McCone and Friends (39 page)

Years before, I’d discovered that the key to getting information from anyone was to present myself as a person in a position of authority—and that it was easy to do so without lying. Most people, unless they’re paranoid or have something to hide, will cooperate with officials; their motives may range from respect to fear, but the result is the same. I tailored my approach to the situation by first driving to the public library and photocopying the Yellow Pages listings for physicians. Then, in a quiet corner of the stacks there, I went to work with my cell phone.

“My name is Sharon McCone. I’m an investigator looking into the cause of a fatal aviation accident that occurred two weeks ago near Tufa Tower Airport, Mono County, California. The victim was a student pilot who reportedly had been diagnosed with narcolepsy; the diagnosis wasn’t noted on FAA form eight-four-two-zero-dash-two, so we assume it was made by a person other than a designated examiner. Would you please check your record to see if Scott Oakley was a patient?”

Only five people asked if I was with the Federal Aviation Agency or the National Transportation Safety Board. When I admitted to being a private investigator working for the victim’s mother, two cut me off, citing confidentiality of patient records, but the remainder made searches. All the searches came up negative.

Maybe Clark Morris, Scott’s friend who tended bar at the Lucky Assay Office, could steer me toward the right doctor.

Evening on the Strip: the sun was sinking over the Sierras and the light was golden, vying with the garish neon and coming up a winner. The sidewalks were crowded with people out for a Saturday-night good time—or looking for trouble. A drunken guy in cowboy garb bumped into a middle-aged couple and yelled an obscenity. They stared him down until he slunk off, muttering. I spotted three drug deals going down, two of them to minors. A trio of young Native Americans, probably fresh off one of the nearby reservations, paid an older, cynical-eyed man to buy them a sixpack. Hookers strolled, lonely men’s gazes homing in on them like airplanes to radar transmitters. And on the curb a raggedly dressed girl of perhaps thirteen hunched, retching between her pulled-up knees.

I thought of Hy’s ranch house, the stone fireplace, the shelves of western novels and Americana to either side of it. Of the easy chairs where we should now be seated, wineglasses to hand. Of quiet conversation , a good dinner, and bed…

“Scott’s doctor?” Clark Morris said. “I don’t think he had one.”

“He must’ve gone to somebody for his student pilot’s medical exam.”

“Excuse me a minute.” The mustached bartender moved to a couple who had just pulled up stools, served them Bud lights, and returned to me. “You were asking about the medical exam. I think he got it in Sparks—and only because he had to. Scott hated doctors; I remember him and Christy having a big blowup once because he wouldn’t get a yearly physical.”

The cocktail waitress signaled that she needed an order filled. Morris complied, poured me another glass of wine when he came back.

“Thanks. The reason I’m asking about the doctor is that Scott saw one the day before he died—”

“No way. He took Christy on a picnic that day, out at Pyramid Lake, one of their favorite places. They left real early.”

“Well, maybe his mother got it wrong. It could’ve been the day before that.”

“I don’t think so. Scott was working construction in Sparks all that week.”

“Oh? He wasn’t dealing cards anymore?”

“That too—at Harrah’s. He needed the money because he wanted to get married. He was going to talk to Christy about setting the date while they were on their picnic. He really loved that woman, said he had to marry her before it was too late.”

“Too late for what?”

Morris frowned, than spread his hands. “Damned if I know.”

Lynda Collins, Christy Hertz’s friend, wore one of the camp follower costumes and looked exhausted. When the time came for her break from her duties in The Shaft, she sank into the chair opposite me and kicked off her high-heeled shoes, running her stockinged toes through the thick carpet.

“So who hired you?” she asked. “It couldn’t’ve been that no-good bastard of a stepfather of Christy’s, trying to find out where she’s living now. I know—poor, wimpy Scott.”

“You haven’t heard about Scott?”

“Heard what?”

“He’s dead.” I explained the circumstances, watching the shock register in Collins’ eyes.

“That’s awful!” she said. “I wonder why Christy didn’t let me know? I wonder if she knows?”

“I take it you didn’t like Scott?”

“Oh, he was all right, but he couldn’t just let go and have a good time, and he was stifling Christy. The flying was the one real thing he ever did—and look how that turned out.”

“I understand he and Christy went on a picnic at Pyramid Lake the day before he died.”

“They did? Oh, right, now I remember. Funny that I haven’t heard from her since then, I wonder how Scott took it?”

“Took what?”

“Christy was going to break it off with him when they were up there. She met somebody else while Scott was living down at his mom’s place—a guy from Sacramento, with big bucks and political connections. Since Scott got back, she couldn’t get up the nerve to tell him, but she had to pretty soon because she and this guy are getting married next month. God, I hope she let Scott down easy.”