Free Burn Out by Marcia Muller Page B

night, and no wildlife sprang into my headlights, so I arrived home unscathed. There was a message on the machine from Hy: “Just wanted to let you know my ETA tomorrow—four p.m. See you then.” Pause. “Does your absence indicate you’ve been ‘sucked in’ by the Perez murder?”
    Damn! He knew me all too well.
    But sucked in I was—and with official sanction. I curled up in the armchair in the living room and listened to the tape I’d made of Kristen Lark’s confidences.
    Haley and Rich Three Wings ran off nine years ago, ended up in Reno. He dealt blackjack at Harrah’s, she worked someplace as a waitress, but pretty quick she started turning tricks on the side. . . .
    Around three years after they got to Reno, this high roller came to the casino. Hayley was waitressing there by then, and next thing she ran off with the guy, leaving Rich with only his old car and the clothes on his back. . . .
    No, we haven’t found out who the high roller was. Rich claims he doesn’t know. We’ve got an inquiry in to the casino, though. . . .
    That’s another thing we don’t know—where she was during the period between when she left Reno and three years ago when she turned up in Vegas. Living off the high roller, no doubt, but it didn’t last. . . .
    In Vegas, she worked cocktails in a casino—the Lucky Sevens. Kind of downscale and dingy, LVPD says. So she went out on the streets again, got busted a few times, but always brought in a high-powered attorney who got the charges dropped. . . .
    How could she afford the lawyer? Damned if we know. . . .
    Name’s Brower. Frank Brower. With a big firm that’s rumored to be connected—Brower, Price and Coleman. Of course, everybody in Vegas is rumored to be connected. . . .
    No, we haven’t been able to get hold of him. He’s on a cruise, or some damn thing. . . .
    Yeah, we checked out the address on Hayley’s driver’s license. A mail drop. We’ve got no idea where she was living in Vegas. . . .
    Apparently nobody here knew she was back in town, except for that insurance agent you told me about. And Boz Sheppard. And maybe Amy. We’ve questioned everybody, including Rich Three Wings and her high-school boyfriend, Tom Mathers. . . .
    Here’s something: you might take another crack at Three Wings. I mean, he might open up more to you. . . .
    I turned off the recorder. When, I wondered, would people stop assuming that because you’re Indian, other Indians will feel a natural connection with you? There are hundreds of tribes in this country; historically some have been mortal enemies, and today they’re squabbling over gaming rights. It’s like saying any American ethnic group—be it blacks, Chinese, Italians, Irish, Japanese, or Germans—is drawn together because of its background. Ridiculous. The Scotch-Irish family who adopted me at birth frequently fought like they were out to kill each other. Still do, sometimes.
    But what the hell, in the morning I’d take a crack at Rich Three Wings. Tom Mathers, too.
    It was the least I could do for the sake of the Perez family, I told myself.
    Well, yes, for their sake, but also for my own. Cases change both the investigated and the investigator. Maybe one last effort would show me the way to the new life I was reaching for. It wouldn’t be any worse than dreaming of trying to climb out of a deep, dark pit.
    Elk Lake was a small, placid body of water surrounded by forest, some twenty miles southwest of Vernon. Dirt roads led into clearings where rustic cabins stood. Many of them had cutesy names: Gone Fishin’, Bide a Wee Longer, My Lady and the Lake. Rich Three Wings’ had no such sign and was one of the shabbier: warped shingles, sagging roofbeam, rusted stovepipe. A large prefab garage sat next to it, and an old International Harvester truck was pulled close to its side. From the rear I could hear the sound of someone chopping wood.
    I rounded the cabin, and a spectacular view of the lake opened up: close to shore