what he’d come there to do, she found him to be completely normal, interesting. Even fun. It surprised her that she wasn’t bothered in the least by what he did for a living. She supposed people had it coming, that perhaps everyone had it coming in one way or another. What did that say about her? She asked, but couldn’t begin to answer.
XXXII
Mickey hardly noticed the Camaro as he blew past it on his way to Monarch. He recognized the car as Justin Banner’s. But where was it going? Why? None of these questions occurred to him at the time because he was focused on getting to Monarch and watching Ron Grimaldi.
At a hundred ten miles per hour, the desert adjacent to the road blurred together in a wash of browns and deep, dry greens. It was still early. There was no need to rush. Ron would be at work for at least another hour. But Mickey couldn’t help himself. The call could come over the radio any second, and when it did, he wanted to be ready to act if action was required.
But that was the big question. Would Dr. Kramer find anything? Would the radio call come? Mickey felt certain he was right, but knew it was all based on a hunch. Why would a killer put the murder weapon back in his car and drive around with it? Why would a guy who appeared to be completely normal do something like that? There was no real reason to suspect Ron Grimaldi of anything. The entire suspicion was based on a mistaken 911 call. He would have to wait for Dr. Kramer to find something. He would have to wait for Jimmy to call him on the radio. And until then, he would have to bite his tongue and do nothing.
Mickey thought it through for the hundredth time since he’d awoken and felt his certainty give way to doubt. He watched the Monarch facility loom up out of the desert like an apparition. Its giant white tank; its acres of parking lot, most of it unused these days; its tangle of massive pipes and fittings and stacks and towers stark against the blue sky like a gnarled, post-industrial sculpture marking the fall of a doomed society.
“Here he comes again.” Tom pointed at the Suburban coming up the road from town.
Victor looked up and watched Mickey turn into the lot. “Maybe he’ll make an arrest this time, now that we’ve practically handed the guy to him.”
They watched the Suburban go up and down the lanes of parked cars, much as it had earlier in the day. But this time it didn’t stop at the pick up truck. Instead, it came up near them and backed into a spot behind a large metal dumpster that would shield it from view.
It was only after he parked that Mickey noticed the two of them sitting there, already staked out in the only part of the lot that would not draw attention from the departing workers.
“He sees us.” Victor smiled, and then spoke through his grin. “Looks like once again, the FBI has beat the local boys to the punch.” He turned to Tom and nudged him with his elbow. “Must be shitty, always being second fiddle.”
Mickey looked around the lot, trying to avoid looking directly at them. Hoping to avoid having to interact with them. Something about the FBI guy rubbed him the wrong way, in every way, and it would be best to keep him at a distance. Mickey could see Agent Asshole grinning over at him. What a prick.
Mickey studied the dash and the seat around him. Trying to keep busy. Then he sat still for a few minutes before checking his watch. Unless Ron left early, it was going to be a long wait. He could feel the eyes on him. Both of them were looking at him now, and he knew he would have to get out and talk to them, at least inquire as to their investigation. There was no way he could avoid it for the whole time he was likely to have to wait.
Mickey left the Suburban running with its air conditioner cranking out semi-cool air in a futile battle with the high desert sun. He opened the door and walked across the parking lot, watching the two of them through the window. They watched him approach with expressionless faces. When he got there, Mickey leaned in and spoke as Agent Asshole rolled down the