“That I didn’t know.”

  “And Paley was the reason Willie almost died. So I want the guy real bad, Phil, real bad.”

  “Okay, Archer, I hear you loud and clear. I can be there in about thirty minutes. You sit tight.”

  “No, Phil. I can’t. I’ve got something else to check.”

  “Archer, if you—”

  “Now listen closely. On Bonham’s desk in his study I’m leaving a folder with pictures showing Bonham with the crates of dope and the hooded prisoners. Along with that is a lab report that analyzed some white powder I found in Bonham’s backyard. Turns out it was heroin. They probably dropped some of the stuff when they were bringing it in from the beach. Situated in the middle of the rear lawn is the bomb shelter. I left the hatch up so you can’t miss it. You’ll find more evidence down there along with Bonham’s body. And another thing—you need to do a raid on the Jade Lion in Chinatown.”

  “That’s not my jurisdiction, Archer.”

  “Which is why you need to get on the horn to LAPD, somebody you trust in narcotics and vice, and work with them. If the LA cops want some good ink in the dailies, this will do wonders. That truck was heading to the Jade. They sell dope out of there along with a lot of other rotten stuff that you boys in blue need to stop.”

  “I can’t organize a raid tonight.”

  “Then do it tomorrow night, but just do it. You’ll get a promotion and you can buy a new car and take the wife to Chasen’s all by yourself.”

  He hung up before the detective could fire off another response.

  Archer was in the Olds and down the canyon road in under three minutes.

  He knew if he passed any prowlers they’d be looking for his Delahaye, not the dumpy Oldsmobile. Oldham would have assuredly told them that.

  Sure enough, ten minutes later two county radio squad cars shot past him without even a look at the Olds as they headed to Las Flores.

  Archer drove straight to the airport in LA, and was lucky enough to get a plane reservation that would deposit him in Reno around five in the morning. He made a call from an airport pay phone to Jake Nichols, who was fully awake, and told him about the latest developments. Then he filled the man in on exactly where he was going and why. He next called and woke up PI Jim Swinson in Reno and told him the same, and that he had booked a flight.

  “Can you meet me at the airport?”

  “I’ll be there,” said Swinson.

  “What’s the word from your guy on the ground?”

  “There’s activity, Archer. I’ll fill you in when you get here.”

  Archer made one more call to a number that a certain someone had given him.

  That certain someone answered in a sleepy voice, “Hello?”

  “Sam?”

  “Who is this?” asked Samantha Lourdes.

  “Archer.”

  “Archer! Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  He could envision her sitting up in bed, in a lacy, sheer negligee maybe, and being all indignant. For some reason that made him smile. And he needed to smile right now or else he might pull his .38 and start shooting people. “Yeah, actually, I do. I’m feeling every minute of it.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Don’t go back to the Jade.”

  “Did you really call to lecture me in the middle of the night about that?” she snapped at him. “Of all the crazy things—”

  “I’m not generalizing, Sam. I’m being real specific. The cops are going to raid the Jade probably tomorrow night, just in case you were thinking of going. I wanted to warn you to stay away.”

  She didn’t say anything for a few moments. “I actually was going tomorrow night.”

  “Then you can stay home and read a detective novel instead of getting booked by LAPD for real.”

  “What’s happened, Archer? Tell me.”

  “That gal you pointed out in the photo?”

  “The one who hooked up with Darren while we were married?”

  “Yeah. She and Paley just murdered her husband in Malibu, and are right now legging it out of here.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Yeah, I hear his name a lot lately, only he doesn’t seem to be showing up to do his job anymore. So don’t go back to the Jade, ever, okay? Paley has too much going on to worry about you anymore. You are off his gravy train, Sam.”

  “All right, I promise, I won’t. And…thank you for the heads-up. What are you going to do now?”

  “What I always try and do. Catch the bad people.”

  “Why is that so important to you, Archer?” she said breathlessly. It made his skin tingle all the way across the ether. He imagined her giving him the Samantha Lourdes classic movie look. That image actually calmed him.

  “I guess it’s just my nature.”

  Chapter 69

  THE FLIGHT TOOK OFF INTO A CLOUDY SKY, but when they broke through the heavy cover, there was the moon looking bold and bright. But Archer wasn’t impressed with the moon even a little. He spent the flight staring out the window at a sea of clouds below and a sky that had no defined horizon, much like his thoughts. The clouds looked like ocean breakers frozen in midarc, which was unnatural and thus unnerving. The sky looked unfamiliar and unsettling, but he could not look away. Their final approach into Reno was extremely turbulent because of low-level crosswinds, but Archer barely noticed, even as a baby wailed, and the young woman sitting next to him threw up into a little paper bag helpfully provided by the airline with its logo on it.

  They landed and Archer was the first one off the plane. In the small terminal Jim Swinson waved at him.

  Swinson was in his late forties, about five-eleven, lean and tightly built with a swell of brown hair frosted at the sides, and a trim mustache of a similar color combination. He had on a dark suit, no tie, and a snap-brim hat with a checkered band held in one hand, along with a poker face.

  “You got a gun?” Archer asked.

  “I got a pocket, I got a gun.”

  “Good, because right now we can’t have too many guns.”

  They walked out to Swinson’s car. It was a Ford, as trim and lean as its owner.

  Dawn was still far from breaking, but the darkness was a shade lighter than the one Archer had left back in LA.

  “So, Paley is on the run with Bonham’s wife and her hubby’s dead?”

  “Yeah. The county cops are on it, but Paley is an old hand at this. He could slip through easily enough. The guy’s a planner and he must have planned for this eventuality.”

  “But once he offed his supplier, what did he think he was going to do?”

  “Who knows? But there are possibilities. Maybe he was cutting out the middleman. Then he could deal direct with the suppliers.”

  “But he has a dead body to contend with.”

  “But he probably figured no one would find the body in the bomb shelter for a long time, if ever. And if the cops figured out Bonham was selling dope, the murder could be blamed on any number of people, most likely in Mexico. Bonham stiffed them on a payment, that sort of thing. You play dirty, you end up dirty. And dead.”

  “And Mrs. Bonham? Wouldn’t the cops have wondered what happened to her when they found her husband’s body?”

  “That’s Mrs. Bonham’s problem.” Archer lit up a Lucky because he really needed to. He let the stiff breeze carry the spent match away. “And she may not know it, but she’s a French princess who just turned back into a frog, and a scorpion just hitched a ride on her slimy back.”

  Swinson narrowed his already narrow eyes. “What frog?”

  “Never mind. Tell me about the activity.”

  As they drove out of the airport Swinson said, “A truck came in a few hours after you phoned about Willie. It was unloaded and a bunch of crates were brought into the house. Then, about three hours later, some other people showed up with another truck.”

  “And let me guess—the crates went right back out?”

  “That’s the gist of it. My guy got photos of everything.”

  “He there now?”

  Swinson nodded.

  “Then let’s join him.”

  The drive took about an hour as they headed due south and passed through Carson City. The skies were light, but official sunrise was still an hour away by the time they arrived at the surveillance spot Swinson’s man had set up. The temperature was in the thirties and getting colder even as the skies lightened. Archer thought he saw a stray flake or two. The fat clouds were like a vast fleet of planes ready to open their belly doors and carpet-bomb Tahoe into snowy submission.

  Swinson’s associate was introduced to Archer as Duncan Reid. He was about five years older than Archer, six feet tall, his solid build covered by a cheap brown suit and a dull green tie with a frayed shirt collar pinching the tie’s knot. His eyes were alert, though the grind of his watch was telling in his face and skin. Stakeouts sapped you, Archer knew, without your moving a muscle.

  “Give Archer a look at the place, Reid.”

  The man stifled a yawn. “Okay. They’re probably still asleep.”

  He led them over to a break in the bushes, and handed Archer a pair of expensive binoculars. Archer used them to look down on a large chalet situated on private grounds right on the shore of Lake Tahoe. The home was an alchemy of redwood and cedar and large boulders and enormous, metal-framed windows. It had odd angles and massive cantilever beams along with metal supports to reinforce where it jutted out at the top, like the bow of a ship, to take full advantage of the views. It was as though the upper section of the house was actually over the water instead of just the adjacent sandy beach. It was a niftily done optical illusion, and no doubt cost a fortune. And now Archer knew from where that fortune had come.

  “Who have you seen come and go besides the truck?” he asked.

  “Lady in an old Packard. She drove out after the truck left and then back about an hour later. She hasn’t left since.”

  “Describe her.”

  Reid did so.

  “No one else? You’re sure?”

  Swinson answered. “He’s sure. See, we two-manned this thing. Have a guy down the road watching all traffic. We passed him but didn’t see him, but he saw us for sure.”

  Reid pulled a small device from his pocket. “And I’m hooked up to him via walkie-talkie.”

  “Makes sense. She had to be here to receive the shipment and then send it on.”

  “Who we talking about, Archer?” asked Swinson.

  “Mallory Green.”

  “I thought it was her husband who was doing the drug dealing.”

  “So did I. But now I think I was wrong. He’s not smart enough to pull this off, and his balls aren’t big enough. I just wonder why she left the house when she did. And no one was with her when she came back?”

  “Nope. Not that I could see,” replied Reid.

  “You got a spare walkie-talkie?”

  Swinson got one and set it to the right frequency. “What are you going to do?”

  “You guys sit tight. I’m going to pay Mrs. Green an early-morning visit.”

  Chapter 70

  ARCHER ALWAYS LIKED TO APPROACH a problem from the rear. He had learned in the war that frontal assaults made generals look heroic, but made their soldiers simply dead.

  About halfway to his destination he halted and took in the lay of the land. The snow-capped Sierra Nevadas were marshaled on the shore across the breadth of the wide lake. They stared back at him like a vastly arrayed army just waiting for the order to charge the waters.

  He continued on, finally broke free of the tree line, and came out on the beach, and immediately felt the wind gusts pummel him through his overcoat. Sand propelled by the wind nipped at him, and he turned away from the stinging grit. A long, wooden deck stretched from the house out to the water. There was a weather-beaten dock at the end of it with a wooden boat on a lift, its top covered for the winter season, with only a bit of its varnished underbelly exposed.

  He eyed the rear deck set in stone pavers, where some covered outdoor patio furniture sat. Cut into one wing of the house was an arched stone tunnel that led to the front of the house. That was an unusual feature, thought Archer. But it did give access to the beach and water without going through the house.

  He ducked inside the tunnel and spied a yellow prewar Packard convertible with whitewalls and a top in the up position parked there. It was in superb condition and must have cost a mint new, thought Archer. And this had to be the car that had been seen coming and going from the house. He opened the passenger door and peered inside. The interior smelled of old, cracked leather and cigar smoke. He looked at the registration tag on the steering post: Mallory Green.

  That was who Reid had seen driving it.

  He closed the door softly and crept to the rear. He lifted the trunk hatch expecting to find a spare tire and some tools.

  He stood there for a few moments gazing down at it.

  The it had once been a person.

  He reached down and touched the man’s jaw. It was cold. He lifted one of his arms. It was not difficult to bend. By the look of the body, the man had already passed through rigor mortis. That meant he’d been dead a while, thought Archer, maybe since Green had driven back that day.

  Steve Everett, the now former pilot, was dressed in clothes similar to those he’d been wearing when he’d flown Archer to Vegas. Archer looked for the wound that had ended the man’s life, and finally found it under the right arm. A small bullet entry hole in the side of the chest wall. And the bullet was still in there, because Archer could not find any place where the slug had come out.

  The wound was so insignificant that on the surface it seemed doubtful it could have ended a life. But small things often could: a tiny tumor grown large, a minuscule virus expanding out of control in one’s lungs. Or possibly a .32-caliber aimed just right. He thought about possible killers and motivations. They seemed relatively straightforward. The only unknowable right now was how the body had gotten here.

  He said goodbye to Everett and closed the trunk.

  Archer noted a door halfway down the tunnel and tried to turn the handle. Of course it was locked. Instead of his knife, because the lock looked substantial, he took out his felonious tool kit. A minute later the door was no longer an obstacle. He slipped through and closed it behind him. He found himself in a hallway with a set of steps heading up at the far end. The floor tiles were blue and white and designed such that they gave the impression of one walking on water.

  “Jesus,” he said, with more than a hint of irony.

  He walked across the watery tiles and up the steps to dry land. He checked his watch. It was not yet seven. He should have been exhausted, yet he had never felt more awake in his life.

  If I survive this, I swear to God I’m sleeping for a week.

  The place was cavernous and chilly, like a real cave would be. The hall he was on was long and as straight as a knife blade. His ears hummed as he listened for any sound, and he was rewarded, and also disappointed, when he heard none.

  He left the hall and entered a soaring two-story great room with a vaulted ceiling filled with beams and tongue-in-groove woodwork. The rear-facing windows were nearly as tall as the room and gave breathtaking views of the lake. Another wall held a stone fireplace; its metal doors were open and a fire, probably from last night, was doing its last bit of dying out. Archer could still feel the warmth from the embers, which sharply contrasted with the frigid snow-capped peaks that filled the windows.

  The furniture was large and looked handmade. Not a stick of middle-income department store furniture in this place, thought Archer.

  He made a quick search of the rooms down here, which wasn’t easy because the interior was a labyrinth. The kitchen was large and modern and laid out with elegance and functionality; a set of windows looked out onto the lake from a small breakfast nook with built-in banquette seating upholstered in cobalt blue. Every room was optimally furnished, not too much, not too little. And Green had classic taste, which meant that most of what Archer was seeing would stand the test of time. He had been expecting this by virtue of having already seen their main house back in California, and thus none of it really made an impression on him. Not that it could, with what he now knew.

  He reached one door, which intrigued him, because locked doors always did. He forced the matter with his pick tools. The space wasn’t large and it only had one item in it, but it was a significant one item. Archer knelt down in front of the leather-bound trunk and tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. He inserted his tool once more and did the requisite manipulations, with which he had grown quite adept over the years. The lock gave way and Archer slowly lifted the top. Inside were neat stacks of carefully folded wax paper packets taped down. He picked one up and undid the tape. Inside was white powder. He sniffed it. The stuff sure as hell wasn’t flour. They had held back part of the shipment for some reason.

  He put the packet back and closed the trunk.

  He had a dead man in a car trunk, and a large shipment of heroin in a house on a lake.

  Now he needed to find something else. Someone else.

  He headed up the stairs, which had polished wooden handrails and twisted wrought iron pickets; the stairs were carpeted with a colorful runner, which was secured to each riser with brass piping.

  He made it to the upstairs landing and was confronted with two halls leading in opposite directions. These must be the bedrooms, he figured.

  It would take precious time to search them all. Archer decided to opt for a shortcut.

  There was a large shelving unit on the landing. It showcased dozens of colorful ceramic plates. He picked one up, moved back out of the sight lines of both halls, and tossed the ceramic plate across the width of the space. It shattered on the tile floor with an unholy clatter.

  Archer waited and waited.

  And then the third door on the hall to his left was flung open, and Mallory Green came rushing out holding a baseball bat. She was dressed in a white negligee, and her hair was done in a French braid that followed her out the door like the tail on a racoon. She reached the top of the staircase, glanced at the shattered plate, and looked around for the source of the disturbance.