Chapter 130: Wrap-up
Frank finally understood the meaning of the saying "When scholars rebel, it takes ten years to get anywhere" after spending time with Walter and Pinkman. The two gave him a serious headache.
"You're Pinkman, right? Go buy some food. While you're at it, get some bleach and gloves. Keep an eye on the guy in the basement," Frank instructed.
Then he turned to Walter. "Walter, you're driving. Take me to the place where you cooked yesterday."
Neither Walter nor Pinkman had a clear sense of direction at the moment. They just did whatever Frank said without question.
"It's here," Walter said as he drove Frank out of town.
Frank got out and looked around. This place was indeed remote—forty miles out in Native American territory. It was unlikely anyone would come here. Even if someone died here, it might take over a month for them to be found.
Walter and Pinkman had clearly chosen this spot after some careful thought.
Not far away, a yellow sports car sat with its door wide open. It was likely Crazy Eight's vehicle, still undiscovered. However, there were large scorched patches on the surrounding grass.
"This place caught fire?" Frank asked.
"Uh... yeah. After knocking them out with poison, a fire started somehow. I panicked and just drove off. The car ended up stuck in a ditch. Oh, and I saw a fire truck come and put out the flames," Walter explained.
It looked like the firefighters had simply extinguished the blaze and left, ignoring the abandoned car. Their job was to put out fires—nothing more.
"The keys are still in the ignition." Frank climbed into the yellow sports car and found the key inserted.
Walter and Pinkman had mentioned the car was still there, so Frank had searched both Crazy Eight and the body for the keys earlier but hadn't found them.
"Can we leave now? Cough, cough…" Walter asked anxiously, worried someone might discover them.
"What's the rush? Check the area carefully. Make sure nothing was left behind," Frank replied.
Frank and Walter began a search around the burned area. After making a full sweep, they didn't find anything important.
"Now can we go?" Walter asked again.
"You said you drove off in a panic and your RV got stuck in a ditch, and you paid a Native American with a tow truck to get it out, right? Take me to that ditch," Frank said.
Walter had no choice but to take Frank to the ditch site, which was only a few hundred meters away from the burned area.
It was a run-down, second-hand RV. At the time, Walter had been held at gunpoint, poisoned two people, and fled in a blind panic—that's how he ended up in the ditch.
"See? What did I tell you?" Frank and Walter split up and searched the area. Frank found a gas mask behind a rock.
"This..." Walter broke into a cold sweat when he saw the gas mask in Frank's hand.
"You really need to be more careful—especially when doing something like this. Alright, let's go," Frank said, getting into the car.
Walter drove his own vehicle, while Frank took the yellow sports car. They returned to Pinkman's house.
Frank flopped onto the couch, tossed the gas mask onto the table, opened a pizza box, and grabbed a slice.
"There was something left behind?!" Pinkman said in surprise, staring at the gas mask.
"The gas mask is a small thing," Frank said, swallowing his bite. "But that whole sports car just left out there in the open? Door wide open? And you two just walked away?"
Leaving a car like that in the middle of nowhere, especially with the driver missing, would immediately raise red flags for anyone.
If the police decided to look into the car's owner, they'd easily find out it belonged to Crazy Eight—and that he was now missing.
If any surveillance footage near Crazy Eight's place existed, they'd see Pinkman as the last person to be with him—and leaving with him in the car.
That would make Pinkman the prime suspect. And with nerves like his, the cops wouldn't even need to push hard—he'd spill everything.
In this line of work, being cautious is everything. But Walter and Pinkman were like amateur crooks straight out of a movie. The fact that they hadn't been caught yet could only be explained by sheer dumb luck.
Luckily for them, they were in New Mexico—sparsely populated, right next to the Mexican border, with plenty of Native American land. The car had been sitting in the open for an entire day without anyone noticing.
Even the firefighters clearly didn't want to make more work for themselves. They put out the fire and left. Otherwise, the three of them might be sitting in a police station by now.
Faced with Frank's scolding, Walter and Pinkman kept quiet and listened.
"Later, we'll clean the car inside and out. Wipe off all fingerprints, remove the license plates, and get rid of it. Maybe sell it to a used car lot," Frank said as they ate pizza and drank beer.
"Sell it?" Pinkman hesitated. To him, sinking the car in water seemed like a safer plan.
"Sure, dumping it in water makes it vanish," Frank said, exasperated. "But that's too obvious. If someone finds it, it'll scream something shady happened here."
Frank rolled his eyes. That kind of move basically screams guilt.
Dumping a car in water makes the police instantly think it was involved in a fatal hit-and-run. They'd launch a full-scale investigation, and with modern technology, there's no telling what they might uncover.
Selling it to a used car lot might seem riskier on the surface. But Frank had talked to Jimmy before—while buying Karen a birthday gift—about the used car and smuggling business.
Even stolen or accident-involved cars can be resold. The dealership would clean it up, sell it off, or strip it for parts.
If they dismantle it, that's the end of it—parts get transplanted, and no one could ever trace it back.
If it gets sold, and the cops eventually start looking, tracing the car's new owner would be much harder. The used car lot might not even cooperate or might pretend they lost the records.
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