Mr. Paulson was possibly the worst companion with whom Martinez had ever been obliged to travel. Having volunteered to accompany the chief to Arroyo Grande dressed exactly as he had arrived the day before, he carried nothing but the briefcase. Riding shotgun in the heavily listing and unevenly weighted Tahoe, Mr. Paulson had the disconcerting habit of chuckling to himself for no apparent reason. A few miles outside of Phoenix he removed his shoes, entirely oblivious to the smell of his own feet. He seemed to believe that he was a DJ of some sort, ignoring the chief’s Bluetooth settings, and constantly changing the channel on the radio. He shifted between the poor reception of both AM and FM channels, punching the seek button repeatedly and laughing at the resulting blend of religious talk radio and superhits of the sixties and seventies. Stopping for coffee and breakfast sandwiches, Mr. Paulson hadn’t even bothered to offer payment of any sort and used up most of the ketchup packets on his own hash brown patty.
They were only twenty miles outside of Bakersfield before Martinez started contemplating jerking the wheel hard left into the concrete barrier and killing Mr. Paulson with a particularly violent high-sided vehicular roll. If there had been a tree more formidable than one of the ten-foot-tall Joshua trees he could just hit it head on and let the meteorite clean out the entire front cab. By the time they reached Arroyo Grande, Martinez was appraising the sturdy-looking tree trunks lining the first few miles before the town.
They found the Starlight Motor Inn towards the north end of town, but not before noticing how many unmarked law enforcement vehicles there were milling about. One or two unmarked cars within a few blocks was understandable, but Arroyo Grande was lousy with them. Both Martinez and Paulson had just pulled into a convention of some sort, and their previously unremarkable vehicle was remarkably common. More so, if only because the heavy meteorite had them rolling slightly cock-eyed.
If he was already feeling slightly homicidal from the long drive with Paulson, finding Sergeant O’Connor lounging beside the pool did not help. Martinez felt his funding slipping away as they parked beside the gated courtyard pool, only to discover the sergeant drinking a pint of something pastel with a pineapple wedge and cherry hanging off the edge of the glass. Mr. Paulson surveyed the scene, chuckling slightly. Martinez didn’t find it nearly so funny. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on, Sergeant?” he called as he slammed the truck door.
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O’Connor regarded him casually, not even bothering to sit up. “Poolside, sir!” he called, raising his pastel drink before he took another sip from the oversized red paper straw.
“I can see that.” Martinez fumbled with the gate lock, reaching through the steel posts to open the latch. “You want to tell me why this town is crawling with wannabe feds?”
“It’s a buyer’s market out here, Chief. I’m guessing these guys are all real estate agents of some sort.” He laid back again, entirely focused on an even bronzing.
Chief Martinez counted three empty plastic pint glasses lined up on the rusty little table beside O’Connor. Firing was too good, he figured. O’Connor deserved tenure. He wanted to watch the sergeant suffer before his spirit broke. He wanted to see the last light going out of the supercop's eyes as he ambled around the empty offices for the rest of his natural life, completely dead inside. Martinez watched another black SUV roll slowly up the highway, headed North.
O’Connor glanced up at the chief, suddenly looking serious. “Who did you call, Chief?”
Martinez shook his head. “So far as I know, it’s just you, me, and Vickers.” He watched another SUV coming back into town, the occupants staring right back at him. “This wasn’t off the wire. This was a direct dial.”
O’Connor shook his head as well. “It’s a hell of a lot harder to play an undercover agent in a town full of them.” He sipped his cocktail, still maintaining a look of intense seriousness in spite of the fact that he had half of Carmen Miranda’s hat hanging off the rim of his daiquiri glass.
Given the circumstances, Martinez had to agree, though. Until he could find out who these guys were, it was probably best to lay low.
Still clutching the handle of his briefcase and looking particularly awkward standing poolside in a cheap, ill-fitting suit, Mr. Paulson let slip a muffled chuckle which might have been more of a question than of any actual amusement.