Moon Music. Faye Kellerman
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the threshold of his single-room clay house. Still cradling the old man, Poe turned on a battery-operated lamp, then picked up the receiver, tucked it under his chin while spitting out the grit of sand. “Yo?”
“Detective Sergeant Poe?”
An unfamiliar voice who knew his title. Not a good sign at one in the morning.
Poe closed the door with his foot. “This is he.”
“Sergeant, this is Sergeant Willis Hollister up here in Reno.”
“Oh boy.” Y was getting leaden, his deep snoring interfering with Poe’s hearing. “Could you please hold on a second?”
“No prob.”
Poe settled Y onto the couch. He’d open it into the bed as soon as he’d dealt with this latest crisis. Because a call from Reno police always meant problems.
Into the phone, Poe said, “Is it my mother?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what it is.”
“Where is she?”
“Unfortunately … at the moment, she’s in jail.”
“Oh my God.”
“We tried to … avoid this inconvenience. In the past, your brother has always been cooperative in these kinds of situations. But we’re unable to locate him at the moment.”
Poe checked his watch. Sometimes when his brother had big assignments, he worked late. “Look, I’m going to make some calls. If you could stall the arraignment, I’m sure I can find someone to take her off your hands. Why clog up the courts—”
“It’s gotta be soon, Sergeant. She’s takin’ up space and I gotta clear her from the books one way or the other.”
“Give me your number, Sergeant Hollister. I can call back within fifteen minutes. Would that be okay?”
“I can give you fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks. And if you’re ever down this way—”
“When I go on vacation, I go fishing.”
Hollister cut the line.
Frantically, Poe started dialing. His brother wasn’t at work, he wasn’t at home.
Shit, shit, shit!
Again, he checked his watch. Too late to catch a plane to Reno. And he really didn’t feel like driving north. Even speeding it still meant hours of monotonous driving on winding roads. All this on little sleep.
He thought about Aunt Shirley, wondered if it would make matters worse. But with his brother absent, what choice did he have? He dialed her number. Luckily she picked up. Equally fortunate, she sounded reasonably sober.
“It’s Romulus, Aunt Shir—”
“Romulus! How nice of you to call.”
“Thank you very much.” A beat. “I kind of need your help.”
“Oh, what can I do for such a nice boy?”
“It’s Mom.”
“Now what has that woman gone and done this time?”
Nothing you haven’t done yourself. Poe said, “I think she drank a little too much. I think that’s the problem.”
“So …”
Y snorted, rolled over, and tucked himself into the crevices of the sofa. Poe sniffed and winced. The old man was sweating alcohol.
He said, “Uh, Mom’s at the police station. I was wondering if maybe you could get yourself a cab and pick her up. I’d pay for it, of course.”
Shirley tsked and tsked. Then she hemmed and hawed, whiffled and waffled.
Poe added, “And of course, I’d compensate you for your time.”
“Oh, Romulus. How kind of you. But you know I don’t expect anything for helping out my own sister.”
“Of course. Just a little something. I insist.”
“Well, if you insist.” A pause. “Where is your brother?”
An excellent question.
“He must be working on something very important. Uh, could you call the cab now, Aunt Shirley? Better yet, I’ll do it for you.”
“Oh, that would be sweet.”
“My pleasure. Just … you know … you might have to pay something in cash for her release and sign some papers.”
“Dear, I know the drill.”
Despite his fatigue, Poe smiled. “Thank you, Aunt Shirley.”
“You know, Romulus, I’ve been thinking about coming down and paying you a visit. My arthritis is acting up …”
Groan.
But Poe said, “Aunt Shirley, you’re welcome anytime.” His head was throbbing—jackhammers in his brain. “I’m going to call you that cab now. Good-bye, and thank you.”
“Good-bye, Romulus. And tell the taxicab to give me a minute to get dressed.”
“Sure.” He hung up.
That was rich. One drunk looking after another. Still, what was the worst-case scenario? The two ladies would get pickled together, go out, cause a scene, and then both get arrested.
By then maybe it would be morning.
The howling of the coyotes aroused him. A commonplace sound but particularly fierce tonight. According to native legends, coyotes meant death. But coyotes had also honored man by stealing fire for him. So which kind of coyote was out tonight? Poe opened an eye, realized he was sleeping on the floor. He repositioned himself, his back aching, his head pounding. He glanced up.
From his perspective, it appeared that Y was gone.
Slowly standing erect, Poe rubbed his face, yawned, blinked several times. Moonlight streamed in from his bare windows, the rays sparkling with dust brought in by last night’s wind.
Indeed the bed was unoccupied.
Poe picked up his pants, checked his wallet. Being a hopeless compulsive, he made it a habit to start each day with five twenties in his main billfold with a single hundred-dollar bill tucked into a credit card slot for whores or emergencies. He diligently stocked his wallet every night before he went to bed.
Sure enough, two twenties were missing. Shrugging it off, Poe went to his hidden cache of money, refilled his wallet. He plopped down into the fold-out bed, then bolted up.
The sheet and cover were drenched with the stink of sweat and booze. He stripped them off the couch, placed them in his overflowing perforated bag. No getting around it. Tomorrow morning, he’d be at the Laundromat, drinking his coffee while soaping his clothes.
He picked up his sleeping bag from the floor. Sinking onto the bare mattress, covering his head with his bag, shuddering as the coyotes sang their dirges. The Mojave Desert hosted many wildlife preserves. Often Poe had espied bobcats, wild horses, mule deer, and errant bighorn sheep. And wherever there were free-ranging animals, there were coyote. Judging from the feral whooping, whatever the scavengers had caught was cause for celebration.
A big haul: Poe hoped it wasn’t a human one.
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