Casey asked. “Tells people you came around, asking questions, sticking your nose in?”
“To who? Only people I don’t want knowing are my mom and the authorities.” Nicki especially, but the detectives, too, of course. “I’m pretty fucking sure he’s not gonna go to the cops and tell them, ‘Oh hey, I’m a drug dealer, and guess who paid me a visit last Wednesday.’”
“Yeah, fair enough.”
“I’ve been through all of this in my head,” Miah said, “and I figure the only people he’d tell are other shitbags. And if he does that, well, who the fuck knows? Maybe one of them knew Bean, and maybe they even heard something. He’ll no doubt mention I came offering a reward.”
Casey nodded, seeming reassured. “Fair enough. As you were. I got your back.” He made his face stern. He could never step to his brother’s roughneck vibe, but he’d have to do.
Miah patted his pockets, checking for his wallet and phone. Here went nothing. Yet again.
The bus’s folding door was open, and as Miah approached he saw there was a silver triangle hanging beside it, along with a rod to chime it with. He gave the thing a clang, feeling ridiculous.
“One minute, friend,” called a man’s cheerful voice.
Miah breathed in, the scent here on the bus’s doorstep a vague and musty mix, incense covering up any number of illicit aromas, he imagined. It made him feel claustrophobic, and he hadn’t even stepped inside yet.
The triangle jiggled on its chain, marking approaching footsteps. A young man appeared, stooping to smile down the steps at Miah. “Come on in, brother!”
Fuck me. Miah mustered a smile and climbed aboard, already certain he’d rather face another gruff, no-nonsense Rawlins type over some ridiculous free-spirit burnout. But Rawlins thought he might talk. If he had anything to say.
The bus’s seats had all been gutted, the length of the space resembling an opium-den-cum-RV, furnished with beanbag chairs and throw pillows, plus a tiny kitchen and dining area. Roomy though it was, Miah felt that familiar anxiety creeping in around him, making his breath shallow and his chest tight. He shoved it to the edge of his awareness, determined.
The man Miah presumed was Devon sat at a card table and crossed his legs, looking expectant. Miah bet he was in his mid- to late twenties, wiry, with shoulder-length brown hair, strong eyebrows that nearly touched and a guileless, too-white smile. No tie-dye, though he wore rust-brown corduroys and a mint-green tee shirt. THE WEST IS BEST, it proclaimed, the words arching around a stylized drawing of a sage flower.
On that we agree, at least.
“What can I do you for?” the guy asked.
Feeling weird standing, Miah took a seat on a sky-blue, spring-shot velvet arm chair. “You Devon?”
“That I am.”
“I was hoping for a word. Maybe ten minutes of your time.”
“That’s cool, that’s cool. Didn’t catch your name . . . ?”
“Miah.”
“Right on. Miah. Can I ask who sent you my way? There’s a referral bonus, you dig.”
“Rawlins sent me.”
The kid’s face changed, if only for a breath. Some breed of unmistakable sobriety passed across his features, then just as quickly, the charming smile was back in place. “All right, that’s cool. The boss man sent you here—color me flattered.”
“I’m Jeremiah Church,” Miah expounded, expecting most everyone with even half a frequency tuned to the real world would recognize his surname.
Devon’s attention jumped beyond the windows, to where Case was mounted, no doubt. “Jeremiah Church,” he echoed. He seemed very somber, then once again the hippie shtick reared its head. “You’re Native, I heard. Me too. There’s a discount, you dig. For my fellow aborigines.”
Miah frowned. This guy was as white as a hot dog bun. “You’re Native?”
“Hell yeah. Pueblo.”
“What percentage?”
The kid’s face fell some. “One thirty-second.”
Miah blinked his irritation.
“But spiritually, I’m—”
“Listen, Devon, I don’t care. I’m not here to talk about our ancestors or smoke whatever fucking peace pipe you bust out to impress your burnout clientele.”
That face transformed a final time, for good, a curtain seeming to fall aside along with all the hippie airs. “Fair enough.”
“I’m not here for your wares. I’m after information. You dealt with Chris Bean, I heard.”
The kid held his tongue.
“You’re not in trouble,” Miah told him. “Not with me, anyhow. Only person I’ve got a beef with is whoever hired Bean to kill my father.” To kill me, if we’re being accurate. That fact hadn’t made the local news. The final gasps of an intoxicated and terrified man weren’t strictly fact, though Miah believed what Bean had told him as he lay dying.
“I want answers. I want justice, that’s all. And if he ever said anything to you, anything at all, I’m willing to pay you generously to hear it.”
“I see.”
“Rawlins said you have a way with your buyers, that they talk to you. So level with me. Please. I won’t ever mention your name to the authorities or anybody else. Nobody has to know about this chat except us and Rawlins,” Miah added, hoping the kid might fear his boss, as he probably should. “So did Bean ever say anything to you when he came around?”
“Like names?”
Miah shrugged. “That’d be too good to be true. But anything. Anything at all.”
Devon sat back in his seat, looking pensive. Miah didn’t plan to rush him.
“I’m sorry about your father,” the kid said at length, and in that moment he seemed closer to Miah’s age than to twenty-five. The groovy persona was just that, it seemed. A sales tactic. Disarming, nonthreatening.
“I knew Bean,” Devon said. “He wasn’t a bad guy.”
Miah kept himself cool. “He was worlds better before he discovered meth.”
Devon seemed to clench his jaw, playing the poker-face game. “I’m sure.”
“He was a good worker, back in the day,” Miah allowed. “It’s not the good Chris Bean who murdered my father, though. It was the addict who did. Who was weak, and desperate, and who could be bought with drugs and coerced by threats, as I understand it. He was the tool somebody exploited to do their dirty work. That’s the man I’m hoping you may have made the acquaintance of. And like I said, I’m prepared to pay for any information you have.”
Devon’s eyes narrowed. “How much?”
“That’s up to me.” With Rawlins, Miah had been ready to submit, to take what he was offered. Rawlins was an alpha. But this guy . . . Miah had him, he could feel it. He scared Devon, and his money mattered to the man. Add Casey to the mix and he felt confident. Felt fucking eight feet tall, this guy’s anxiety all but filling his nostrils.
“You tell me something worth hearing,” Miah said, “and I’ll pay you a fair price. That I promise. You tell me who hired Bean, and I’ll make your goddamn fortune.” Too much to wish for, considering Bean’s own widow hadn’t known that person’s identity, but he was happy to dangle a carrot in Devon’s face.
“Drink?” Devon asked.
Miah considered it. “What’ve you got?”
“Uh, vodka, gin . . . bourbon, I think. Beer.”
“Beer would be appreciated.” He doubted the guy would try to dose him with anything, but it seemed wisest to drink from a sealed can or bottle.
Devon headed to a mini-fridge and returned with two bottles of Michelob. Miah twisted the cap off and took a long drink, registering then how hot this greenhouse-on-wheels was.
Devon grabbed a small wooden sign off a peg on the wall, and Miah could just make out the DO NOT he assumed was followed by DISTURB. Devon ducked down the stairs to hang it beside the door.
“I did a lot of business with Bean,” he said when he returned and sat. “Damn near daily, by the end.” Devon’s voice had changed, slipping into a vague drawl. His eyes looked different as well, stonier. The guy wasn’t a bad actor. “Meth had him, real bad.”
“I know that all too well.” Miah had caught Bean using on the job. He’d been ready to fire him, but his dad had been more merciful, even helped the guy pay for a stint in rehab. Fucking sick the way he’d been repaid in the end.
“Dev?”
Both men turned at the sound of a woman’s voice just as its owner appeared, jogging up the stairs. She was twentysomething, skinny, pretty in a certain way, if not beautiful, her dark blond hair falling stick-straight over her shoulders.
“Babe, you gotta check for the sign,” Devon said. “Somebody’s here. Come back in a half hour, okay?”
“Sorry,” she said, gaze settling on Miah, eyes narrowing. Recognition dawned. “You’re one of the Churches, right? Jeremy?”
He nodded. “Jeremiah.”
“Right. Your dad . . . I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“Babe—”
“I can’t believe Chris would do what he did,” the girl said, leaning her hip against the pole at the corner of the stairwell. “I mean, I do believe it. I just don’t want to.”
Devon opened his mouth, probably to tell her to butt out, but Miah held his hand up, silencing him. He asked the young woman, “You knew Bean well?”
She shrugged. “He was an acquaintance. A friend, really. He wasn’t like a lot of the folks who come around here.” She shot Devon a pointed look.
“He knows,” Devon said. Knew about Devon’s line of work, Miah assumed he meant.
“He used to hang out, after he got what he needed,” she went on. “He wouldn’t get fucked up while he was here—not on the serious shit. But if you offered him a joint he was actually pretty good company. He’d hang with us sometimes, just shoot the shit. I know his wife, some. We used to work at the Sinclair station together.”
“Sit down,” Miah said. “What’s your name?”
“Allie.”
“Nice to meet you. You’ve probably figured out, I’m not here to patronize your boyfriend. I’m trying to find information—any information at all—about who hired Bean to kill my father.”
“Aren’t there detectives working on that?”
“There are, but they haven’t turned up a goddamn thing. And I’m not good at waiting. Not after six months.”
She nodded, looking sympathetic but also guarded now.
“I told Devon, I’m willing to pay if either of you knows anything.” Miah looked between the two of them.
“Chris talked a lot,” Allie said, “but he also had a lot of enemies. He didn’t owe us much money, but it seemed like he’d burned some other . . . affiliates,” she said, gaze flicking to Devon. “He was always stressed about somebody who was after him, but I assumed it was on account of his debts.”
“He go into any detail?”
Again she looked to Devon, then shrugged. “Not really. No names, I don’t think. Definitely not any I remember.”
“I have a theory,” Miah said, crossing his ankle over his knee, and he took a drink of his beer. “I think whoever hired him, they must’ve known his history with my family. They must’ve known there was bad blood, that we eventually fired him. I think somebody targeted him, hoping everyone would think it was about revenge.” A drug-addled, disgruntled former employee, settling the score with the man who’d taken away his livelihood. And that man had been Miah—Bean’s intended mark. “Why they really wanted my father dead, I haven’t a clue. But I aim to find out.”
Devon looked blank, but Miah could see Allie’s gears turning as plainly as the long lock of hair she was twisting around her finger. “Oh,” she said at length. Her eyes brightened, then the frown returned.
“What?” Miah asked, sitting up straight. “Anything’s useful.” A probable lie, but he was all ears.
“I remember toward the end, back in January, maybe . . . I asked him how his job search was going. Just to be polite, you know, because I don’t think he was really trying to find work at all. But anyhow, this one time he said he had a lead, and that the payday was pretty good. He said if it all worked out, he’d be paying off his tab with us, first thing.”
“Never did,” Devon put in.
“That was weeks before the fire, though, wasn’t it?” Allie asked Miah.
“It was. But it would’ve taken planning, so it could’ve been related.” He pulled out his pad and pen and jotted a couple notes. “What else do you remember?”
“I remember he didn’t seem that thrilled about it. You remember, Dev?”
Devon shook his head. “I don’t.”
“You were there, I know you were. He said this guy was a serious motherfucker, I think was how he put it. Remember, he was so jumpy? Even after the weed.”
“I dunno. I tune folks out sometimes. Especially if it’s just tweaker talk.”
“I remember,” she murmured, twirling her hair again, chewing her lip.
“Oh,” Devon said. “Wait. I do remember. I remember thinking maybe he was on something new, maybe even imagining shit. The way he was talking, you’d have thought the mafia was after him.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Allie said, nearly bouncing in her seat.
“I thought he was just being paranoid,” Devon said.
“Maybe he was.” Miah shrugged, tempering his own rising excitement. This could all so easily come to nothing, and hope was a cruel thing to offer a desperate man. “But tell me what else you remember.”
Allie thought about it. “I think he said something about a protection deal. Something to do with the police. Like this guy with the job offer, he’d promised Chris he wouldn’t get in any trouble, even if he got caught . . . I think. I’m not sure. It was so long ago.”
“That sounds familiar,” Devon said, nodding slowly, then quicker. “Yeah, that was part of why I thought he was full of shit, talking like he had some mob contact who was in cahoots with a crooked cop, something crazy like that. It sounded like something he’d seen in a movie while he was fried out of his skull.”
“Did it sound like the guy who’d hired him was in the BCSD?” Miah realized too late that was a problematic way to word it. People straining to recall lost details didn’t need speculation fed to them.
“Not sure,” Allie said. She worried her thumbnail with her teeth, brow creased in concentration. Devon seemed to be coming up blank yet again.
“Did he say anything about the actual job? What it entailed?” Miah asked.
“Not anything about a fire, or a murder,” Allie said, voice going soft on the final word. “But he was scared about it, that much I’m sure of. I don’t remember how he described it, but it was something to the tune of, ‘This is some heavy shit. I don’t know if I can go through with it.’”
Devon’s turn to perk up. “No, no, I remember. I remember he said something like, ‘I don’t think I’m up for this, but these guys won’t take no for an answer.’”
“Anything else along those lines?” Miah asked.
Devon frowned. “No.”
Fuck. This amounted to little more than Miah had gotten off Bean’s widow . . . Though that shit about the police, and about maybe being promised someone could get him out of trouble if he was caught . . . That was something. If it was true.
“Either of you remember anything else he said? Especially the bit about any crooked cops.”
Devon frowned. “Nothing specific, but Allie’s right—he definitely was under the impression that whoever this guy was, he’d promised he could keep Chris out of trouble with the law.”
Miah slumped, realizing anyone could make such a claim. And realizing also that his one solid in with the BCSD was also the very last person in the world he wanted knowing about this little fact-finding mission. “I appreciate all this, but it seems like anybody could make that promise to some desperate, hesitant addict.”
They both nodded, looking identically deflated.
“Knock knock.”
The three of them turned as one, finding Casey in the stairwell. Devon got to his feet but Miah held up a hand. “It’s fine. That’s my backup, but it’s pretty clear I didn’t need any. They’re cool, Case.”
Casey nodded at each of them. “What’s up? Just checking in. It’s been a while.” His attention moved to Miah’s bottle, and it wasn’t lost on Devon.
“You want a beer?” he asked, already heading to the fridge.
“Yeah, that’d be great. It’s fucking eight hundred degrees out today.”
“Amen.” Devon handed Casey a longneck.
“Cheers. Can I butt the fuck in?” he asked Miah.
Miah shrugged. “Sure. Not much to butt in to.”
Casey exchanged quick intros with the couple.
Miah told him, “They both remember Bean mentioning a job he was scared about taking, back in January. Right time frame. And they said he was under the impression that whoever hired him could keep him out of trouble, if he got caught.”
Casey’s red eyebrows rose and he took a drink. “Huh.”
“Tell me about it.”
“My first thought was Tremblay,” Casey said, “but he was, what? Five months dead already?”
Miah nodded. Fortuity’s disgraced sheriff would’ve been a prime candidate for making such a promise, but the timing was off, and the motivation besides. Tremblay’s misdeeds had all been to do with the casino, getting kickbacks from the corrupt contracting outfit that had originally been slated to build it. Even if it did somehow have something to do with the casino, with them wanting the Churches’ land for who knew what, by the time anyone would have hired Bean, the scheme had long been exposed, none of those bastards still in any position to benefit. Unless, perhaps, it was someone involved with the casino itself, not merely the contracting outfit in charge of constructing it . . .
Fuck, Miah’s head was swimming. The beer and the heat and small space weren’t helping. He’d need to catch up with Vince later and unwind all these tangled threads.
“I wonder if whoever it was . . .” Casey took another drink. “What if they had something to do with Tremblay getting offed in county?” No one had ever solved the mystery of who’d managed to shoot the sheriff dead in his holding cell, mere days after he’d been confronted about his involvement in last summer’s fatal conspiracy.
“Too many dots to connect and not enough lines,” Miah said, instantly hating the defeat he heard in his own voice.
“This is some heavy shit,” Devon said, gaze on the floor.
Casey eyed him and Allie in turn. “When’d he spill his guts to you?”
They exchanged a look, a pause, then Allie spoke. “I don’t know the exact date. Pretty sure it was January, though. And I know it was cold out—he came by after dark, and I remember I’d made chicken stew in the slow-cooker. I only make that when it’s really, really cold. That’s not much help, though.”
“Where were you when you talked to him?” Casey asked.
“Here.”
“No, like, who sat where?”
She considered it, while Miah wondered what the fuck it mattered.
“I was in that chair,” Allie said, pointing to the velvet number Miah was perched on. “Chris was on a beanbag, and by the time we were talking, I think Dev was in and out, puttering.”
“How’d he seem when he said whatever he did?” Casey asked.
“Scared. Hyped as well, but that could’ve been the drugs making him that way. Though he never normally used uppers when he came by. He was after them, obviously, but while things were social, all he’d do was smoke or have a drink, or both. He was polite that way. Like, you knew he couldn’t wait to get home and fuck himself up, but at the same time, he didn’t want to be rude and just rush right out.”
Devon shook his head, cutting in. “No, that wasn’t it.”
“What wasn’t it?” she asked.
“It wasn’t manners. He just wanted to talk. Or else he was putting off going home to his wife.”
She blinked. “You think?”
“Oh yeah. His old lady, she wasn’t into that shit. He was always saying how he didn’t deserve her or their daughter, you remember?”
“Sure . . . Huh. You think he was avoiding her?”
“Or avoiding fucking up yet again, the second he left here, got in his truck, and got himself wasted. I always hoped he’d get clean,” Devon said, “because he had that little pause, most times. That little window between scoring and using. That’s fucking rare. You jam the right motivation into that skinny-ass little window and you have a chance. But clearly Chris didn’t, in the end. But you know what I mean.”
Allie was frowning again, seeming surprised, or stumped, or rattled. “I never thought about it like that.”
Miah bit his tongue before speaking. He was no Bean sympathizer, not in any world, but he hoped what he had to share might keep them talking. “Like you said, he probably didn’t actually want to go through with it in the end. But as I understand it, whoever hired him made threats against his wife and kid.”
Allie looked struck. “Jesus. Poor Chris.”
Yeah, poor fucking Chris. His wife had lost an addict and a deadbeat. Miah’s mom had lost the love of her life, Miah his role model, and the community an exceptional citizen.
He caught himself, not especially proud of the thought, no matter how accurate it was.
Casey cut through the haze. “Did Bean ever get paid?”
Miah frowned. “I have no idea.”
The couple both shrugged, and Devon said, “We hadn’t seen him since before the . . . the fire,” he said carefully. “Can’t imagine anybody would pay a meth addict in advance.”
“His widow didn’t say?” Casey asked Miah.
He shook his head. The thought hadn’t ever occurred to him. It didn’t make any difference to him.
Casey stood and drained his bottle. “Done here?” he asked.
Miah glanced at the others, their expressions politely apologetic. “Yeah. I think so.” The exit felt abrupt, but he didn’t think there was anything else to be found here.
“Sorry we couldn’t help more,” Allie said.
“Don’t be.” Miah went to set his half-drunk bottle on the little counter. He took out his wallet and counted out two fifties and set them beside it. He shot Devon a look and nodded. “Thanks for your time.”
A little nod answered him.
“Thanks for this, too,” Casey said, passing Devon his own bottle.
“You two ride safe,” the guy said, and Miah could hear his put-on hippie drawl returning, social hour over.
Miah followed Casey out into the sunshine, the hot day managing to feel refreshing after the sauna of the bus. He felt his heart slowing, his breaths deepening.
“That was a hasty goodbye,” Miah said. He’d have expected Casey to ask for a second round and make an afternoon of it.
Casey strode toward the bikes. “You could spend another hour with those dipshits, hoping to stumble onto some little figment of an answer, but first we got a solid-ass question that needs addressing.”
“The money?”
Casey nodded and straddled his bike, but didn’t start it. “We gotta go see Bean’s widow.”
“Unpack it for me, Case. I’m lost.”
“Why the fuck didn’t Bean skip town after the fire? He had all afternoon to split, all night. We didn’t chase him down until dawn.”
“Wife and kid,” Miah hazarded.
“Quit thinking like yourself, Church. Think like an addict.”
He did, a small light bulb blinking on. “Because he hadn’t been paid yet.”
“My hypothesis, too, sadly. If they had paid him, it could have told us something.”
“Such as?”
“Well, how much did they offer? A few hundred bucks or a few thousand? He might’ve signed up for arson for either, but it’s not Bean’s price tag we care about.”
Miah nodded and swung a leg over his bike. “What sort of a criminal are we dealing with here?”
“Exactly. We find out how much, we find out how serious they were, maybe. Bean’s widow might know.”
Miah sighed, excitement cooling as quickly as it had come to a simmer. “It’s not much. Plus Bean was a wreck—anybody could have lowballed him.”
“True. But we won’t fucking know if we don’t try to find out.”
And with that, they cranked their engines back to life.