Road Test David Wickenhauser (the top 100 crime novels of all time .TXT) 📖

other end of the long living room opposite the entrance foyer was another large glass sliding door leading to the same balcony they had seen from the bedroom. Paying attention now, they noticed the view overlooking a huge pond dotted with fountains. An island was in the middle of the pond that served as a putting green to accompany the eighteen-hole golf course they knew wrapped around the resort.

A person could live here, Hugh thought.

“I could live here,” Jenny said.

She pulled Hugh outside onto the balcony and pivoted to the master bedroom door slider, which she opened and drew Hugh through. She pointed out the forty-inch flat-screen television opposite the king-size bed, and the huge walk-in closet. Again, bigger than Hugh’s sleeper cab.

“See what you’ve been missing all your life, Hugh?”

“It’s nice. And I really love it, especially because I love seeing you happy and relaxed.”

“OK. Seriously, though. Can we afford this? It’s got to cost a small fortune. I’m guessing two or three hundred a night.”

Hugh didn’t want to spoil it by telling her how much he thought this room was costing him. He had caught a price list out of the corner of his eye when he was checking them in. He believed the Villa they were in was in the six-hundred-dollar-plus range. He was so tired, and so stressed last night when they had gotten here he hadn’t given a damn. And he still didn’t.

“Let’s talk,” Hugh said. He led her over to the dinning table.

“Something you need to know.”

“Uh-oh.”

“No. It’s good.”

“OK, go on.”

“You know I don’t own a house, have a mortgage. I don’t rent. I don’t own a car. With one exception, I have no expenses that aren’t related to driving the truck. No debt.”

“Sure, I knew that.”

“What you don’t know is I pull down a little over six figures a year. I’ve been in that range for at least the last ten years I’ve been driving. Before that, I was doing pretty well.”

“OK.”

“So, do the math. Can I afford a luxury like this once in awhile? Especially if it makes you so happy?”

“Wow. I had no idea. What are you doing with all your money? I bet you’re still wearing the first T-shirt you bought when you got out of the Marines.”

Hugh laughed. His mom hides his older clothes from him, but he knows exactly where his old T-shirt is at the ranch house.

“I’ve got some investments. A little here. A little there. A couple of big ones.”

“Like what?”

“Boring, safe stuff, mostly. So I can have a comfortable retirement. I already told you when I get done driving truck I want to buy a motor home and travel for a bit.”

“Yeah. I thought that was crazy the first time you mentioned it, and I still think it’s crazy.”

“But, when I’m ready to settle down for good, I’ve got a little patch of Idaho forest and meadow I’d like to improve on, build a house, raise animals, do a little farming.”

“How much is a patch?”

“About eighty acres. I bought it cheap before the boom started with West Coast people escaping the liberal hell-hole states and coming to Idaho.”

“I didn’t know that. I’d love to see it.”

“You’ve already seen it.”

“I did? When?”

“I’ll show you again some time. But don’t worry. It’s half yours now. Not only will you get to see it, but you’ll be living there with me some day.”

“Sounds mysterious.”

“I’m going to take a shower,” Hugh said. “Go ahead and order breakfast for us. The works. Pretend we are sitting down to breakfast at Mom’s. You know what I like. And don’t look at the prices.”

Chapter Eighteen

Early that same morning, another of the participants in last night’s horrific event had been resisting the morning sun’s attempt to get him to wake up.

Joe had gotten into bed a little earlier, after returning from taking his burner car on a one-way trip into the desert. The husband had followed Joe in his car. Joe would have preferred not involving him, but he knew he would need a ride back, and he certainly had not wanted to ask anybody else.

About twenty miles out of the city Joe had chosen a draw off of a secondary road that meandered into a wash walled with steep banks.

With the generous application of five gallons of gasoline sloshed liberally all over the car inside and out, Joe had been confident all identifying features would be obliterated. He even had taken the stolen license plate off of the back of the car, and had put it in the back seat, knowing the intense heat and flame would render it untraceable.

Before tossing the match that would start the inferno, Joe had remembered to chuck in his burner phone. He had the husband toss in his phone as well for good measure.

Back home, Joe had thrown himself onto his bed. His last thought before drifting off into a conscience-free sleep had been that the job had gone perfectly. Mission accomplished. There would be no doubt of the fatalities, and no question the driver of the truck would be found one hundred percent responsible for the crash.

What the sunlight streaming in through his window had failed to do, however, was accomplished easily by Joe’s cell phone’s insistent ringing. His real phone, not his burner one that was long gone.

“What the fricken hell! It’s six fricken a.m. in the morning!” Joe shouted as he reached for the phone.

It was the attorney.

“Joe, we’ve got a problem,” Fishburn said without preamble.

“What?”

“I watched the coverage of the accident on TV news last night. That definitely went off the way you had planned it.”

“You’re welcome by the way. Then what’s the problem?”

“Don’t get smart with me! The problem is it went too well. The