HardScape (7 page)

I got a smile at last, a pretty smile to mask a lightning jab: “So why'd you move the body?”

“I've been through this with Sergeant Bender.”

“Go through it with me.” No smile.

“We thought it best to move the body indoors before dark.”

“We?”

“Mrs. Long and me.”

“What if I told you Mrs. Long said you suggested moving the body?”

I didn't believe her. I said, “You've already reminded me I did time. Don't pull that chickenshit stuff on me. Mrs. Long didn't say anything of the sort.”

“Sure about that?”

“Trooper, at worst we made an error in judgment. Are you investigating how the man got killed, or are you building a case against me and Mrs. Long for screwing up the evidence?”

“How the man died could explain who killed him. You may be an expert on prison life, Ben. I'm an expert on homicide.”

She had me there. Not that I admitted it to her.

I said, “I'm beginning to understand that instead of good cop, bad cop, you and Bender play smart cop, stupid cop. You're the smart one, am I right?”

“You're working hard at making me your enemy,” said Marian Boyce. “That's not a good idea.”

“I guess I'll need a lawyer,” I said, thinking of Tim Hall and wondering how the hell I could pay him. Alex Rose's five grand would have come in handy just then. Of course, if Rose hadn't sought me out, I wouldn't be standing in an empty dining room with an angry state police investigator.

She said, “I can't decide if you're a wiseguy or you're really hiding something.”

I inventoried what I was hiding: Rose and the videotape; the gunsmoke I'd smelled in the turret topped the list. But I could not believe for one second that the joyous woman I had seen last night had shot her man.

“Are you sticking to some sort of inmate code not to rat?”

“We never liked the term ‘inmate.' It made us sound like psychos.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry. What did you prefer, ‘criminal'?”

“I always thought ‘prisoner' described the situation accurately.”

“So are you obeying some sort of prisoner code not to rat?”

“I learned two things as a kid: not to snitch and not to lie. Served me fine, inside, and out.”

“So you won't help?”

“I didn't
see
anything. The only ‘help' I can offer is speculation, and I've already done that. Looks to me like a hunting accident.”

One of her big hands kept slipping under her jacket, where I caught a glimpse of shiny handcuffs on her belt. She was reaching back again, when Doctor Steve barged in, saying, “I'd look for a deer slug in the grass if I were you. Probably what did him. Right in and
boom
out the other side.”

“What range?”

“Close as you'd get to a deer. Fifty, sixty yards.”

I let loose an internal sigh. If that were the case, Ron hadn't been shot from the tower. His body had fallen more like eighty yards from the tower. Whatever I had smelled up there had nothing to do with it. It was probably a hunting accident, in which case either some hunter didn't know he'd shot him, or did and was running like hell, with nightfall on his side. Now all Bender and Boyce had to do was find the slug, match it to a gun, and make a charge. Of course, whoever was running had his gun with him, and it was one in a thousand the troopers would ever find it. In fact, if he was smart—which ruled out all the Chevalley boys and most of the Jervis clan—he'd toss it in the river.

Sergeant Bender walked in, calling, “Hey, Doc. You want to give Mrs. Long a shot or something? She's getting hysterical.”

Steve Greenan didn't answer. He, like me and Marian Boyce, was staring at the shotgun Bender was carrying by a wire hanger through the trigger guard. The homicide sergeant said, “Marian. Get the kit and take a powder analysis on Mrs. Long's fingers after the doc calms her down.”

“Where'd you find that?” I asked.

“Do one on the jailbird too, just in case.”

“Where'd you find that?” Steve asked.

Bender smiled, pleased as punch. “In the gun rack in the turret. Been fired recently.”

Steve hurried out with his bag to help Mrs. Long. Trooper Moody came in, holding a flashlight in one hand and a little plastic Ziploc bag in the other. “Found a slug,” he announced.

***

I had one friend in the house, and that was Steve. Bender and Boyce got distracted when more cops arrived, and I took advantage of the interruption to buttonhole the doctor. As a medical examiner he was in charge of the crime scene, the boss until he ordered the body removed to the morgue.

“Can I see her?”

“I don't think they want you to.”

“I know that.”

Steve Greenan cracked a little smile. I knew for a fact he didn't love the state police. Now and then they got too rough and needed a medical opinion that an injured prisoner had fallen down the stairs. He'd told me once over a couple of cold ones that he dealt with that problem on a case-by-case basis: If the injured party was a violent son of a bitch Steve would blame the stairs; if he perceived brutality, he would tell them to find another doctor. Either way, he didn't appreciate being judge and jury.

“She's in a guest room. First right at the top of the kitchen stairs. I'll go have another look at the body and make some pronouncements.”

“Thanks.”

“You got something going with her?”

“No such luck.”

Steve bustled back to the living room, calling loudly for help in turning the body. I cut through the kitchen and up the back stairs. I was afraid they'd hear if I knocked, so I opened the first door on the right and shut it behind me.

The room was big for a guest bedroom, bigger than the master in most houses. Rita lay on an elaborately stitched down quilt. She was on her side, staring into the cold fireplace, curled up like a question mark. Her splendid black hair shone in the light from the night table. When I was a child my mother's hair had been almost as long and black; nights, sometimes, she'd let me help brush its hundred strokes.

I moved around the bed into Rita's vision. She looked confused, and seemed to be fighting Steve's tranquilizer. The drug had strung a veil of high cirrus clouds over her blue eyes.

“Who are you? Oh, you. Guess I won't have to sell the house now.” She was slurring.

“Can I do anything for you?” I asked.

She shook her head. Tears trickled down her cheek into the corner of her mouth. She licked them. I backed up. She said, “He was so wonderful.”

“Ron?”

“Just wonderful…
We
were wonderful.”

“I'm really sorry,” I said, adding lamely, “You poor thing.”

“Yeah, I'm a poor thing, all right. A real poor thing…Poor Jack…It's so goddamned
fucking
ironic. We tried so hard not to hurt him. Keep it from him, while we tried to figure out what to do. And now—now—he's going to know.”

I had to tell her that her husband knew already, but it would keep till morning.

“Why did they keep asking me why we took him inside?” She sat up and swung her feet to the floor. “I told them it was my idea, by the way. I said you only helped, which was true. Why did they keep asking?”

“It has to do with their investigation. We didn't follow their procedure, so they're upset. Don't worry about it.”

“Why did they test my hand?”

“They found a gun in the turret that had been fired.”

“Is that what that test was?” Her eyes flashed. “Idiots. Jack and I were shooting last week.”

“And they found a deer slug in the grass.”

“Must have been a poacher. We caught one last month. And last night there was someone in the woods.”

“Did you tell the cops?”

“They came out here. Shot a raccoon and said that was the prowler. …”

“Do the police know who he is?”

“Of course. I told them. What's to hide? It's all going to come out. There's no way Jack's going to believe Ron was here for any other reason than the very obvious.”

“You can't tough it out?”

“When you stop sleeping with your husband and one day his former partner turns up at your house while your husband's in Washington, he's going to get the picture.” She flopped back on the bed and covered her face with her hands.

“Former partner?” I echoed, surprised that Alex Rose, P.I., had neglected to mention this startling leg of their love triangle.

“Jack bought him out,” she muttered through her hands.

As I recalled, Rose had admitted to me only that the Longs knew Ron well. Putting myself in his shoes, I thought, No, I probably wouldn't have mentioned it either to anybody jerk enough to sneak videos of lovers making love.

Rita was trembling. I said, “Would you like me to call anyone for you? A friend or someone?”

“Ron was my friend. He was my best friend. I told him everything. If I had a good day in my studio I'd call him up to tell him. If I had a lousy day in my studio I'd tell him. If Jack was driving me crazy I'd tell him. If I met someone nice, I'd call him up and tell him.…I was going to tell him I'd met you.…” She removed her hands from her eyes and seemed startled to see me. “What are you doing here?” Steve's dope was really cooking now.

“Just wanted to see if you were…if I could do anything.”

“Thanks, no. Nothing.”

“Some tea? Coffee?”

“No…Tea. Yeah, tea might be a good idea. The doctor gave me this pill. My head is like oatmeal.”

“I'll make tea. Want to come with me?”

She sat up, abruptly. “I'm going to call him.” She snatched up the phone, saw me staring, and said, as she dialed, “I'll get Ron's answering machine. His voice.”

Chapter 7

Cigarette smoke hung thick downstairs. There were cops everywhere, in uniform and plainclothes, gawking at the skylit wood paneling, the furniture in the roped-off living room, and the lavish kitchen, which had clearly cost more to build than any public servant's home. Country troopers tend to be the second sons of hard-working farmers, and I could only guess what was going through the minds of any who wandered into Rita's studio and undraped her drawing of Ron naked with skull.

“Excuse me.” I shouldered between two giants with their hats on, filled a kettle, and set it to boil on the eight-burner Garland range. There were matching Sub-Zero refrigerator-freezers. The first held beer and wine. I found milk in the second, along with some Saranwrapped pizza wedges, an open champagne bottle with a spoon in the neck, and a beautifully decorated plate of shrimp circling red and white sauces. Only a few shrimp were gone, as if Rita and Ron had adjourned hastily from hors d'oeuvres to bed. At least that's how I read it.

I found the tea in an airtight cabinet, chose Constant Comment. Sugar was where it should be, and a teapot was nearby.

Trooper Boyce was watching from the mudroom door. “Know your way around pretty well, don't you?”

“I sell houses for a living.” I ran hot water into the teapot to warm the thick china. “You want some tea?”

“No.”

I had not liked the look on her partner's face when he found the gun. And just in case the slug Oliver had found in the grass matched it, I decided to polish my manners and make a friend at the cops. “Mrs. Long would like some tea. You sure you won't have some too? Why don't you come up with me?”

“Who let you see Mrs. Long?”

“I hope I didn't do anything wrong. I'm sorry if I did. But I figured you were through with us, and she seemed so upset. Is that a problem?”

Marian Boyce regarded me warily. “I'll take some tea, here. I'll leave her in your capable hands.”

“Milk and sugar?”

***

Upstairs in the guest room, Rita had dozed off. I put her cup on the night table and covered it with a paperback Patrick O'Brian novel. I sat in an easy chair and sipped and studied the room. They'd had a fire in the fireplace last night—it had to be “their” room—and candles on the mantel had burned to the stubs. There was a vase of asters, and in the bathroom a pair of empty wineglasses, rinsed to be taken down to the dishwasher in the morning. Two terry robes, hung on the door hooks, blue as Rita's eyes. And Ron's eyes. Terrific couple, I thought again. But it was funny how casual they were about “their” room. If they were as careful about not getting caught as Rita claimed, why had they left all this night-of-love evidence around? I would have thought they'd have scoured the place before Ron left.

Maybe he hadn't left. Long was away. Maybe Ron had just driven down to New York to get his mail or something and was coming back tonight. A long round trip, but do-able. Then it dawned on me: In order to get shot he had to have left the cookout ahead of Rita and come back here before driving to New York.

I heard a car door slam. I got up and looked out the window at the floodlit lawn. A Newbury volunteer ambulance was pulling down the driveway, flashers off and siren silent, doing double duty as a morgue wagon. I sat awhile longer, watching Rita sleep. Suddenly a whole slew of car doors slammed. I looked out again, this time on a scene out of Keystone Kops. State troopers were streaming from the house, running full tilt to their cars. Sirens whooped and gravel flew. Lights flashing, a caravan raced down the driveway.

Rita stirred but did not wake. I went down to the kitchen. Steve was on the telephone, hurriedly explaining to Mildred that he was going to be late and didn't know how late. He told her he loved her, and ran for the front door with his black bag. It was heavy and he was not young, so I grabbed it and ran alongside. We passed a rookie state trooper at the door, who looked put out that he'd been left behind.

“What's going on?”

“Plane crash,” said Steve, climbing into his car. “You coming? Hop in.”

I looked back at the house. Rita wasn't likely to wake up and the young trooper had it secured, so I got in. A shooting and a plane crash in a single day was more action than we'd seen since the Hawleyville Tavern burned down.

“What's the big deal—why'd the plainclothes go?”

“They found the plane at the end of Al Bell's strip.”

“So?” There were a half-dozen private airstrips in the area—quarter mile cow pastures on the high plateaus.

“So when Al drove up to see if the pilot was okay, the cockpit looked like a snowstorm.”

“Huh?”

“The troopers suspect it's not baking powder.”

“Oh.” Our isolated, privileged hunk of America is still America. You don't see crack and heroin peddled on Main Street, and addicts don't break into farmhouses, but that doesn't mean we don't have citizens who prefer illegal drugs to honest alcohol. Knowing the back country like I do, I could lead the DEA to several marijuana patches. A while back they busted an estate house outside Norfolk, which had a crack lab run by types from Boston. But by and large, even though we're not that far as the crow flies from gang-infested small cities like Waterbury, we don't get all that much dope action in Newbury. So little wonder that every state trooper at Rita Long's house was howling through the night in the direction of Al's private airstrip. Careers were in the making. Suspicious death on a rich man's estate offered promise, but the big headlines would have to wait for a juicy trial, where the lawyers would hog them. While a plane full of coke crashing into northwest Connecticut's exclusive hills guaranteed a media feeding frenzy, with sound bites and on-camera backgrounders for all.

“What a day,” said Steve, who was hunched over the wheel as he peered into an old man's night-blind gloom.

Without Trooper Moody to lead the way, it would have taken the state police all night to find Bell's airstrip. We climbed Morris Mountain on a switchback dirt road, took a number of unmarked turnoffs, then ran through a deep wood, which opened suddenly on two thousand feet of mowed pasture. Steve's headlights caught a drooping windsock. At the far end the police cars had clustered. We bounced across the grass. They'd aimed their rooflight at the plane, a little white Cessna, which had smacked its nose into a tree and bent its propeller into half a swastika. Out came the yellow tape again. A trooper hurried over and asked Steve to have a look at the pilot. I went with him, carrying his bag. Oliver Moody was guarding the entrance to the cordon. He saw me and said, “Get outta here.”

I gave Steve his bag and went back to the car.

The doctor returned shortly, looking grave. “Ben, I'm sorry.”

“What's wrong?”

“It's Renny Chevalley.”