“Caroline. Caroline.” He closed his eyes. Trying to see the name on the credit card. “Caroline Pitts. Caroline Pitts,” he said and he opened his eyes. “No. Potts. Caroline Potts.”
“Caroline Potts.”
“Think so.”
“All right. That’s a big help,” Boyd said and he stood.
The bartender held a beer toward him. “One for the road?”
“Good one,” Boyd said and he nodded and left.
Back in the cruiser he radioed the dispatcher and asked for an address on a Caroline Potts. He cranked the engine and turned up the air conditioner and waited. A minute later he had what he needed and he drove on toward the address of Caroline Potts, telling himself that this was a waste of time. That Russell had told him the truth.
The four houses sat in a rectangle and they looked identical. White siding. Green shutters. Red front door. He looked around for number 12. A gray four-door was parked in front and he parked next to it. He walked along the skinny sidewalk that led to the front door and he knocked. He could hear a television. He waited and when no one came he knocked again and the sound of the television went down. Then the door opened and a woman stood there wearing a robe and a towel wrapped around her head. The hair that stuck out from under the towel was wet and there were beads of water on her neck. She seemed a little out of breath and she looked at the sheriff as if he were a strange animal.
“Sorry to bother you,” he said.
She tugged at the robe and tightened it across her chest and neck.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Are you Caroline Potts?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Are you Caroline?”
“Yes.”
“Caroline Potts?”
“I said yes.”
“I need to ask you a couple of questions if you got time. Real quick, I promise.”
She opened the door farther and moved back and he walked inside. She left the door open and she wiped at her neck. With her face freshly clean and free of disguise the freckles were more abundant across her nose and cheeks.
“What’s this about?” she asked.
“I got two questions and I’m done. If you shoot me straight.”
“Fine.”
“First one is do you know a man named Russell Gaines? He claimed he met you downtown at the Armadillo.”
She nodded. “Maybe.”
“Maybe what part?”
“I met a man named Russell. Couldn’t tell you his last name.”
“You know what he looks like?”
“Tall, dark, and handsome. Like all of them down there, right? Had a soft little beard, though.”
“That’s plenty,” he said. “Part two. Did he spend the night here with you?”
She gave a cross look. “Without modesty I say yes. But he didn’t stay all night. Got up and left. Can you arrest him for that?”
“If I could arrest people for that I’d stay pretty damn busy,” Boyd said and he tried to imagine what was behind the robe.
“If you ever start I got a few more names for you. Anything else?”
“No. Don’t guess there is,” he said and he stepped through the doorway. She was about to close the door but then he turned around and he reached out and stopped the door with his hand. “One more thing,” he said. “What night was that?”
She rolled her eyes. “Thursday. Or maybe Friday.”
“Thursday or Friday?”
“That’s right. Runs together sometimes.”
“I need you to think a little harder.”
She pursed her lips. Then she said Thursday.
“You’re sure?”
“I told you yeah. Until he decided we were done and then he left out.”
“But not Saturday.”
“Do your ears need cleaning?”
“I don’t guess you’d know what time he left out.”
“Maybe one. Maybe two. I told you it runs together,” she said and she pushed the door closed. Boyd backed away from the house. Sat for a moment on the hood of the cruiser. Scratched his head. Scratched his chin. Then he got in the cruiser and as he drove he thought about it all and one word kept jumping in and interrupting.
Maben.
He wished he would have never heard it.
Russell was clear of the shooting. But he was lying about where he said he was Saturday night. And a woman named Maben ended up at the shelter downtown. A pistol found in her things by the girl on the night shift. And then the woman named Maben snatching the pistol and grabbing her child and making a run for it.
Shit, he whispered to himself. He’s got some good damn reason for not telling me the truth. He scratched at his neck and stared at the pink flamingos. If he wanted to hide something you know where he’d hide it, he thought. In the same place we hid beer and weed and girls. A pay phone we stole. The principal’s dog we borrowed for a while. You don’t want to go back out there but you ain’t got a choice. He’d hide it in the room above the barn.