Nailed (33 page)

“Is he going to try to claim credit for the arrest?”

“Can’t. Clay already talked to the media mob. Told it straight. A tip was called in; an arrest was made. The credit goes to Shirlee Fansler for doing the right thing instead of protecting her mutant offspring.”

“Too bad we don’t have somebody’s mama who knows what happened with Isaac Cardwell,” Oliver said.

“Yeah, that is a shame. But we did get some news on that front.” Ron told Oliver about the call from Charmaine Cardwell. And what Mahalia told him about her grandson visiting the Berkeley library.

The deputy chief picked right up on the salient point. “If Isaac knew somebody represented a threat to his father, and that person found out Isaac knew —”

“Isaac gets nailed to a tree,” Ron finished. “I talked to the librarian down in Berkeley. She remembers Isaac coming in, said he was reading in the magazine stacks for the most part. But he didn’t borrow any materials.”

“I don’t supposed, just this once, he had a moment of weakness and left the magazines he was reading out for somebody else to put back on the shelf. Somebody who might remember what they were.”

Ron shook his head. “No. He stayed right in his saintly character and tidied up after himself. But I did ask the librarian to cull any mention of Jimmy Thunder or Jimmy Leverette that appears in their collection, copy it and fax it to us. She said we should have the material sometime tomorrow or possibly the next day.”

“Better than nothing,” Oliver opined.

“The mayor left something for you,” Ron said, handing Oliver a manila folder. “He left it with me when he saw you weren’t back. I took the liberty of reading it.”

Which is just what Oliver quickly did.

“Colin Ring was an SAS commando.”

“Elite soldiers,” Ron said. “Like our Special Forces people.”

Oliver continued reading. “He was separated from the service less than honorably after the
accidental
training death of a recruit under his command.”

“Clay said even his people couldn’t get the details on that, but the fact that whatever happened has been hushed up tells you something, doesn’t it?”

Oliver replied, “Tells us Ring screwed up, maybe got a little too reckless or brutal. Some poor kid dies, the brass cover their asses. But Ring, he gets booted out of his pretty uniform. That gives him a permanent hard-on against the establishment, and he decides to become a character assassin.”

Ron nodded “And, as you pointed out, maybe a real killer, too. Clay said that his publishing contact told him Ring has to be desperate for his book on Jimmy Thunder to succeed. He’s been down so long that if this one doesn’t go big time, he’s finished. I think we should have another chat with our British friend real soon.”

That point raised a question in Oliver’s mind. “You ever find Didi DuPree?”

“No. The man is not staying in any public lodging in this town. Maybe he rented some private digs, so tomorrow I’m going to have Sergeant Stanley start calling real estate offices. But, on the chance he’s left town, I had to ask the feds to look for him, too.”

“Outside of town, you mean.”

Ron nodded again.

“So, are we going to look for Ring now?” Oliver wanted to know.

“Not immediately. The mayor’s called a town meeting for tonight. My presence is required.”

“Me, too?”

“No, but Lauren would like to see you. She called this afternoon. There was a little fracas with Danny at the Sunshine Ward today.”

Oliver’s heart turned to ice at the idea that
anything
bad had happened involving his son. “Nothing serious?”

“No bleeding. Some bruised feelings and a lesson or two that needed to be learned, that’s what it sounded like to me.”

“I’m going home then.”

“Okay,” the chief agreed, “but be sure to tune in the town meeting.”

Chapter 44

Clay Steadman stood at the lectern on the stage of the Civic Auditorium that evening sipping from his customary glass of water. He looked calm as he waited for everyone to enter the room and settle down. The audience that was filling the seats and had been lined up since that morning to hear the mayor speak, and to tell him what was on their minds, was considerably more agitated. The mayor’s staff people on the auditorium floor tested the microphones that would be used to take questions from the audience.

On the stage, seated behind the mayor, were Ron Ketchum, Corrie Knox, Annie Stratton, Bob Heath, the district attorney and Francis Horgan of the FBI. Off to one side, were a pair of technicians, one to handle phone calls, the other for Internet questions.

The working press had been limited to ten front row seats in the section to the mayor’s left. They’d been told that they would have a chance to ask questions like anyone else — but they would also be subject to questioning if any of the citizens of Goldstrike so desired.

In due course, the last seat was filled. Ron looked around to make sure the ten cops he’d assigned to the meeting were in place. Annie cued the pool TV camera. The town meeting began.

“Good evening,” the mayor began. “My thanks to all of you here for waiting so patiently to attend this town meeting. A number of serious issues bring us together tonight. I’ll bring them up point by point, and then we’ll discuss them. Anyone among you here, or those watching at home, may question any one of us. The person who has the floor at any given time will be heard out. Any attempts to heckle or shout down a speaker will meet with forcible ejection, courtesy of the police officers you see at various points around the room.

“Anyone who objects to another speaker’s point of view with a punch, kick, or other hostile physical response will be arrested and prosecuted. I trust, however, that this will not be necessary.”

The look Clay directed at all corners of the audience said it had damn well better not be. He then introduced the others who shared the stage with him. Just as he finished, the phone rang.

The mayor gave the phone tech a mild glare and the ringing stopped abruptly.

The audience reacted with laughter.

“Please give me a chance to speak first,” Clay said dryly. “Everyone will get a turn. We’ll be here as long as it takes.”

The mayor looked down, took a sip of water, and began to talk to his town.

“There are three very serious subjects that need to be addressed here tonight. The death of Reverend Isaac Cardwell, the recurrent attacks by a mountain lion, and the response of our community to the first two situations.”

Clay paused to look closely at his audience, taking long enough that it almost seemed as if he was weighing the character of every person seated in front of him.

“When I first saw Isaac Cardwell nailed to a tree, I was appalled. I was sickened that such a thing could still happen in our country. I almost refused to believe my eyes that a murder so heinous could happen in Goldstrike.

“Despite my revulsion, I took comfort in certain facts. I knew then, and know now, that we have a chief of police, a deputy chief, and a police department staffed with men and women who have the ability and experience to make sure this outrage is brought to a just resolution. Beyond that, I was certain that the people of our town are far too decent to let a killer find shelter among them. It is on this second point, however, that I’ve experienced a measure of disappointment, and to some extent have had my eyes opened.

“As the investigation into the killing of Isaac Cardwell began, Chief of Police Ronald Ketchum was given a stack of hate mail received by the Reverend Jimmy Thunder, Isaac Cardwell’s father. More than a dozen pieces of this filth-spewing mail were postmarked locally. Needless to say, none of the cowards who sent this garbage backed up his twisted convictions with a return address.

“I never would have thought such lowlife scum could be found in our beautiful town. I also never thought of myself as naive, but in this case I was very badly mistaken. Perhaps a lot of you are, too, if you think Goldstrike doesn’t have the same problems as every other town in this country. Take a look around you now. See if you can tell which of your neighbors is a hater.”

Clay let them have the time to follow his suggestion. Some did, some didn’t.

“There used to be a saying during the Vietnam War years: America, love it or leave it. This was the admonition offered by the proponents of a certain political point of view to those who didn’t agree with them. I always thought the Love It or Leave It people didn’t
get
it. Our country was founded as a democracy, a form of government that is a
contest
of opposing views. It is only by pitting ideas, policies and programs against one another that we can find out which work and which don’t. But some people think that their way is the only way. There’s a name for that kind of thinking: totalitarianism.

“The malignancy espoused by the writers of the mail I saw goes even farther. It condemns people not for the views that they hold as adults, but for the very color of the skin with which they are born. We all know the name for that kind of thinking.”

Clay paused for a sip of water and moment of reflection.

“As long as I am the mayor of Goldstrike, this will be a very uncomfortable place for racists. At the next meeting of the town council, I will propose a series of educational forums for residents of all ages. These forums will look at issues of race as frankly as possible. They will look at where we’ve been, where we are and discuss where we ought to go. But more than that, we’ll look at why so many of us, of all colors and backgrounds, feel the need to look down on
somebody.

“That’s the first part of my plan — the love-it part, if you will. Unlike the simple-minded, bumper sticker thinkers of the past, however, we will not have a leave-it clause to our plan. Rather, we will issue a defend-it challenge to bigots of all stripes and hues.

“If you think a white skin or a black, brown, red or yellow one, makes you better than everybody else, well, step right up to the microphone. We’ll give you a public opportunity to tell us why. But be prepared to defend whatever you have to say. Because we’ll also muster the best minds on the opposite side of the argument to debate every point you make. Which shouldn’t really worry anyone who knows he’s cut from better cloth. So if you’re not just some weasel whose idea of courage is a sneak attack, this is your big chance: Tell us why you’re right and everybody else is wrong. Interested parties may call my office and I’ll pay the toll charges, if necessary.”

Clay stared directly at the audience — and into the camera — for a long moment to leave no doubt this offer was just what he described it to be: a challenge. Then he shuffled his notes and moved along.

“The next matter before us tonight is the series of attacks by a mountain lion. In and of themselves, these attacks are frightening. Two runners have been mauled and a small child was placed in jeopardy in the confines of his own backyard. Fortunately, nobody has been killed.

“Actually, there’s a bit of good news to report. Just before I took the stage tonight, I spoke with Terry Castlewood’s doctors. They report his surgery went very well, and the swelling around his spine is going down at a remarkable rate. They’re much more hopeful than they were just this morning that there will be no permanent physical impairment.”

Applause and cheers issued from the audience.

“We’re doing everything we can to track and kill this mountain lion. Warden Cordelia Knox and Deputy Chief of Police Oliver Gosden were out hunting it today, unfortunately without success. I’ve made a personal request to the governor to have more game wardens sent here to help us as soon as possible. He explained to me that state personnel are stretched thin, and that all available game wardens are meeting the needs of other communities, but he assures me that we will have additional help within forty-eight hours. I’ve also been in touch with a houndsman — a professional tracker — from Louisiana. As soon as his credentials can be verified, the town will offer him a contract. If all goes well, we can expect him to be here in two days also.”

This, too, brought applause.

“It is my responsibility to do everything I can to safeguard the well-being of the people of this town. That is why I must tell you now: There is no such thing as a curse on this town. If anything, Goldstrike has received more than its fair share of blessings. But recently an elderly woman who was wounded to the depths of her soul spoke out in anger. Her words were publicized, and in light of the coincidence — the
coincidence
— of the attacks by the mountain lion, this so-called curse has been given credence by too many people who should know better. If you think our town is cursed, be ashamed of yourself.

“And if you think an elderly woman’s anger gives you license to hate black people, to strike out at them, you should not only be ashamed, you also had better find yourself a damn good lawyer. Because we are going to come after you, we are going to find you and we are going to lock you up.”

Clay’s anger was plainly visible now. A tic started at the corner of his left eye. He took a deep breath and another drink of water before continuing.

“This is exactly what we did to a … a man who made the grievous mistake of firebombing the What the Hell restaurant on Pinnacle Drive. Carolyn Mason, the owner’s daughter, was inside at the time. She tried her best to save the place where her father earned his livelihood. As a result, she was burned over fifty percent of her body. I spoke to Carolyn’s doctors, too, before I came out here tonight. They’re watching her closely for infection, but they expect that she will live. Her recovery, however, is expected to be prolonged and painful. I hope all of you will join me in sending out your prayers to Carolyn, Sherm, and Geneva Mason. Our town will be far the poorer should they decide to leave us.

“Someone who
will
be leaving us tomorrow morning is Reggie Fansler. He’s the man who threw the firebomb … the man who said he was getting even for Terry Castlewood. Terry’s parents have told me that one of their son’s two greatest athletic heroes is Kellen Winslow — a black man. They also said that Terry liked nothing better after winning a football game than going out to celebrate at What the Hell. Reginald Fansler didn’t act on Terry Castlewood’s behalf. He acted out of the sickness of his own tortured soul.

“And if I make only one point tonight for any of you to remember, let it be this: Heaven help anyone else who raises his hand against
any
of his neighbors in this town.”

Clay gave everyone several beats to absorb his warning. Then he nodded his head to Annie Stratton who rose and stepped forward.

“The floor is now open for questions and comments,” she said.

The town meeting commanded TV ratings in Goldstrike that would have levitated network executives to Nirvana, or its multi-million dollar stock option equivalent. But as always there remained an uninterested minority who wouldn’t have tuned in to the Second Coming. First among them was Colin Ring.

He had a pint of beer in his fist at a bar called the New York Shock Exchange, and he couldn’t believe that wizened old cowboy-and-cop actor who ran the town was on every one of the twelve bleeding tellies in the bar. The man blathered on endlessly in some noxious amalgam of a brimstone sermon and a schoolboy civics lessons.

Ring would have rather watched anything else. Bloody
baseball
even.

He looked around and was disgusted by how everyone else present was riveted to every word. Could all these wankers be so star-struck? Or, worse, were they really interested? If it were the latter, he’d have to reconsider his plans to take up residence.

The only interest Colin Ring had in Clay Steadman was if somebody handed him some dirt on the old sod. Now
that
would make a corking good book. But not one that would come easily. He’d already tried everything he could think of to find any gossip about the mayor and come up empty.

He was just about to drain his pint and toddle over to the Mermaid’s Slipper when the woman came in. Blonde. Either a natural or someone who frequented a
very
expensive salon. A pearl gray silk mini-dress with a thin silver belt defining a deliciously narrow waist. The breasts were so perfect they had to be implants, but the legs were long and shapely and there was no faking that. As she walked past, though, Ring thought her face bore an unfortunate resemblance to a mackerel. No real problem there, however. He wasn’t a face man.

Still, he had noticed the intriguing way she’d smiled at him.

He gave it a five count and turned around. She was seated alone at a table for two, and she smiled at him again. Cor! She wasn’t wearing any knickers and she just flashed her fanny at him. Her bush had been pruned to a narrow strip.

Mrs. Ring’s little boy Colin hadn’t grown up shy. He got over to the woman’s table two steps ahead of the waitress, sat down and ordered a pint, just as if he belonged there.

Then he turned to the woman and asked, “What’ll you be having, darlin’?”

“Whatever’s right to start a friendship,” Gayle Shipton answered.