Nailed (25 page)

Maybe ten seconds passed in silence. Ron chewed contentedly, even as he felt the two junior feebs congregate close behind him. Finally, Horgan’s burning fuse hit black powder.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Ketchum?” the senior fed demanded.

Ron speared another piece of fruit and looked up. Horgan’s face was the color of magma.

“Just thought I’d see how the other half lives,” Ron said. “You know, feed at Washington’s trough just like you feebs.”

Horgan grabbed the fork out of Ron’s hand, sending a strawberry cascading down the front of his crisp white federal shirt. Half a dozen splotchy red blemishes now marred the garment, as if it had developed a sudden and severe case of acne.

“I don’t think those stains are going to come out,” Ron said.

While Horgan struggled to connect his vitriol to his vocabulary, the chief looked over his shoulder. As he expected, two junior G-men were there, giving him their best Tommy Lee Jones hard guy stares. But they couldn’t quite bring it off. Not enough presence to be truly menacing. They were doomed to careers as bit players.

“Why don’t you gentlemen see if you can find some club soda and a sponge for your boss?” Ron suggested. “Maybe you can save the day, after all.”

The chief took a bite of croissant as the two young FBI agents looked to their boss for instructions. With a jerk of his head, Horgan exiled his junior auxiliary from the balcony. Ron got up and closed the sliding glass door behind them.

The chief went to the balcony railing and looked out at the lake. He was alone with his prey now. The only question was which way to take him.

“I’m trying to decide what to do about you, Horgan,” he said. “You don’t seem to be a man who can accept a polite warning.”

“You’re not going to do dick about me, Ketchum. I’m the one who’s going to ream you.”

Ron turned to look at the fed. The shadow of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. He was glad the fed had made the choice for him. And even given him material to work with.

The chief said, “Interesting choice of words there, Horgan. ‘Dick … Ream.’ But then you work out of San Francisco, don’t you?”

The fed’s face flushed as he shoved away from the table and got to his feet. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Come on now, Horgan. You don’t have to be coy with me. Oh, wait a minute. You do have to be coy. The military did away with ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ but I have to wonder how the bureau feels about gender orientation. Probably still a bit homophobic is my guess. By the way, Horgan, just what is it three feds in a hotel room do at night for fun?”

Ron thought his dad would be proud of him right now.

He thought he had Horgan, too. The fed had balled his fists and he looked like he was about to wade into Ron. Which was exactly what the chief wanted. He couldn’t just stomp Horgan, as much as he’d like to, because even Clay Steadman wouldn’t be able to fix that. However, if he defended himself from an attack by the fed that would be a whole different matter.

But Horgan didn’t bite. He’d never be mistaken for a leading man, either. Or maybe he just saw in Ron’s eyes that he’d pitch Horgan right off the balcony and take his chances with the consequences.

The fed unclenched his hands. A shiver ran through him like a man whose fever had just broken. Then Horgan even managed a ghastly smile.

“It’s not going to be that easy for you, Ketchum.”

“More’s the pity,” Ron said. “I guess it’s on to plan B.”

“If that means running and crying to that pri —” Horgan bit the end off the word. Ron had him self-conscious about his language now. “To your goddamn mayor, don’t bother. It won’t help.”

“No?”

“No. The bureau is rock solid into the church arson investigation. Now, even the attorney general’s behind me being here.”

“To investigate the arson threat.”

“To investigate it any way I want.”

“So I fucked myself by doing the right thing and relaying that letter to you?”

Horgan only smiled.

“Then I’m probably just asking for more trouble by going to Plan B.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, ‘Plan B?’” Horgan asked with a sneer.

“Well, Plan B is taking you and — what the hell — the whole FBI to court for slander.”

Horgan’s jaw dropped momentarily. “You must be nuts, Ketchum. You can’t do that.”

“I can and I will. Not more than an hour ago, Marcus Martin, Esquire, told me to my face that you said he should come to town and represent Jimmy Thunder because you feared I was about to violate Reverend Thunder’s civil rights.”

The FBI agent looked like he wanted to rebut Ron’s statement, but again he couldn’t find the words. His mouth moved and bubbles of saliva formed on his lips, but no coherent language emerged. He looked like he needed a distemper shot.

“What?” Ron asked. “Marcus wasn’t supposed to let that tidbit slip? Afraid he did.”

Before he could censor himself, Horgan muttered, “That nigger.”

“Naughty, naughty,” Ron said with a smile. “Anyway, what you said to Marcus is totally without foundation. It could cause me grave personal and professional damage. So, I’m going to do what any red-blooded American would do: I’m going to sue your ass. And since there’s a lot of press in town, it ought to make the national news. Who knows, between all the depositions you’ll have to give, and all the news interviews you’ll have to do defending yourself, maybe you won’t find time to fuck with my investigation anymore.”

Ron started to leave, but Horgan grabbed his arm.

The chief leaned his face in close enough to smell the FBI man’s fear. “Or if you like we could go back to Plan A right now.”

The door to the balcony slid open and the two junior feebs looked ready to jump to their boss’s aid. But Horgan dropped Ron’s arm.

“There’s also a Plan C,” Ron said. “You run your church arson angle legitimately. You don’t even think of crossing me again. And maybe, just maybe, I won’t blow up your career right in front of your eyes.”

Horgan dropped his eyes and a moment later he nodded.

Ron plucked a grape from the fruit salad and left.

Chapter 31

The chief returned to headquarters feeling only marginally better. True, he’d neutralized Horgan for the time being, had even shamed him in front of his toadies, but eventually the man would delude himself that he hadn’t turned tail, that he’d simply given himself room to maneuver. Guys like Horgan were masters at kidding themselves, and their bile had a longer shelf life than nuclear waste.

So, the trick was to solve the Isaac Cardwell case while Horgan was still licking his wounds.

The file he’d found on his desk upon his return contained the lab results on the blood found outside St. Mark’s church. The blood was Cardwell’s. Along with finding Isaac’s glasses outside the church, it confirmed the fact that St. Mark’s was almost certainly where Isaac Cardwell was first attacked. The physical evidence made it imperative for Ron to find the “white” man who had been seen at the back of the church by Pastor Brantley.

Ron had to get his hands on Didi DuPree.

He buzzed Dinah, his secretary, and asked her to have Sergeant Stanley sent in immediately. The sarge kept him waiting less than a minute

“I was just on my way to see you, Chief.”

“Okay, but let’s take care of what I have first.”

The sergeant nodded deferentially and Ron told him he wanted to make finding Didi DuPree a priority. Every patrol officer should be given a picture of the man and be instructed to be on a constant lookout for him. The sergeant was to emphasize that DuPree should be considered armed and dangerous. All appropriate precautions should be taken. Additionally, the officers stationed outside of Jimmy Thunder’s estate were to be rotated every four hours. Backup for those officers was to be close at hand at all times.

Ron nodded to Sergeant Stanley. “Your turn.”

“Chief, I heard through a friend in the media that you’re going to be on the TV news sometime soon.”

“Yeah?”

“Jimmy Thunder’s doing a heart to heart with Ben Dexter about how you suspect him of his son’s murder. About how he’s being persecuted in his time of mourning. About how you … well, you know what they’re going to say about you.”

“I can imagine,” Ron replied dryly.

“I just thought you ought to know in advance. Maybe you want to have a response prepared for Annie Stratton to release.”

Ron considered. “Yeah. Have Annie tell anyone who asks that this department will follow its investigation wherever it may lead and will not be deflected by any outside pressure.”

The sergeant gave a tight grin of approval.

“You got anything else for me, Sarge?”

“A couple things. Foot patrols report that those safety tips about the lion that we posted on the Internet are already being talked about. We’ve had people stop officers and ask if they should keep their guns loaded.”

It was just as Ron had thought, the warning only made people more frightened.

“Load their guns, huh? Our response to such questions is that everyone has the same rights and responsibilities they’ve always had. But, at a time like this, when people are nervous, it’s more important than ever to remember gun safety rules. We don’t want little kids picking up loaded weapons. We don’t want people drilling their neighbors or even their neighbors’ pets. We will not cut anyone any slack for the illegal discharge of a weapon.”

Sergeant Stanley nodded.

“What else you got, Sarge?”

“Just one thing. A citizen wants to see you personally. About the Cardwell case.”

Sergeant Stanley opened Ron’s door and gestured to someone waiting outside. A big young guy in his early twenties stepped into the chief’s office. He had long dishwater blonde hair that was held back in a ponytail. He wore a work shirt that said Chevron over one pocket and Buster over the other. He had on blue jeans and black work boots.

Buster looked distinctly nervous. His eyes darted about Ron’s office.

“Buster Lurie, Chief,” the sarge said by way of introduction. “He works at the Chevron station at Lake Shore and Route 99.”

Sergeant Stanley withdrew and closed the door behind him.

“Have a seat, Mr. Lurie,” Ron said, gesturing his visitor into a guest chair. “What can I do for you?”

“Just listen to what I have to say, I guess. I’ve got a tip about that black guy that got killed. But every time I try calling the reward number the goddamn line is always busy. So, I figured I finally better come in and see you.”

Buster Lurie looked over his shoulder as if he expected someone to bust in on them. Possibly with guns blazing.

“Something got you spooked, Mr. Lurie?” Ron asked.

“It’s what I saw. What I have to tell you.”

“In that case, why don’t you just tell me? Then you won’t have to worry about it anymore.”

“This’ll still count toward me getting the reward, won’t it?” Lurie asked with concern. “I mean, you don’t have to phone it in, do you? ‘Cause I must’ve tried fifty times.”

“If your information is helpful, I’m sure the mayor won’t mind that you brought it in directly.”

“Good, “ Lurie said. He rubbed his hands together nervously. “But you’ll still keep it quiet that I was the one who told you?”

“During the investigation, yes. If your tip leads to an arrest and a trial, you might have to testify in court as to what you’re about to tell me.” Ron saw the trepidation in the young man’s eyes. “The reward is for the arrest
and
conviction of Isaac Cardwell’s killer,” the chief explained.

“Okay, okay.” Now Lurie rubbed his palms against his thighs. “Then here’s how it went. I work at my uncle’s service station, and that tight SOB won’t ever let me work on my own car during business hours, which are from six a.m. to midnight! That means if I want to put my car up on a lift I got to work on it when nobody’s awake but me ‘n’ the goddamn owls.”

Ron thought he was going to have to prompt this guy if he didn’t get to the point soon.

“Anyway, about half past three on the morning you found that Cardwell guy stuck to that tree, I was working on my car at the station. I was minding my own business, had my Mustang up on the lift, draining the oil out of my crankcase when I hear this goddamn big screech of tires behind me. It was so loud it lifted me off of my feet and spun me around. I was lucky I didn’t brain myself on the bottom of my car. That or piss my pants. And when I looked outside, you know what I saw?”

“What, Mr. Lurie?” Ron asked with rapidly thinning patience.

“There’s this beautiful black Lamborghini. It’s stopped smack in the middle of the intersection. Like the driver saw the stop sign only way too late.”

“And the driver was?”

“Jimmy Thunder.”

With those two words, Buster Lurie richly rewarded Ron’s forbearance.

“You recognized the driver of the car that night as the Reverend Jimmy Thunder?”

“That’s what I just said. It wasn’t raining right then, and I recognized him from TV. And I saw the plate on the Lambo, too. It was: T-H-U-N-D-E-R. I could even see the look on the guy’s face: it was like something awful had just happened. Then the Lambo screeched again, and was gone quick as a wink.”

“And you’re sure of the time you saw Jimmy Thunder?”

“There’s a clock on the wall in the service area. Right after the Lambo split, I looked at it to see how much time I had left to work on my car and catch a little sleep before I opened the station at six.”

So Jimmy Thunder had lied to him about being home all night, Ron thought. He was out near the scene of the crime very close to Isaac Cardwell’s time of death, as estimated by Dr. Ryman. If that sonofabitch Marcus Martin hadn’t come to town, Ron could have yanked Thunder in and grilled him. As it was, he wondered if he had enough to get a search warrant to go over Thunder’s estate with a fine-tooth comb in hopes of finding the murder weapon.

“So, what do you think?” Buster Lurie asked, interrupting the chief’s reverie. “Is this good stuff or what? Because I sure could use that reward. Open my own station and work on my car whenever I goddamn well please.”

The chief replied, “It’s useful information, Mr. Lurie. No question about that. Whether it leads to anything, we’ll have to wait and see. But tell me something. You look scared about something. Maybe about talking with me. Why is that?”

“Are you kidding? A guy who owns a Lambo and lives in a mansion on the lake, he’s got plenty to lose. I know what can happen to someone who squeals on a guy with money.”

Ron would bet Lurie’s sense of peril was inspired by a lifetime of TV viewing … but with Didi DuPree wandering around unaccounted for, and his role in Jimmy Thunder’s life not entirely defined, the young man’s instincts might not be far wrong.

“You may have a point,” the chief responded. “So we’d both do well to keep our little talk confidential.”

“Bet your ass,” Buster Lurie said. Then he added, “No offense.”

“None taken. Tell me, Mr. Lurie, when you saw Reverend Thunder, do you think he might have noticed you?”

Buster gave it all of two seconds thought before he shook his head.

“Tell you the truth, the way he looked to me, I think the station could’ve been on fire, with the gas tanks exploding, and he wouldn’t have noticed.”

After Buster Lurie had left, Ron had Dinah bring him the Goldstrike Hotel and Motel Directory. Leafing through it, he counted forty-two different entries. Lodgings in town ranged from five star to fifty-five dollars per night with a free breakfast. Then there were the campgrounds where you could park your own motorized bed-and-breakfast.

But Ron didn’t see Didi DuPree as the RV type.

He also didn’t see any mid level hotel that cried out as the sure bet for the former houseguest and jailbird friend of Jimmy Thunder. After staying at a posh lakeside estate, it was reasonable to assume DuPree would want to maintain a certain level of creature comfort, so Ron would start looking at the upscale places first. But he didn’t know the state of DuPree’s finances, so he’d have to work his way down the amenities scale if his hunch didn’t pay off.

This wasn’t going to be nearly as easy as pegging the feds to stay at the Hilton. But then legwork was the basic exercise of any police investigation. Ron considered sharing his burden with Oliver, but decided against it. The deputy chief was still hot on his Colin Ring angle, and Ron didn’t want to pull him away from that. Who knew? He could be right.

The chief got up from his desk and told himself it would just be a long day behind the wheel, that’s all. He informed Sergeant Stanley what he’d be doing, and told the sarge to call him if anything important came up.

Ron considered having the sarge ride along with him for backup, but the man was indispensable at headquarters. What the hell, he thought, he’d dealt with plenty of bad guys in L.A. and he wasn’t too proud to call for help.

The only thing that really bothered Ron was the idea that he might log a lot of hours and come up empty. Didi DuPree easily could have lived up to his name and blown town.

Then the chief would have to swallow a ton of pride and ask that shit Horgan for help in finding DuPree.