Free Mortal Prey by John Sandford Page B

something off a used-car lot. The guy’ll have to file the papers on it, but he can push the date back—for a while, anyway.”
    “Not forever?”
    “No, he’ll have to put them through sooner or later,’ cause of bank inventories. If you only needed it for a month or so, he could fake it out that far. Then, if somebody inquired, the papers would show the transfer to the dealer, and he’d show the transfer to you, but there wouldn’t be any license or insurance checks or anything. I can guarantee you that it’d be in perfect condition.”
    “That’d work. I won’t need it for more than a month anyway,” she said. “Where do I find the used-car guy?”
    “I’ll drive you over,” Burke said. “You paying cash?”
    “You think he’d take a check?” she asked.
    Burke grinned, not bothering to answer the mildly sarcastic question, and said, “You’re looking pretty good.”
    She smiled back and said, “Thank you. I’ve been down in Mexico for a while. Got the tan.”
    “Look like you’ve been working out. You’ve lost a little weight since…you know.”
    “Cut off a couple pounds, maybe,” she said. “Got a little sick down there.”
    “Montezuma’s revenge.”
    “More or less,” she said; but her eyes were melancholy, and Burke had the feeling that the sickness had been more serious than that. He didn’t ask, and after a pause, Rinker asked, “So where’s your used-car guy?”
     
    MUCH LATER THAT afternoon, as they were parting, she tossed her new Rand McNally road atlas onto the passenger seat and said, “If anybody from St. Louis calls, you never saw me.”
    “I never saw you ever,” Burke said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you make me nervous.”
    “No reason for it,” she said. “Not unless you cross me.”
    Burke looked at her for a long three seconds and said, finally, “Tell you what, honey. If there was enough money in it, I might mess with the guys in St. Louis. But I’m nowhere stupid enough to mess with you.”
    “Good,” she said. She stepped closer, stood on her tiptoes, and pecked him on the cheek. “Jackie, I owe you. I will get back to you someday and we will work something out that will make you happy.”
    She waved, got into the beet-red Olds she’d bought for $13,200, and drove away, carefully, like a little old lady from Iowa, down toward the freeway entrance. Burke went back inside his shop, dug behind a stack of old phone books, got his stash, got his papers, rolled a joint, and walked out back to smoke it. Cool his nerves.
    Clara fuckin’ Rinker, Burke thought. She was pissed about something. God help somebody; and thank God it wasn’t him.
     
    RINKER WAS HEADED east to St. Louis—but not that minute. Instead she drove north on I-5, taking her time, watching her speed. She spent a bad night in Coalinga, rolling around in a king-sized bed, thinking about old friends and Paulo and wishing she still smoked. In the morning, tired, her stomach scar aching, she cut west toward the coast and took the 101 into San Francisco.
    Jimmy Cricket was a golf pro with a closet-sized downtown shop called Jimmy Cricket’s Pro-Line Golf. He was folding Claiborne golf shirts when Rinker walked in, and he smiled and said, “Can I help you?” He was wearing a royal-blue V-necked sweater that nearly matched his eyes, and dark khaki golf slacks that nearly matched his tan. He had the too-friendly attitude of a man who would give you a half-stroke a hole without asking to see your handicap card.
    The store was empty, other than Rinker, so she saw no reason to beat around the bush. “I’d like to buy a couple of guns,” she said, her voice casual, holding his eyes. “Semiauto nines, if you’ve got them. Gotta be cold. I’d take a Ruger .22 if you got it.”
    “Excuse me?” Jimmy’s smile vanished. He was taken aback. This was a golf shop—there must be some mistake.
    “I’m Rose-Anne, Jimmy,” Rinker said. “You left me that gun I used to kill Gerald