Cold Quarry (8 page)

“Well, I’m not really at liberty to say, but I’d sure appreciate any information you can share. Who knows? Maybe we can help one another.”

“Maybe. I’m happy to try to bring you up to speed … a little. But I hope you don’t plan on involving yourself in this investigation, Mr. Pavlicek, without the knowledge or cooperation of the sheriff’s department or other authorities.”

Nabbed. Time to redirect.

“Other authorities? Now who else might be interested in a supposedly accidental shooting?” I asked.

“Afraid I’m not at liberty to say,” he said with a straight face.

I smiled. “Okay. Okay.” I blew on my coffee and took a small sip. It hurt my mouth at first, but then felt good as it burned down my throat. “But you said you would bring me up to speed, as you put it?”

“To a point,” he said. “I’ve done some checking into your background, and your friend there … Toronto, is it? Your record’s not exactly clean, but you are ex-homicide and Detective Ferrier in Charlottesville vouches for you. That goes a long way with me, but you got to make sure you understand, Mr. Pavlicek, we’re dealing with a different world these days.”

“Different world? Sure, I suppose, but you’re talking about the accidental killing of a falconer like it’s a matter of national security.”

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments as we both sipped our coffees.

“How about an autopsy. Can we start there? Carew was shot in the back, I know that.”

“That’s correct,” Nolestar said.

“Close range? Long range?”

He looked away. “The M.E. thinks twenty to thirty yards.”

“Pretty close range then.”

He nodded.

“Still think it was a hunter?”

He said nothing.

“So the shot is what killed him.”

“Carew died from massive bleeding and shock related to the gunshot. Looks like the slug tore into a piece of his heart. No surprise there, I guess.”

“What about the gun? What type of load was used?”

“Well, ah, the bullet was recovered, I can tell you that.”

“And? What type was it?”

“I’m afraid that’s, um, classified information, Mr. Pavlicek.”

“Classified? How about shell casings?”

He shook his head. Different world indeed. For the first time I found myself wishing Bill Ferrier’s mug were around. At least I could deal with the detective from Charlottesville. Then again, all this guy knew about me was information he’d read from a database and Bill’s good word.

“How about the shotgun I turned over to you guys this afternoon? You get any prints off of that?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, sir. Nothing we could use. And without a further description of the guy, he’s going to be hard to find.”

“Stonewall Rangers,” I said.

Nolestar cleared his throat. “What’s that?” he asked.

“You know who they are.”

“Okay. … What about ‘em?”

“Chester had been to some of their meetings.”

“We know that.”

“Did you also know they were after him to use his land?”

He said nothing.

“Are they suspects in Chester’s killing?” I asked.

“Pavlicek,” he said, “look. Don’t involve yourself in stuff where you’re not needed. I know this guy was a friend of yours and all, but—”

“But what?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. We leveled even stares at one another.

“Can you at least tell me what you think happened to Elo?”

“Elo?”

“Carew’s falcon. A gyr-peregrine. The one he was hunting with that day.”

“Oh, right. No, sir. I guess the bird is still missing. That’s all I know.”

“Did anyone talk to Dr. Winston?”

“Dr. Winston? I don’t think so, why? Who is he?”

“Veterinarian. He treated that bird for some kind of strange illness—paralysis, that sort of thing—just a couple of weeks ago. But the bird recovered.”

“I didn’t know that. Maybe the conservation officer—”

“Who’s running this investigation, Deputy Nolestar? Are you?”

The deputy shifted in his seat. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that either,” the deputy said.

“ ‘Cause I’ve got to tell you, this is sounding more and more like a federal operation with you just acting as a gofer.”

“Sir, I’m going to have to respectfully request that you and your friend stand down on all this.”

“And if I decide not to?” All this sir stuff was starting to make me nervous.

“I’m sorry, but this conversation is over,” he said, pushing himself away from the table. “Please tell Mrs. Carew we’ll be in touch with her just as soon as we know anything definite about who shot her husband.”

“The only thing definite I can see is you stonewalling me about what you’re doing to investigate the Stonewallers.”

He snickered. “That’s good … I like that.”

He left the table and threw the rest of his coffee in the trash. I finished mine as I watched him drive his unmarked cruiser from the lot.

8

“Time to wake up, amigo.”

It was Toronto, rapping on the door of the bedroom Betty Carew used to store her sewing machine and dozens of wintering garments. I looked at my watch—5:45 A.M.

“Planning to shake the car dealer out of bed?” I asked.

“Nope. But I hear he’s an early riser and I thought you wanted to check out those coordinates first.”

“What time does the sun come up?”

“About the time you drag your sorry butt out of the sack, we eat some grub, and get to wherever we’re going.”

“Right. Bound to endear us to someone.” My mouth tasted like dry paste. I stretched and yawned, shaking the cobwebs from my head.

“Your purloined GPS unit has a nifty little mapping feature. I’ve already localized the three way points this character stored in the memory. And guess what? One of them is up there on Chester’s land and another is smack dab in the middle of the used-car lot belonging to our Mr. Higgins.”

“Sounds suspiciously like a clue. This Higgins guy going to be armed?”

“That’s Lieutenant Colonel Bo Higgins, commander of the Stonewall Rangers Brigade, to you. But I doubt he’ll be hefting an M-16 around his lot. Tends to scare off the customers.”

“Have you been there before?”

“Not exactly, but Chester drove me by there before we went to the second meeting.”

“Be interesting to see what’s at the third way point.”

“I’ve got the address.”

Two cups of coffee and Betty Carew’s sausage, biscuits, and honey had me awake enough to be following Toronto’s directions back down I-64 crossing the Kanawha into South Charleston, then along the north side of downtown Charleston to an exit within sight of the gold-domed state capitol. The sky had begun to brighten considerably as the new day dawned.

“Where are we headed exactly?”

“Other side of the interstate. Up the bill.”

We climbed a ramp that curved back over the eight-lane highway up toward the steep heights that rose over downtown.

“Turn left here. Then another left.”

I gunned the engine and we drove up along a ridge toward an apartment complex of four or five high-rise buildings. What may have once been brick luxury apartments overlooking the city, balconies off the sides, now sported dusty glass windows, decaying trim and railings. A couple pieces of trash from an overflowing Dumpster blew across the parking lot. A sign read Roseberry Circle. We were waved through a guardhouse entrance by a droopy-eyed attendant.

“It’s a HUD project.”

“Well, what do you know?” Toronto said, surveying the landscape. “I’ve heard of this place.”

“Yeah?”

“Buildings are mostly controlled by rival gang bangers from Detroit and Philadelphia, other cities up north. Lot of dealing going on in here.”

Right now the place looked asleep.

“Where is the coordinate exactly?” We were passing over a speed bump, curving uphill between the buildings.

“Hold on a second. Pull over here.”

Toronto punched a few buttons on the unit and waited for a response as I pulled to the curb.

“Looks like you’re just about right on top of it,” he said.

“Okay. So my friend from the woods visited here. A user maybe?”

“Nah. White boy’d be more likely to get his fix over on the West End.”

“Maybe Higgins has mounted a new recruiting drive.”

“Sure. ‘Cept I doubt the brothers who live here would throw him and his bunch much of a grand reception.”

“I see your point.”

“I think we’re going to have to have a talk with Bo Higgins about this one,” he said.

“Let’s,” I said.

We drove back down along the interstate, past the few high-rise hotels and office buildings and state capitol, before crossing the Kanawha again back into the far south side of Charleston, which didn’t border South Charleston. Go figure. The way the topography, the interstate, and the river twisted out here, you knew you still had a long way to go before you got to Kansas.

The West Virginia headquarters of the Stonewall Rangers Brigade on MacCorkle Avenue was not as impressive as the name might imply. The building Toronto pointed out as we drove into the lot looked like the sawed-off end of an old tobacco barn attached to the back end of Bo Higgins’s used-car dealership—BEST DEALS ON WHEELS—RIDE TODAY FOR LESS! An array of late-model sedans, station wagons, and sport utes with a decidedly made-in-the-USA flavor occupied the lot.

The gray sky had begun to brighten some more, revealing a flurry or two, but despite the cold, a door to the small showroom floor hung partway open. Traffic out front on the street at this hour of the morning was all but nonexistent.

“So let me get this straight,” I said, searching for a wide enough parking spot among the mostly occupied spaces. “Chester and you listened to this guy’s spiel. What else did Chester have to say about it?”

Toronto shrugged. “He said he thought the speakers raised some interesting questions, even if they were quite a ways off on the answers.”

“White supremacists raising interesting questions?”

“Well, just when he was talking to me, Chester liked to call them proletariat whores.”

“Proletariat whores?” I was trying to figure what Chester might’ve meant by that when a wide spot presented itself. I twisted the pickup into the slot. “At least maybe these guys can tell us what happened to Elo.”

“Maybe.”

“While they’re in the midst of divulging all their goals and schemes to us.”

“Absolutely.”

“Which we plan to discuss now with this major general head of the whole operation.”

“Not major general. Lieutenant colonel.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

The man who poked his head out of the showroom to see who’d entered his parking lot was a bony figure with a high-domed head and a coif of white hair neatly combed to one side. His face had that rugged Western look that said he mostly didn’t give a damn; his uniform, despite his apparent rank, was a blue-and-white-checked flannel shirt over blue jeans, black cowboy boots that resembled the pair Toronto had on, and a white turtle-neck. He squinted suspiciously at my truck with its Virginia plates until he recognized Toronto climbing out of the passenger side.

“Jake Toronto, sir. What brings you over here this early hour of the day? Got someone wanting to buy a new truck?” Higgins, now grinning, was marching out to greet us. The air smelled of cold paint and chemicals from an auto body place next door.

“Not exactly, Bo.” Toronto pointed at me as I closed the door of the truck behind me. “This here is Frank Pavlicek. He used to be my partner when I was a detective back in New York.”

“Oh. Sure.” Bo Higgins stepped forward, extending his hand. We shook. His grip was firm but not too overbearing—more like a politician’s than a soldier’s.

“Frank works now as a private investigator.”

“I guess you aren’t after a truck then.”

“Nope.”

“Private investigator.” Higgins nodded, Toronto’s words taking a moment to sink in. The car dealer’s grin went dead. “Works for whom?”

Hardly the backwoods grammar I’d have expected from a crazed militia leader, but I’d read a couple of articles about these people and knew not to necessarily expect a maniacally raving Hitler type. The question was directed at me.

“That all depends.” I smiled.

Higgins said nothing.

“Chester Carew’s wife hired Frank to check into the shooting. You know, see if he might be able to give the police a hand and all. Thought we might ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” Toronto said. He was all charm for the moment, I noted, not usually one of my buddy’s strong points.

“Chester’s shooting?”

“You heard about what happened to him, didn’t you?”

The militiaman rubbed at a day’s growth of stubble on his chin. “Yeah. Read about it in the paper. That was really a terrible thing, wasn’t it?”

“Didn’t see you or any of your fellow brigade members at the funeral.”

“Oh, well, you know about that, Jake. We mourn along with everybody else, but none of us really knew old Chester all that well.”

Toronto nodded.

“By the way, you have any ID on you, Mr. Pavlicek? Maybe a PI license?”

I took out my wallet, pulled out the cards, and handed him both. He looked them over thoroughly, front and back, then handed them back to me.

“Can’t be too careful these days, you know,” he said. “Cops and federal agents running around checking on everyone like storm troopers. Just because a man may have strong opinions about his country and his liberty don’t make him no terrorist.”

“You want to talk inside?” Toronto asked.

“Unless you’re planning to purchase one of my fine vehicles, I don’t see much good in standing around out here.”

We followed him in through the showroom floor where a green-and-white 1958 Bel Air in apparent mint condition stood parked next to a late-model Chrysler minivan. We didn’t hit warmer air until we’d reached the back of the room, where a wood-and-glass door led to a small suite of offices.

“It doesn’t pay to heat the showroom at night,” Higgins explained.

Inside the office door was a small waiting room with a handful of armless polyester-covered chairs.