Move to Strike (16 page)

“I am, Nina.” He felt a stab of guilt and looked at the cast.

“Beth Sykes offered to give you and Wish the run of her house tomorrow, and her neighbor Louise Garibaldi is willing to be interviewed, but she says it has to be tomorrow or we have to wait another week. I can’t really prepare for the prelim if my investigator hasn’t seen the main witness against Nikki and the place where the murder occurred. I spoke with the mother of a girl who died after a procedure Sykes did. Linda Littlebear. Remember her?”

He remembered Sandy’s wedding very well, remembered Nina focused entirely on another man, wanting to marry him. “Yes.”

“She blames him for her daughter’s death. She attacked him once at Prize’s. She also told me about a man who was arguing with Dr. Sykes at the casino that night. A man who might be a foreigner, who looked like a logger. And there was a bag on the table in front of them. Who was he? What was that all about? What was in the bag? Sykes was a doctor. Was he doing some illegal traffic in drugs? Could the man have been Dave LeBlanc? Is that the connection?

“And I had a conversation with Daria Zack last night. Turns out she recently sold the victim a piece of land she inherited from her grandfather some time back. Nikki was angry when she found out. She felt ripped off.”

“That’s interesting. She ever tell you what she took?”

“I tackled her about it again last night on the phone. I used her mother, used the threat of prison, used everything. She won’t talk.” Tension and anger flowed through her words.

“You’ll get what you want out of her eventually, Nina. Somehow, you always do. Now, where is this land? At Tahoe?”

“No. It’s in a place called Clay Hills, north of Winnemucca. It’s an old silver claim. Totally mined out. That’s been checked from here to eternity, according to Daria. She said everybody knew it, even her Grandpa Logan, who was a real silver prospector and knew all about that kind of thing.”

“Sykes bought worthless land,” Paul said, drawn in in spite of the hazards of the moment. “Maybe he wasn’t as bad as we’re making out.”

“According to some, he could be a real stinker. Sandy set up some appointments for you over the next couple of days with other associates, too. I want you to meet his partner, Dylan Brett, get a read on the man. See what you can dig up. Can you come?”

“Sure. I’ll drive up first thing in the morning. Have Sandy tell Wish to pick me up at Caesars tomorrow about 11 A.M.” He felt her surprise at his easy agreement, but an instant later, she had recovered and was pressing him further.

“Maybe I can fly you up out of San Jose,” she suggested. “They’ve got direct flights running to Tahoe again.”

“I’ll drive,” he said firmly, putting the phone back in its cradle. Nina, Nina, everywhere, even here, in another woman’s bed.

“You’re leaving again?” asked Susan, stretching. “You just got here.”

“Be here now,” he said, putting his hand back where it belonged. “Remember that old saying? Remember Baba Ram Dass? Remember when bliss was attainable by chanting and shaking rattles at airports?”

“No,” she murmured. “But it doesn’t matter.” She started fooling around, too, and pretty soon they were traveling once more toward those distant realms.

CHAPTER 12

BETH SYKES, NOW the sole owner of the house on the private court off Bayview Way, had left a key for them under a slat by the front door. She had gone to Carson City for the day.

Parking to one side of the narrow lane, Paul and Wish got out and tried to get a feel for the property. A lodge-style home, it reminded Paul of Yosemite’s Ahwahnee, true to its rough mountain setting on the outside but luxurious on the inside. Running down a gently sloping hillside toward the lake, the two-story house appeared to be only a single story from the road. Afternoon sun poured down on them from between the branches of neat blue spruces. The birds had returned from their winter getaways and were taking full advantage of the beautiful day, staking out territories, making a mad racket in the surrounding pine trees.

“Only two houses with any kind of visual access,” Wish said, returning after a few minutes of wandering around. “One of ’em was empty that night. The other belongs to Louise Garibaldi.” In deference to the early summer day he was wearing baggy shorts with his hiking boots. Sandy’s son was a gangly young man, even taller than Paul. Wish was taking courses in criminology at the community college and wanted to get involved in law enforcement.

Paul got out of the van. By pushing through an unlocked gate and maneuvering just a short way down a path to the left of the house, he could get a decent view of the backyard and into the study where Sykes’s dead body was found.

The study was the lowest point of the house. A large desk faced double doors that opened to a short stairway, and then a deck and pool. On the wall to the right of the desk there were two large bookshelves. Several feet behind the desk, an easy chair and lamp stood in a corner.

“The hardest thing for me to believe,” Wish said thoughtfully, “is that she’d kill him with a sword.”

“You mean, assuming Nikki did it.”

“And assuming she was probably fighting him.”

“The sword was a weapon, right in plain view, easy to reach,” Paul said.

“It just seems like there must have been something easier to use to fend him off, if he was coming after her. A heavy bookend. A vase. A lamp, even.”

“The report doesn’t mention anything else broken or turned over in the room,” said Paul. “Looks like whoever killed him caught him off guard.”

They studied the room from the outside, as Nikki Zack presumably had.

They got a better overall view from beyond the pool. The upstairs curtains were drawn and in the stillness of the day the house had a hush around it, as if waiting for something.

Back to the front. While Wish unlocked the door, Paul admired the intricate workmanship of the carved oak door and porch supports. Money bought those details, and taste kept them subtle. The living room had the look of early Ralph Lauren, with plaid throws, plush couches, and real oils on the wall.

In the biggest painting, above the rounded river rock of the fireplace, men dappled by a pale sun stood face to face dueling violently, fencing swords tangled and glinting. The artist captured the mood so realistically, the cold morning light, the fierce faces of the duelists, Paul could almost hear the clanging of the swords. Over to the sides of the picture, shadowed by trees, their seconds waited. One raised a hand to his cheek and watched, riveted. The other bowed his head. A woman with long red hair cried behind a bush.

The painting belonged in a museum, not someone’s home, Paul decided. It was lurid and savage. He wondered about a man who retired to his living room with a drink to study a picture like that. One of those men up there hanging above the good doc’s fireplace would be dead soon after a bloody fight. That pretty dawn was doomed to be shattered. The woman would cry harder . . .

The doc’s hobby had gone beyond collecting artifacts. He had collected precision cutting tools and their images, the blood and sharp silver tips of the weapons an integral part of the effect. Surgery in its most primitive form permeated his psyche. What kind of a husband had he been? What kind of a father?

While Paul pondered, Wish used Paul’s camera to take photos for Nina, asking for advice on exposure settings here and there, but on the whole taking charge of that chore.

They saved the study for last. Somebody had cleaned up the blood and the place looked normal. “There are some decorative things in the shelves between all the medical books. A metal statue, looks heavy. A couple of Oriental vases, probably some dynasty,” said Paul. “Get that shot.”

“Yeah, why not pick up ‘The Thinker,’ and smash him with that when he came after her? That looks easy to grab. Or even one of those heavy books,” Wish suggested, bent at the waist, focusing on the statue.

“If she was on the other side of the room, over by the chair, maybe she just couldn’t reach the shelves.” Paul closed his eyes, imagining the crime, the man angry, the girl frightened out of her wits at being discovered. She came in through the double doors, surprised him in . . . the chair reading, maybe? Maybe, slumped down, he couldn’t be seen behind the big desk. It was possible, Paul thought.

“Has Nina got a lead on what Nicole wanted from him?” Wish said.

“No. The girl’s not talking,” said Paul. A faded spot on the wall marked where the murder weapon had been, and Wish shot the empty place. “If he’d put the sword in a locked case . . .”

“But it was so old,” Wish interrupted. “Four hundred years old, Nina said.”

“You don’t see that kind of workmanship anymore. Speaking of which, you still want the van?”

Wish turned around. “Well, sure.”

“It’s not working too well. I think it may need a ring job.”

“I have a cousin in Markleeville who’s a mechanic. No problem.”

“I’ll sell it to you for five hundred.”

Wish’s face expressed a struggle. “I could give you payments,” he said. “Can’t write you a check.”

“How about twenty-five dollars a month?”

“I can do that!”

“She’s yours. As soon as I find some new wheels.”

They shook hands and went back to the van so Wish could check it out.

After a half hour of looking under the hood and turning the motor over and talking about rods and rings and pistons, they went back to work. Paul sent Wish off to canvass the street and see if anyone else had been out walking a dog or stargazing that night. He took his time negotiating the path over to Louise Garibaldi’s cottage.

The prosecution’s star witness lived in the house opposite the Sykes house on the cheap side of the street. The lakefront probably commanded an additional five hundred thousand, Paul figured, and even a place this close to the lake didn’t necessarily have easy access to a beach. Must be frustrating. Still, the house was on a forested rise opposite the Sykes property and slightly offset, so that the front porch overlooked portions of the Sykes side and backyards. It hadn’t been painted in a millennium, but the garden which took up the whole front yard with its deer-proof fencing all around had been loved to the point of tumultuous excess. Plants and vines on trellises ran amok competing for light and space.

Louise opened the door herself. She held a stout stick almost six feet long, a staff really. “Hi there, Mr. van Wagoner,” she said. “The lawyer’s office called to say you were coming just a short while ago.” She had short white hair, a leathery, handsome face, intelligent eyes, and a sparkling smile. A pair of plaid shorts hung around her knees above the dirt-encrusted Van’s tennis shoes, and she wore a T-shirt sporting the New Hampshire state motto, “Live free or die.” Beside her, a German shepherd stood erect and as intelligent-looking, ears pricked and tail at attention. “This is Arthur. Arthur, say hello to the man.”

Arthur held up his right paw and Paul bent down with some difficulty and shook it.

Paul showed his identification. “You saw us having a look at the Sykes house?”

Louise chuckled. “Big guy on crutches with a tall skinny Indian boy and a Dodge Ram van drive slowly around the block. Gotta be a simpleton not to take note.”

“You spend a lot of time out here on your front porch?” One lonely Adirondack-style chair faced the driveway of the Sykes house.

“Used to. His house kinda sorta blocks my view, if you want to know the truth,” said Louise. “They tore down a hundred-year-old shack to build that. But it was a shack. Nobody wanted to buy it.”

“Made you mad?”

“Who doesn’t want a view of the lake?” said Louise.

Without being too overt, Paul studied her.

“I usually go for my hike this time of day,” she said, brandishing the walking stick. “I’d ask you to join me, but looks like you better not.” Stringy, muscular legs attested to her excellent physical condition. Between the walking stick and Arthur, Louise had her security system worked out. Paul wondered if she really had been going for a hike, or if she had brought the stick to the door to let him know that.

“I’ll take a rain check on the hike,” Paul said. “This won’t take long. I just want to ask you a few more questions about the night Dr. Sykes died.”

“Come in, then,” said Louise. She opened the door wide to allow Paul to pass, pulling it firmly shut behind him. They stood in a small foyer with dried plants hanging upside down from the ceiling, Paul leaning on his crutches, Louise, leaning on her stick.

“You a florist?”

“An herbalist. Naturopath. From way back.” She fingered some drying flowers, lavender colored. “I’ve written several books on the subject.”

“Ah,” said Paul. “Got anything to mend a broken leg?”

Louise looked thoughtful.

“How about a broken heart?” Paul asked.

“You’re a charmer, aren’t you? Not the broken-heart type.”

“Even charmers get charmed sometimes.”

“But the leg—hurts bad, eh? Follow me.” She set her stick against the wall, opened a door and started down a short flight of stairs, the dog at her heels. “Hold onto the railing,” she said. “It’s pretty steep but the steps are wide. You should be able to make it.”

“Wait,” Paul said. “No . . .” but Louise had disappeared, and Paul had no choice but to follow.

Fifteen minutes later, or what felt like fifteen minutes later, Paul, who eventually resorted to scooting downstairs on his bottom, found himself in a basement room with high windows and hundreds of gleaming colored bottles stopped with corks. Some sat on windowsills, reflecting sunlight, some hid in dark nooks of shelving below. He could see a large spiderweb in the corner.

All she needed was a cauldron and a pointy hat.

“My lab,” Louise said. She took out a bottle, examined it, shook it, and returned it to the shelf. “I’ve got a number of things I could suggest to you that will aid in the healing process.”

What in hell did that mean, Paul wondered, feeling a pain shoot up from his injured knee. “Great,” he said, sitting down on the bottom step and letting out a tiny groan.

“Hmm. Here’s something for you.
Ulmus rubra
, otherwise known as slippery elm, an excellent dietary supplement for someone who’s convalescing. It’s a powder. Add it to your hot oatmeal in the morning.” She handed Paul a small blue bottle. “You keep that. And here’s purple sage. I’m sure you’ve heard of that, but maybe you don’t know it’s an all-purpose antioxidant that will keep the body pumping out those poisons. Also is associated with longevity. An old poem says, ‘He who drinks sage in May, shall live for aye.’ We all want that, don’t we? I’ve dried and condensed it and put it into tea bags for easy ingestion.” She set down an orange bottle with squiggly green things suspended in an oily liquid. “And this,” she said, “is what you need the most.” He took the bottle of red liquid. “If you do nothing else, take this one daily.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t ask. Just take a big spoon of it morning, noon, and night. It’ll help you with your temper. You’ve got a bad one, don’t you?”

Surprised, Paul said, “No worse than many.”

“Oh, I can tell from your eyes. All that white eyeball showing under the iris. A yang imbalance.” And she turned her own green eyes on him with a look that seemed to penetrate his skin and move on inside. “You know, we’re not far removed from the animals and plants. We have lots of trained behaviors that help us get along, but the mind is really an assemblage of agents that have evolved with specific functions, such as, to feel alarmed by the sight of a predator, or to be able to recognize faces, for example. There are things that motivate us that you wouldn’t believe, things we pretend don’t exist. You’re aggressive, yeah, but the bummer is that you mistrust your own instincts.” At that, she gave a hearty laugh. “My advice is to eat more vegetables and less meat. Get back in balance. You’ll calm down in due course.”

“Can we talk about Dr. Sykes?” Paul said, wishing he could take a hit of the red stuff right away, although he should debate her analysis of him.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Have a big drink right out of the bottle. It’s clean.”

He smiled. “You’ve tried it?”

“My, my. You’re a suspicious one,” she said, laughing. She poured a big serving into a glass and swallowed it down. “Oh, I feel like I’m walking through a field of golden flowers on a lovely spring afternoon,” she joked. “Go ahead. Take a hit.”

“Thanks,” Paul said, taking the rest from her. “Thanks very much.” He drank. “Ah.” The syrupy liquid tasted like cherries and sugar, with richer depths hinting at chocolate. Warmth rolled over his tongue, spread down his throat, and dribbled into his chest.

“All right,” Louise said, still smiling. “Let’s talk.”

Her consistently beatific mood communicated itself to him, making him feel more cheerful than he had in days. “Did you know Sykes well?” he said.

“Well enough to know that there was more than meets the eye.” She leaned forward, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “He got younger every year.”

“You knew he’d had cosmetic surgery?”

“He liked Tony Bennett and Andy what’s his name. You know, Mr. ‘Moon River.’ He played Elvis records until I felt like marching over there and giving him what-for. Guess he emotionally arrested in the fifties. Your age has nothing to do with how you look. That’s where plastic surgery fails. It only changes the outside. He wasn’t really a good person, you know. He clung to that wife of his, but it was a sick kind of clinging. The changeable kind that’s love one minute and hate the next. I think she had a hard time with him. You can never completely trust a man like that.”