Acts of Malice (17 page)

‘‘Oh, he hauled his tired old carcass back to Oklahoma, hon.’’

‘‘I’m sorry to hear that. Really. I hoped it was a temporary problem.’’

‘‘He was the problem. Skinflint. Didn’t know how to have a good time. Thirty-one years sitting in his dad-blamed fishing boat. Bored me silly. My sister and me, we’re going to get out there now and raise hell.’’

‘‘So—I take it you still want a divorce?’’

‘‘ASAP. Just point me where to sign.’’

Nina took some more notes so that she could prepare the petition for dissolution. At length, Mrs. Geiger hopped up to leave. ‘‘You take care, now, hon,’’ she said. She folded up her check thoughtfully and stashed it in her wallet. With a wink, she was gone.

Nina got on the phone and sprayed extinguisher on a few minor wildfires while Sandy tapped on the keyboard outside. Due to the new hot-milk whipper Nina had purchased at the Raley’s when she finally made it there on Sunday afternoon, the coffee tasted superb. Botelho crooned in the background. The fig in the corner seemed to be enjoying the new fertilizer she was putting on it.

A semblance of calm and control reigned over the office. Mrs. Geiger had her check, and Nina had her own big fee to fatten up the skeletal bank account and pay off some recent heavy bills. Maybe the geologist and Ginger could convince Judge Flaherty at the prelim that Jim shouldn’t be bound over for trial. Maybe she would buy one of those Apple G3 laptops like Ginger had. One might almost imagine, at this moment, that practicing law could be satisfying, even enjoyable.

From her office she watched a uniformed cop walk into the outer office. ‘‘Mrs. Reilly here?’’ he asked Sandy.

‘‘What’s it about, Vern?’’ Sandy said.

‘‘A delivery. Papers from Mr. Hallowell. Additional discovery in the Strong case.’’

‘‘Well, what are you waiting for? Hand it over.’’

‘‘You have to sign for it, Sandy,’’ he said.

‘‘I know that. Here.’’ A manila envelope passed from hand to hand. Sandy’s chair screeched faintly in relief as she left it. There came the sound of jingling from silver bracelets. Her face loomed in the doorway, the envelope flapping in her hand. She brought it to Nina’s desk and turned to go.

‘‘And how do you know Vern?’’ Nina said as she picked it up.

‘‘Vern?’’

‘‘The policeman who just came in.’’

‘‘He’s my other next-door neighbor,’’ said Sandy.

Nina tore the envelope open, removed the cover letter, and looked at the interview summary that Collier was providing to her under the Rules of Court requiring that he share his evidence with her.

Somebody named Gene Malavoy. Something about Jim firing him. Something about an argument between Jim and his father.

Something that smelled like more fresh, steaming trouble.

‘‘Tell me about Gene Malavoy, Jim.’’

‘‘He was a night host at the lodge. We had to let him go.’’

‘‘Why?’’

‘‘I suspected he was doing drugs in the bathroom on his breaks. He’s a complete loser. He’s a good-looking kid and the customers like him, that’s why he lasted as long as he did. What’s this about?’’ She had caught Jim at a busy time at the lodge. He looked impatient, even angry to see her. Sun poured through the windows onto the down- and polyester-filled jackets of the skiers crowding the tables.

‘‘He’s given a statement to the D.A.’s office claiming that you fired him wrongfully.’’

‘‘Figures. To be expected. Look, I’m very busy.’’

‘‘There’s more. Somebody else, a girl named Gina Beloit, told Mr. Hallowell that you and your father had a fight about it, and that your father wanted to replace you with Alex as the lodge manager.’’

‘‘See? I know Gina. She quit the other day. They’re getting their whole backstabbing game together. She said that?’’

‘‘She’s resisting giving a sworn statement. The phone call is probably inadmissible as hearsay, but I still need to check with you on it.’’

‘‘Both of them, big losers.’’ He caught her response to that line and he dropped the angry expression. ‘‘When am I supposed to have had this argument?’’

‘‘Two days before Alex died.’’

‘‘So what would it mean, if my father did want to replace me?’’

‘‘Well, it might be inferred from that that you had a motive to harm Alex.’’

‘‘But we’re going to prove it was an accident!’’

‘‘No, Jim,’’ Nina said. ‘‘We can’t prove that at this point. We do have people working on proving it. I have to check on things like this with you as they come up.’’

‘‘Well, it never happened,’’ Jim said, his face set. ‘‘It’s a plot against me by the staff. My father let them get completely out of control, and they don’t like my efforts to shape them up. And they want to think I killed my brother. They want me out.’’

‘‘The summary says that during this alleged conversation Gina heard your father say, ‘Marianne won’t like it.’ In reference to your firing Malavoy.’’

Jim said, ‘‘She’s an accomplished liar. Good detail. Because, see, Marianne knows him from somewhere. He’s French. She got him the job. Gina would know that.’’

‘‘Really.’’ Nina made a mental note to confirm that.

She had flashed to the Dalbello boots outside Marianne’s door in Zephyr Cove—Malavoy’s? ‘‘His name isn’t French,’’ she went on, puzzled.

‘‘Yeah, it is. Gene. Spelled ‘Jean.’ You know, like ‘Zhaungh,’ ’’ Jim said. ‘‘He tells everybody it’s the American spelling, because he’s embarrassed at having a girl’s name. That reminds me. I forgot to tell you this. Forgot it myself, until now. Gene gave Alex a black eye. I saw it on the mountain, the day he died. Alex said Malavoy jumped him.’’

‘‘Why would he do that?’’

‘‘You’ve got me. Alex didn’t have a clue. He didn’t even report it. I mean, I’m the one who fired the kid.’’

This brought up another point in Gina Beloit’s statement. According to that statement, Jim had bragged about telling Gene Malavoy that Alex was the one who had made the decision to fire him. If true, it would explain perfectly why Malavoy would attack Alex the day before his death. It gave Malavoy a grudge against Alex, maybe even a motive to kill him. But would Jim admit he’d done something so malicious? He was denying that there had even been a conversation.

How to approach this?

‘‘Are you positive you’re not mistaken? Are you sure there was no conversation about Malavoy with your father?’’ she asked.

‘‘No! I’m telling you, there wasn’t!’’

She gave up, but she didn’t believe him.

‘‘How long have you been the manager at the lodge?’’ she asked instead.

‘‘What difference does it make?’’

‘‘How long?’’ Nina said, resisting the pressure to slack off.

‘‘Three months!’’

‘‘And what did you do before that?’’

‘‘Operations manager outside.’’

‘‘And Alex was working—where?’’

‘‘At the lodge. He’d been doing it for years. We did a switch. I wanted to be in the lodge. He didn’t mind.’’

‘‘Your father must have had a lot of trust in you, to put you into that job.’’

‘‘Trust? I don’t know if that’s the word. But I’m trying. Alex was too soft with the staff and I’m handling that problem. And I better get back to it. I’m trying to keep everything together until my father gets back. There’s another mess happening too. It’s Marianne.’’

‘‘What about her?’’

‘‘It’s the stock shares. She’s got one third of the company now. She’s hinting around at selling out if I’m not nice to her. She knows my father and I can’t afford to buy her out right away. She could blow the company wide open. We’d have to go public. It wouldn’t be the Strong family operation anymore.’’

‘‘So be nice to her.’’

‘‘You don’t get it,’’ Jim said. ‘‘You don’t get what being nice to her means. I’m not going to fuck her for money. Or marry her. She’s a cobra.’’

‘‘I didn’t mean that!’’ Nina said, shocked.

‘‘Oh, let’s drop it,’’ Jim said. He was getting more and more agitated.

‘‘Sure. I’m sorry to have interrupted you, but it was important to tell you about this and get your reaction.’’

‘‘What’s happening, huh? I get up this morning thinking, it’s all right, I’m gonna be okay, we’re getting a geologist and this whole thing will blow by next week in court. Then you show up with your questions. Do you know how hard it is for me to keep going with all this? And nobody to help me? They’ve all let me down. Alex and Heidi and my father. They don’t care about me or the resort.’’

‘‘Your father cares about both you and the business, I’m sure, Jim,’’ Nina said, trying to calm him down.

‘‘Then where is he? Let me tell you where he is. He’s off grieving over Alex while I go to hell. You know why he’s not here? He can’t stand to look at me!’’ Jim was shouting. He looked around him, at the shocked face of the cashier nearby.

‘‘Whaddaya think you’re looking at?’’ he demanded, and she looked down nervously. Nina was kicking herself for trying to talk to him at work. He had warned her before to call him at home because he didn’t trust his reactions. She ought to know by now that he was impulsive.

‘‘I’m sorry, Jim,’’ she said. ‘‘We should have met at my office.’’

‘‘It’s true about my father. He called me and told me to take some time off when he gets back. I think he’s going to kick me out of the only thing I’ve got left.’’

‘‘I’ll talk to him.’’

‘‘You will? Change his mind?’’

‘‘I’ll talk to him. Go back to work. Sorry I disturbed you.’’

‘‘It’s okay. Sometimes it feels as though everyone is against me but you—’’

‘‘I know.’’

‘‘I just want things back to normal. I want to do my job and be left alone. It’ll be over soon. Right?’’

‘‘Good-bye, Jim.’’

14

JIM STRONG’S ARREST had been reported at great length in the
Tahoe Mirror.
The San Francisco papers and all the suburban dailies had by now picked up the story and resurrected old photographs of Jim and Alex on the slopes together. Nina found one photo, printed in color by the San Jose paper, particularly poignant. It featured all four of them, Alex and Marianne, Jim and Heidi, all smiles, arms around each other, frozen images of health, happiness, and family fealty.

Fortunately, the explosive forensics findings either hadn’t found their way into the insatiable maw of the reporting machine, or the papers were taking a cautious course and waiting for the prelim, which would be public and hard news.

Anyway, another story shared billing with Jim’s case in Tahoe that fall—the weather report. Not since the ghastly winter of 1846, when the snows began in October and continued until April, had so much snow been predicted in the Sierra. Every night, the people in town turned on their TVs to watch the weather lady cheerfully predict another wave of storms.

All day trucks lumbered along the streets with loads of wood, propane, and extra supplies for the grocery stores. Matt had all his tow trucks, now comprising a small fleet, tuned up and ready to go, with extra drivers ready on call. The bears were rumored to be coming into town at night to forage, and the ski resorts were pausing in their money-counting to wonder if they were in for too much of a good thing, and the traffic would come to a screeching halt, buried under the weight of all that snow.

A quiet frenzy of preparation gripped everyone, including Nina and Bob. They had stacked several cords of wood under the porch now, all they could stuff under there. The dial on the propane tank along the side of the house registered full.

The question was not if there would be a power outage, but when. The frontier culture had always underlain the modern town, and the locals returned to it almost gladly.

The town had become so beautiful in this new season, not dirty around the edges as it would be in the spring, but glorious and fresh, like an extended Christmas. Or was it being in love that gave her this buoyant energy, that made the world glorious and let her carry her loads lightly?

Collier came over for dinner every couple of nights. She fixed something simple like spaghetti and the three of them sacked out in front of the fireplace on the rug and played board games. Collier taught Bob to play pinochle and Bob soon beat him.

The Monopoly game was dusted off and, like a Rorschach blot, brought out their core personalities—Bob, headstrong and erratic, buying indiscriminately and sometimes having to sell for ready cash; Collier, the slow and steady empire builder, cautious and implacable; and Nina, propertyless except for the hotels on Park Place and Broadway that she always managed to erect, all her hopes resting on the red plastic traps on the board that sometimes caught the other two.

Nina thought—hoped, prayed—that they liked each other. Bob was struggling with it, she could see that, and she felt the familiar guilt at putting him through another change.

And on those same evenings, after Bob had gone to bed, at first they would go out for an hour, drive to the top of Ski Run Boulevard or Kingsbury Grade, and park the car like teenagers. But that was intolerable, cold and uncomfortable, and what if a cop on patrol shined in his flashlight and rousted them?

So they started driving straight to Collier’s and took their single hour on his bed with its black sheets and gray comforter. Then Nina would jump up and throw on her coat and drive the four miles home along Pioneer Trail alone, in complete disarray, worrying about leaving Bob alone at night, worrying about hitting a tree on the lonely icy road and having to go to the hospital with no underwear on, worrying about the files waiting for her attention on her own bed, worrying because it was all getting too complicated too fast.

But not worrying enough to slow down. They were riding a tsunami. Nothing could slow them down.

At the office, the Strong case ate up more and more of her time as the prelim approached, and yet she coasted through the difficult juggling act required to keep her caseload balanced. The fee from Mrs. Geiger’s case stabilized her wildly swinging finances, and Jim had also paid his monthly bill.

The question at the preliminary hearing would be whether there was enough evidence to hold Jim for trial, and Collier didn’t have to show much. He would meet his burden of going forward using Doc Clauson and the fiber findings even without Heidi’s statement, unless she put on a defense that offered a compelling innocent explanation.

She thought she could do that. She had Tony Ramirez, and Ginger, and a geologist named Tim Seisz from the University of Nevada all getting ready to testify. Tim had already called to tell her he thought the patterns on the skin in the autopsy photos were as likely to be natural as man-made.

She wanted a dismissal badly. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she might be able to pull it off. She knew from experience how Collier would put on his case. He would build it fact by fact, just like he played Monopoly, until he had staked a claim to just about the whole board. But he wouldn’t have the big blue properties, those would be hers, and she would try to take him there, to where her big hotels waited to bankrupt him.

She repeated the names of her hotels to herself. Gene Malavoy. Marianne Strong.

She would have made a lousy prosecutor, but she was perfectly suited for the defense attorney’s role of spoiler.

She thought these thoughts during the day, but her mind kept sliding away from the fact that she and Collier were in a critically important competition—surrealistic, as though Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield had been secret lovers who fought for the championship and then went home to each other. Would Tyson have given Holyfield a little squeeze and said, sorry about the earlobe, baby; you know it’s all part of the game?

Collier was acting as a co-counsel with Barbara Banning on a robbery and assault case at the moment, and Nina would glimpse him coming and going in the courthouse hall, or see him talking in a knot of people on the pathway to his office. Always, their eyes met, and she would see in those eyes his swift, violent embrace.

Twice, she had to talk to him on the phone. She pretended—he pretended—they stayed within their roles, models of professionalism. But when she hung up she would pace around the office like a dingo in heat, the timbre of his voice bringing her right back to his bed in her thoughts. How should she treat him at the prelim?

About ten days after Jim’s arrest, on Friday night, Nina left work early. At the house, they had a quick dinner. She packed herself and Bob into coats and mittens.

‘‘Where are we going?’’ Bob asked as they started up the road to Paradise.

‘‘Ever heard of the Festival of Lights?’’ asked Nina, who had not, until she met Marianne. She wanted to do something with Bob before he left, but as usual she had more than one purpose. She wanted to have another look at Marianne, maybe catch her off guard. Marianne had told Tony she didn’t want to talk to him.

‘‘The Festival of Lights? Uh uh.’’

‘‘It’s a snowboard exhibition,’’ said Nina.

‘‘All right! Like the one at Sierra-at-Tahoe?’’

‘‘Um. I don’t know. What do they do there?’’

‘‘It’s in March. The G-Shock North American Championships. It’s part of a three-event tour that starts in Colorado next month.’’

‘‘And how do you know that?’’

‘‘Taylor. He’s getting a snowboard for Christmas. He’s gonna let me borrow it. Unless I get really lucky and Santa brings me one.’’ He gave Nina a hopeful look.

‘‘I think this is more like . . . a fun local event than a competition.’’ She pulled out a brochure she had picked up at the grocery store and handed it to him.

Bob sat back against the seat to read it, twisting his muffler. Flipping it over he read out loud, ‘‘ ‘Featuring multiple disciplines, including big-air, snowboard cross, and half-pipe.’ ’’

‘‘They’re doing all that tonight?’’

‘‘It says so right here!’’

‘‘So what is a half-pipe?’’

‘‘You have this machine called a Pipe Dragon that chisels out a U-shaped launching pad. It really cuts. People can make a lot of money riding, y’know,’’ Bob said, studying the pictures.

‘‘Oh?’’ said Nina. ‘‘How is that?’’

‘‘They give out prizes. Over three hundred thousand dollars for all the events at the G-Shock. Taylor wants to go professional. We’re gonna learn switchstance frontside three sixty’s. By the end of this winter, we’ll be whompin’.’’

‘‘Is that so.’’

The parking lot brimmed with cars. They parked at the far end and used flashlights to guide the way until the lighting picked up as they approached the lodge.

‘‘Oh, this is great,’’ Nina said. Soft yellow bulbs looped in tree limbs shimmered like candles. On both sides of a slope near the lodge, grandstands had been set up. White spotlights lit a ramp on one side. Already, people dressed as colorfully as tropical birds swooped and spilled down the slope.

Up high in the bleachers, they found a good vantage point. Piped-in music began playing, the slopes cleared, and a woman announcer sputtered through the loudspeakers, announcing names and events.

First, a series of young men did stunts off the ramp, which resembled the kind pro ski jumpers used. However, there were no tight tucks and long graceful rides for these guys. According to Bob, who talked continually in his excitement, they landed fakie, took hits, and rode goofy foot, in addition to fly swatting, getting good air and patting the dog, which involved stooping down to touch the ground with one hand. One spectacular fall rated a terse whistle from Bob and an epitaph. ‘‘He spanked off too soon. Ooh. Egg beater time.’’

Marianne showed up in the second group, and it was clear that these people were far more experienced than the preceding performers. There were no more egg beaters churning up snow in this bunch. Even Bob held his tongue to behold the stars of the snow.

Marianne went last, taking three runs, each one individual, each one more death-defying than the last. Her body shot the board through the half-pipe, and in a tightly choreographed series featuring controlled acts of wizardry, she danced like a fairy just slightly above the snow, all the way down the hill. After the final run, she kicked up powder just inches shy of the grandstands, gave a wave, and shot off into the night, while the crowd cheered wildly, standing to give her the biggest applause of the evening.

‘‘What an athlete,’’ said Nina, standing and stretching, thinking she was such a powerful young woman, agile, fast . . .

‘‘Bob, stay here for a minute.’’ She climbed down the bleachers and set off through the snow to the crowd of people who had gathered around Marianne. But the crowd was already dissipating, and Marianne had slipped away. The announcer was saying good night and the people in the stands were beginning the long hike back to the parking lot.

Then Nina saw her arguing with someone in the darkness under the farthest grandstand, still holding her helmet, feet apart, her free hand making swift downward stabs in the air. Who was with her? She let a chattering group sweep her close and then stopped at the other end. It was freezing and dark under there, slats of light shining through the gaps in the seats.

‘‘Tais-toi!’’
They were speaking French, practically shouting, which didn’t matter as no one else was around. Nina lurked behind them, trying to remember her high school French in the torrent of words. Marianne’s companion was so tall he was stooping a little. Nina could see the outline of a long angular face, long hair. In spite of his size he sounded like a teenager.

She heard the word ‘‘Jim.’’ She could only pick up a word here and there. The young man was accusing Marianne of something having to do with Jim and kept saying, ‘‘It’s mine, too! For when we go back to France!’’

Suddenly Marianne put her hands up on his chest and pushed him, actually knocking him backward a step or two. ‘‘Shut up!’’ she said again, switching to English. ‘‘You’re only here because of me! Look at the trouble you’ve caused! You’re drunk right now! Don’t lie about it, I know! Why should I go back with you? Go into business with you? Hah! Listen, I’m in charge now!’’

For a moment the boy just stood where he’d been pushed.

‘‘No, Jean—look, I’m sorry,’’ Marianne said, putting her arms up. His head jutted forward on his neck, and although Nina couldn’t see his face, she read blind rage in the way his fists came up.

‘‘No!’’ Marianne cried. He jumped at her and started pummeling her, socking her in the body like a little kid might go at his mother. She was so small compared to him that his body blocked all view of her.

Nina started to run forward, but then the boy emitted a sharp cry and jumped away, clutching his arm.

‘‘You cut me!’’ he yelped.

Marianne slipped something into her pocket. Nina hung back again, hardly breathing. While the boy took off his parka and examined his arm, Marianne calmly began dusting herself off.

‘‘Let me see that,’’ she said. ‘‘Idiot.’’ She took his arm and their voices lowered to a murmur and switched back to French. His voice had taken on a whimpering tone, while Marianne’s tone had become soothing.

The show was over. Nina edged away and went looking for Bob.

The boy was Gene Malavoy, she was sure of that. He wanted to ‘‘go into business’’ with Marianne, but he seemed a lot closer to Marianne than a prospective business partner.

Tony could find out more. Nina waved at Bob and walked toward the lights. For some reason, she was smiling, shaking her head.

It was Marianne, the way she had treated the boy. She was definitely the boss. Like Mrs. Geiger, she was as tough as rawhide when it came to defending herself.

Nina’s moment of amusement faded away. They were violent, impulsive, dangerous people, both of them, and they had powerful reasons for wanting control of Alex’s shares in the resort.