Fugitive Nights(38)

"Unfortunately, I have to work with him for the next two days or he turns over all his information to the sheriffs. That means they find out about Clive Devon, et cetera."

"They'd interview Devon!"

"Of course they would."

"He'd find out about the surveillance! That'd screw me out of five thous . . ."

Too late! Lynn put on a happy face you couldn't remove with a chisel. "You little dickens!" he said. "Aren't you the one? Five grand? And here I am risking my entire pension for a measly thousand bucks?"

"If we get to the bottom of the Devon affair, I'll give you another five hundred," Breda said, regretting the day she'd set eyes on this grinning dipso. "But I need help."

Nelson Hareem came bursting back into the office with the cold drinks, beaming with anticipation. "Can we start real soon, Lynn? I got a need to proceed. Big time!"

Lynn took his Coke and said to Breda, "Remember that guy Jack Graves? The one that got a stress pension after shooting the kid? Jack needs something to do, something to take his mind off the accident. Let's see if he'll take on your bartender case. He used to do lotsa undercover assignments in bars when he worked dope. You could watch Devon's house tonight. Me, I could check out motels that begin with A, B or C for a bald-headed smuggler." Then he turned to Nelson and said, "Excuse me, I meant terrorist. By the way, who's he terrorizing?"

"Could be anybody," Nelson said. "How about an ex-president? Gerald Ford lives here."

"Why would any self-respecting terrorist bother with Gerald Ford?" Lynn wanted to know.





"How can I get hold of this Jack Graves?" Breda asked.

"I'll take you to see him now," Lynn said. "Lives in a motor home up in Windy Point. I try to visit every couple weeks."

"Lynn, I've only had a chance to check out five motels," Nelson said. "Don't you think . . ."

"Go get yourself a hamburger," Lynn said. "Meet me right here at six o'clock and we'll spend the whole evening working on the A's, okay?"

"Okay," Nelson said agreeably. "I know a good orthopedist who could look at those knees."

"Too late," Lynn said. "I already had two surgeries by a goon that's destroyed more knees than the IRA."

Windy Point was aptly named: Breda held on to her purse with both hands and hoped she wouldn't be wind-stripped of her jumpsuit. There was a little grocery store and gas station in Windy Point, but that was about it for commerce in the working-class enclave just north of Palm Springs. Both she and Lynn had to lean into the whistling gale as they walked across Jack Graves' little cactus garden toward his mobile home.

"After slogging through this hurricane I hope he's home," Breda shouted, feeling the sand peppering her sunglasses.

"Jack's always home," Lynn shouted back above the blast. "That's the trouble. He needs to get out more."

Lynn banged on the metal door of the mobile home and yelled, "Jack, put your pants on. Brought a visitor."

Jack Graves was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and was barefoot. He was much taller than Lynn, very thin and gaunt. He had a kindly face and was gray around the sideburns, but the hair on top was as dark as Breda's and his chin stubble was black.

Breda could've picked him out of a lineup from hearing his story. There was a lot of torment in the eyes of Jack Graves.

"Meet Breda Burrows," Lynn said. "She's a new P. I. in town, retired from LAPD. I'm helping her on something."

When Breda shook his hand it felt clammy, and she could see droplets by his hairline and above his lip. It wasn't that hot in the mobile home. He must be sick, she thought.

The living room was small and exceptionally neat; everything was in perfect order. Breda sat on a daybed sofa next to Lynn.

"Can I get you something?" Jack Graves asked. "How about a beer or a soft drink?"

"Nothing, thanks," Breda said.

"Just had a soda pop," Lynn said. "How you been?"

"Fine." Jack Graves smiled. He had heavy dark eyebrows and thick lashes which made his eyes even more sunken.

Lynn said, "Jack, you get any skinnier you'll fit through a mail slot. I gotta take you out for some burritos."

"Just getting over the flu," Jack Graves said.

Lynn Cutter noticed the perspiration, and said, "You're gonna have to back-comb your pubic hair to hold your pants up!"

"Flu's all better now," Jack Graves said. "I'll gain some weight."

"How's your ankle?" Lynn turned to Breda. "Jack sprained it chasing a gopher outta his garden. Can you imagine? Living out here, anybody else woulda shot the . . ."