Death of an Artist (27 page)

Will's eyes rounded, and he said, “They really do that? Keep their initials like that?”

“As often as not. Anyway, this is where the long shot comes in. Chief, I think Marnie and Van are dead right about him, and that he really did murder Stef.”

Will shook his head and drew back a bit.

Ignoring his reaction, Tony continued, “With that in mind I started to wonder if there might be a damning bit of evidence left in the house, something Oliver knows is there, but that no one has come across, or wouldn't recognize as important if they did. The house was filled with people after Stef was killed, and then Marnie ordered him out and changed the locks. So he hasn't been back. It occurred to me that if he still had those fake IDs handy, he might use one, get a room here, get inside the house, and collect it. He wouldn't show up here as the fancy city dude with his big, splashy car and designer clothes. But he could come as someone else. Like I said, a real long shot.”

Tony spread his hands, lifted his coffee, and even took a sip before putting it back down. Will Comley was leaning all the way back in his chair, the posture of a man who didn't believe a thing he was hearing.

How easy it was, Tony thought, to start with a germ of truth and spin, spin, to weave a web without end, ever expanding, ever more elaborate. He had seen it countless times with those on the opposite side of the table, even admired their skill, he had to admit, but now he was finding out how easy it was, that he had a talent for doing it. The words flowed and were plausible. Idea followed idea, and the web grew.

Softly he said, “I was trained to follow up on those long shots, Chief. Routine. Habit. Whatever. I followed up and talked to the managers of our own motels here, asked them to give me a call if either Olson or Orsini got a reservation or checked in. Olson called in a reservation for tomorrow, the Fourth of July, Chief.”

Will jerked forward so fast he nearly sent his chair flying out from under him. “God damn! Are you shitting me?”

“Nope. Amory over at Surf's Up Motel gave me a call. He made a reservation, due in tomorrow.”

“Hot damn! We'll nab him the second he checks in! We've got the son of a bitch!”

Tony held up his hand. “Not so fast, Chief. No reason for you to know it, but I took a few years of law way back, and in twenty years working in the New York homicide department, I learned a lot more about the law. You have to have probable cause. And we don't. For all we know right now, that guy might really be Daniel Olson, a traveling salesman or something. It's a common enough name. We have to give him a little rope.”

“What do you mean?” Will heaved himself to his feet and picked up his coffee mug. “Let the coffee get cold. I'll put on a new pot. Won't take a minute.”

He picked up Tony's mug and went into the attached bathroom to dump it all out. Then, putting on a fresh pot of coffee, he said, “So what's the game plan?”

“We'll let him check in. Amory will give me a heads-up on his license plate and make of car, and I'll pass the word to you. The car will be a rental, most likely, something nondescript that won't draw a second glance. And that car will need watching, Chief. The minute it moves, I'll need to know. I'm going to stake out the house and wait for him. If he shows, then we nab him, with probable cause. I'll give him time to lead me to that piece of evidence, and you'll be backup. We'll have him.”

“What about Marnie, Van, and the kid?”

“They're all going to Newport to watch fireworks. Oliver knows that. He thinks the house will be empty, his chance to do what he has to do.”

Will resumed his chair, almost quivering with excitement. “You want me to tail him, follow him up to the house?”

“It's going to be tricky, Chief. He knows you and you can't let him get even a glimpse. Traffic's really heavy all along that coast highway, and you have to keep him in sight. It's going to get tricky.”

“What about your car? He'll see it up there.”

“I'll park up at the turnaround, out of sight, and walk back. It might be a good idea, when he moves, for you to get on the other side of the highway, park on one of the side streets where you can see anyone heading up Ridge Road, and wait. When he passes, give him plenty of time. He has to break in, and it will take him a little time, and I'll be inside. Then you move in and he's dead in the water. How does that sound?”

“Sounds good, Tony. Sounds real good. Breaking and entering is probable cause enough to hold him, ask him some questions before we bring in the sheriff or anyone else.”

Will got up again to pour fresh coffee, and they discussed the plan for a while longer. “I'll have to bring in Morgan, you know, to spell me if I need a break, want a bite to eat or something. If Oliver checks in late in the afternoon, he isn't likely to move until seven-thirty or so. That's about when they'll head out for Newport.” Morgan Walsh was his regular summer deputy, an easygoing, middle-aged man who liked to ticket out-of-staters for parking infractions.

Before he left, Tony said soberly, “Chief, it's absolutely vital that not a word of this is leaked. Not to anyone. If he gets alarmed or smells a trap, he'll simply take off and we'll be where we started, nowheresville.”

“Tony, believe me, I understand. I really do understand an operation like this,” Will said earnestly. He made a zipper motion across his mouth. “I promise, no one, not even my wife, will hear a word.”

They shook hands on it. “I'll buzz you the minute I hear he's checked in. Good luck, Chief. To both of us.”

Walking back to his apartment, Tony decided it had gone as well as he might have expected, and maybe Will Comley really would maintain silence. He felt sorry for him, watching a car most of the night, spelled now and then by Morgan Walsh, but on the job. He didn't believe for a second that Dale Oliver would drive to Marnie's house. He would take the trail up and back, and his car would not leave the parking lot until the following day when he would head back to Portland, mission accomplished. But Chief Will Comley was a necessary part of the plan, Tony also knew, even if he could not have said precisely what the entire plan was.

*   *   *

I
T
WAS
A
long afternoon. Tony shopped at the local market, bought ham and cheese, tomatoes and lettuce, makings of a sandwich for the next day. Little held his attention that day, television, surfing the Web. He was getting more and more irritable about his apartment and wanted his books, which were still in storage in New York, wanted more space to move in, and something to look at besides damn fir trees when he sat outside.

The following day was more of the same, waiting for a call from the motel manager, willing Dale Oliver to come, to check in.

The call came at four in the afternoon.

“He just checked in, Tony,” Amory said in the same low, conspiratorial tone as before. “He's in Room 8, driving a black Ford Escort, a rental, and I have the license number.” He read it off and Tony made a note, thanked him, and called Will Comley.

“I'm on it, Tony,” Will said. “We'll watch that car like a cat watching the canary. First move, you'll hear about it.”

Tony made his sandwich, filled a thermos with hot water, readying it for coffee a little later. Then, in his bedroom, he unlocked his suitcase and took out his old shoulder holster and his Glock, which had never been fired in anger. He placed them on his bed, along with his lightest-weight Windbreaker. It was a warm day, too warm for any jacket, but he would need it.

He sat on his balcony, his mind almost a perfect blank, with no images, no thoughts, nothing, like being in a trance state where nothing was happening.

His telephone jarred him out of it, and he was afraid he had miscalculated, that Dale Oliver was playing by a different set of rules. It was Van on the phone.

“Tony,” she said, “I'm going mad. Isn't there anything we can do? What are you up to? Harriet McAdams told Marnie that you actually spent a whole day in the shop! For God's sake what are you up to?”

“Take it easy, Van. Go watch the fireworks, relax, have a little fun. I'll come around tomorrow.”

“Why don't you come with us? You need a little time off, too.”

“Not this time, Van. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Oh, this is driving me crazy. Okay, tomorrow. But, Tony, we have to do something to force his hand. None of us can take this much longer.”

“I know. Maybe it will come to a head soon.”

Van stood holding her phone, puzzled by something she could not identify. Not anything Tony had said, something else. She had a memory jolt of a lecture, one of a series on patient/physician relations, a required course.

“You have to listen to your patients,” Dr. Chadworth had said. “Really listen. If they're talking about symptoms, most often they'll tell you what's wrong, where you should focus. But more than that. Try to get to know your patients, listen to the way they talk, the timbre of their voices, learn to tell the difference when they're hopeful or fearful, impatient or willing to accept the treatment you decide is necessary. Learn to tell if they're down or neutral. Depression may be denied through the words they use and broadcast by the way the words are expressed. A transcript would reveal only the optimism, good cheer, but a good listener might hear an altogether different story. Body language might suggest despondency—”

“Mom, can we go now?” Josh asked coming into the room. “Petey has sparklers, too!”

“It's too early. Come on, you have to put on a clean shirt and wash your face,” Van said, and pocketed her cell phone.

After Van's call, Tony filled his thermos with fresh coffee, strapped on his holster, and slid the Glock into place. It was still too warm for the Windbreaker, but he put it on. It was six-fifteen, time to get into position.

Traffic on Highway 101 was too heavy to try to cross. He turned right, heading south, down to the stop sign, made a left turn, and got into the traffic heading north to the first side street that led to Ridge Road. He drove past Marnie's front house without a glance toward it, up to the turnaround, and to the far side of the road, where he parked under the trees.

He ate his sandwich, not because he wanted it, but because he had learned on stakeouts that it helped pass the time to eat something, have coffee at hand.

A few minutes after seven he left his car, stayed back in the trees, and went down the road far enough to keep an eye on Marnie's house and driveway, and he waited for them to leave, to go watch fireworks.

From here he could see enough of the path to the Silver Creek trail that if anyone appeared on it—not anyone, he corrected—if Dale Oliver appeared, he would see him. He did not expect him yet, though. He waited.

In the house Van said to Marnie, “We should be on our way. It's going to take a few minutes to collect Petey and get his car seat in your car, get him settled in.” Petey was Josh's best friend, and they had invited him to go with them. Before long neither boy would need a booster seat, Van thought with relief and some regret. They were both growing fast. They would be ready for the regular seat belts, make life a little easier.

“I'm ready,” Marnie said. “I'll put the cooler in the trunk, and we're off.”

She had made a chicken-and-rice casserole, her contribution to the potluck. Van got Josh strapped in and took her place behind the wheel, and they left. It was twenty minutes after seven.

Tony watched the car back out of the driveway, waited until it was out of sight, then went down to the house. He walked around both houses with no need to go inside, although he could have done so. He knew where they kept a spare key in the planter by the door. He headed down the path to the trail that followed Silver Creek to town and beyond.

Where the path joined the trail, he removed his Glock from the holster and slipped it into his Windbreaker pocket. Then he sat down to wait, to let his ears adjust to the noise of the rushing water, to distinguish that sound from all others. There were distant pops as fireworks were set off. No guns were being shot yet, but they would be, he knew. No aerial display yet, the sky was still too bright. The firecrackers echoed up the gorge cut by Silver Creek. He identified the various sounds, and he waited for Dale Oliver.

 

21

T
HERE
WAS
THE
music of Silver Creek, fireworks popping, with an occasional sharp crack of a rifle now, a slight breeze stirring fir needles. And something else. Tony raised his head higher, listening, and slowly got to his feet, put his hand in his pocket to grasp the Glock. A rock dislodged, clattering a little. The sound of feet on the trail, muffled, not loud, but unmistakable. Someone was coming. He waited until the hiker got closer, then stepped out from the path, onto the trail itself.

Twenty-five feet away Dale Oliver stopped moving and stared at him. He was dressed in old jeans, a T-shirt, hiking boots. His hair was shades darker than his usual platinum blond, and he had a stubble of a dark-blond beard. He carried a canvas sack, the kind people sometimes took to the supermarket when shopping.

“Freeze, Oliver,” Tony said, taking the Glock from his pocket, raising it. “Don't move a muscle.”

“Who the fuck are you? You've got the wrong guy. My name's Olson. You crazy or something?” His gaze was fixed on the gun.

“Oliver, you've got one chance to come out of this alive.” Tony's voice was strange to his ears, hard, icy, remote. “You do exactly what I say, and nothing more, and no talk. Put the sack down. Slowly. Just put it down.”

Oliver made a quick motion as if to grab for something in the sack he carried and Tony said, “Listen, Oliver. Did you hear that click? That's the sound of a safety being released. Put the sack down. Now!” He spread his feet slightly and raised his other hand to the gun, assuming the posture made familiar to audiences by television and movies. There was no need for him to take the stance. He could fire the weapon with one hand. His big hands, the strength in his upper body, his arm, had proved that many times over on the firing range.