You Know Who Killed Me (16 page)

“Hang on.”

I put down the handset, fetched a robe, and switched on the coffeemaker. The gurgling helped. I lit up my first of the day; or maybe it was the last of the day before. Back in the living room I picked up.

“Fire away. In American, please. It took me five years to get though
David Copperfield.
”

“What that man did to the King's English should have put him in the dock. I talked to Chuck Swingline. The Ojibway?”

“I was just thinking about him, in an abstract way.”

“An ordeal. My man in Ottawa got on his bad side right at the start, addressing him as a Native American. Swingline spent five minutes explaining why no Indian worthy of his heritage would appreciate being called American. You chaps really did a number on the aborigines.”

“So did you Canucks. The Mexicans too. And let's not forget the British. I read somewhere they were the ones who taught them how to take scalps.”

“Balls. One of the first sights the pilgrims recorded was a row of Huron topknots waving in the breeze from Iroquois lances. I didn't call you to discuss the history of genocide.”

“You started it. Hang on once more.”

The machine had finished gurgling. I snatched out the carafe, scalding the back of my hand on the stream still coming out, filled a cup, and sipped from it on my way back.

“Fire away.”

“Malroux—that's my man, he's from Montreal—caught up with Swingline ice fishing clear up on Lake Nipigon, which is where polar bears go to cool off; the plane fare will be on the bill. Crazy former bush pilot named Eagan, with a steel pin in every bone in his body. Swingline had fourteen tip-ups going. That's more than Caucasians are allowed by law, but the tribal lawyers make sure the treaties are honored.”

I sat down in the easy chair. “What was the temp?”

“Twenty below, by your measure. There may be a surcharge for treatment of frostbite.”

“What was Swingline wearing?”

“Wearing? I—oh.” I could hear him blush. “I am guilty of over-reporting. Assign it to forty-one hours without a wink.”

“We're all tired. Continue.”

“Swingline's not the garrulous type, and I don't suppose time in that rough country polished his social skills. He told Malroux he only visited that hunting lodge with Gates and the rest because they were footing the bill; to be able to tell the folks back home they hunted with a real Indian, I imagine. He considered Rudy Johnson the only real hunter in the pack, and he was a drunk—not, I suspect, that that part bothered him. Swingline had a six-pack of Moosehead keeping cold in all fourteen holes and he drank two at every stop while Malroux was following him around. You'd think they'd make some effort to avoid the stereotype.”

“What about Gates?”

“Had to be reminded who he was. The fellow doesn't seem to have made much of an impression, but then I don't suppose the old boy's faculties can be trusted at the bottom of that ocean of beer. There wasn't much point to asking him if he had any idea who killed Gates, but of course the question was asked. Do I need tell you the answer?”

“Where was he New Year's Eve?”

“Trapping beaver up on Hudson's Bay, just like you read in books. My opinion? He had a stash of liquor, and possibly a warm companion to share it with. Ojibways make a killing selling genuine pelts to Yanks on holiday; some of them even came from this side of China. We confirmed his story with the proprietor of a picturesque trading post in Fort George—bearskins, spears, convincing arrowheads, all that rot—who sold him four cases of Moosehead New Year's Day.”

“He could have caught a plane.”

Hale chuckled. No U.S. citizen could do it the same justice.

“It just so happens I thought of that. An Alberta Clipper tore through that morning, dumping a meter of snow by noon and closing every airport from Toronto on up to Baffin Island. Even that maniac Eagan wouldn't go out in it; he was shacked up with his half-Inuit wife in a cabin in Winnipeg. You Yanks haven't quite managed to cock up the climate up here just yet.”

“I'm bleeding; really, I am. You just can't hear it from this distance. I hope you got all this over the phone.”

The air stiffened on his end.

“I'm a religious man, Walker. I don't fritter away church money.”

“Don't be so cranky just because you didn't get enough sleep.” I fingered a cigarette. “I wonder why Perlberg said Swingline and Gates were close?”

“Is that an assignment?”

“No, just guessing out loud. Thanks, Lulu. Look me up next time you're in town.”

“If you promise not to call me Lulu.”

I didn't go back to bed after we finished talking. I never lighted the cigarette. Gray was bleeding into the black outside, and I was wide awake. I had time before the city woke up to make a decent breakfast to dump on top of last night's leaden hot dog and chase it with a gallon of black coffee. I could actually smell the pancakes when I fell asleep in the chair, and when I woke up the sun was strong for winter.

I needed to start making visits.

Dressing after my shower and shave, I glanced through the bedroom window at the empty house across the street, and that's when I realized it had snowed. It had started sometime after I'd dozed off, fluffy as baby chicks, and by the time the sun broke through it was piled nearly to the sill of the window George Gesner had stood behind. The first real sun in days struck sparks off it like stripper dust.

It was painful to look at in the strong light. When I turned my head away, green-and-purple balloons floated inside my pupils as if someone had popped an old-fashioned flashbulb in my face at point-blank range.

I hadn't seen anyone inside the house. I wondered if George was back on duty or if there was a day man, and if he'd be the one who'd follow me when I left. I'm not so stuck on myself I expect Washington to spend that much of its budget on me; but an institution that would pay two hundred bucks for a twelve-dollar pipe wrench is capable of anything.

 

TWENTY-THREE

The announcer was reciting a long list of school closings when I flipped on the car radio. I listened impatiently; it was like being a kid again and your school always seemed to be the last to call in. When Iroquois Heights came up, I pointed the hood that way and called Amelie Gates.

“Good morning, Mr. Walker. No, I'm afraid Michel isn't home. He's spending the day with a friend.”

“Can you tell me where? I want to ask him a couple of things.”

“No, I can't let you do that without me present. You understand.” She went on without pause, almost tripping over her words. “I really can't talk now. I'm late for Belle Isle.”

“Sure you can make it?”

“I have to. As bad as it is for me, it's worse for those poor people on the island.”

“I'll pick you up. I've been driving in this stuff since I was sixteen.”

“No, there's no—”

I hung up as if I hadn't heard her. I didn't like the way she sounded. It all made sense, but she hadn't had to speak at 78 rpm to make her point. A truth told at lying speed might as well be a lie.

*   *   *

She must have been watching through a window. I'd barely got stopped, sliding a little in the wet snow, when she came out wearing her old quilted coat and man's checked hunting cap with a tote bag over her shoulder and let herself into the passenger's seat. I asked her what kept her going.

“This,” she said, drumming her fingers on the bag in her lap, as if that meant something more than just jangled nerves. “All this. It's more than just avoiding sitting around, dwelling on things. When I see those people literally fighting to survive—I don't mean just men and women, but small children, who did nothing to deserve what's happened to them—I'm reminded I'm not the only one in the world with sorrows.”

She looked down, smiled, and turned her head my way. “I don't suppose there was anything original in that. I heard it myself, before—well, before. But it's like falling in love for the first time and suddenly understanding what all the songs are about.” She returned her attention to the windshield. “Have you ever been in love, Mr. Walker?”

“I was married.”

“Not an answer.”

“Then the answer is I don't know.”

“I'll accept that. People who say you know when it's real don't know what they're talking about. I honestly don't know if I loved Don. He was a good man, and I was comfortable with him, but not so much recently. He seemed to be drifting away. It's not the same as when you asked if he was acting differently; he just—he wasn't always
there.
They say that's not unusual after a certain number of years, but—”

“Yeah. They don't know what they're talking about. Drifted away how?”

“Not important. Mr. Walker, I want you to quit this investigation.”

“Uh-huh.” I slowed almost to a stop behind a city snowplow, scraping the white stuff into rusty clumps on the sidewalk, then powered around it when the opposite lane opened.

“You're not surprised?”

“A little, but only because that usually comes later. At one time or another, just about every client loses interest. You got used to the way something was, so you try to do something about it. Then you get so you're used to the way it is. This seems early. But everyone has his own timeline.”

“I just want for Michel and me to be left alone. It was horrible enough, then when the church offered that reward it became grotesque. The reporters block their numbers when they call, so when one doesn't come up I let it ring. When the machine kicks in and they don't leave a message, I know I was right.”

“Either that or someone wanted to sell you something.”

“Anyway,” she said, folding her hands on the bag, “the police will go on looking. I happen to have more faith in them than some people with money.”

“It's not as simple as that. You're not the client.”

“Reverend Melville is an understanding woman. If she knows how much it means to us, I'm sure she'll agree, and withdraw the offer.”

“Again, not that simple. The only one who can take it down is the donor who put it up, and she won't budge on who it is.”

“Can you talk to her, at least? I can't imagine her resisting the wishes of a widow and her child.”

I drove for a little.

“This got anything to do with my wanting to talk to Michel?”

“It does, in a way. I don't want him drawn into this. He's lost his father, there's nothing that can be done about that now. But I can prevent him from losing his privacy.”

“Little boys can't spell privacy, much less know what it means. They write their names in the snow in public.”

“Well, sense of security. Even after it's all over, solved or not, the press keeps calendars. Every big anniversary they scrounge up an old story and play it up with bright colors. It could haunt him all his life, as if he peaked at age ten and all the rest was follow-up. They can turn a person into a freak.”

“I'll talk to Melville. No promises.”

“Thank you. That's all I ask.”

We rumbled over the MacArthur Bridge, hung with icicles like something out of Nordic legend, and I let her out near the volunteer tent. The homeless stood or crouched in the snow, dark lumps with red faces, some smoking, others messing with smart phones; you wondered where the bills were sent.

Maybe they just needed the distraction. In any case it was none of my business. My business was why Amelie Gates wanted to pull the plug.

The wind was blowing my way. I smelled corn chowder and Tater Tots, and remembered I hadn't had time for breakfast after all. I stopped for an Egg McMuffin and a towering cup of blistering hot coffee on my way to Christ Episcopal Church. Waiting at the drive-through and again when I pulled out I watched the rearview mirror, but it looked like George Gesner's day-shift replacement hadn't clocked in. That's how it looked.

*   *   *

“You know, if it weren't for people needing to get in and out, I'd leave the stuff where it is. Sometimes I wonder if I'm just interfering with God's plan.”

Florence Melville leaned on a square-bladed shovel on the front steps of the church on Jefferson; snow piled the flower bed hibernating on either side. She wore what looked like a man's army greatcoat, but the sleeves fit and the hem came just to the tops of her galoshes. Sturdy as she'd looked sitting at her desk, upright she topped six feet.

“Can it wait?”

She stopped leaning. “Has something happened? A break in the case?”

“You've been watching
Law and Order
when you should be watching the Religious Channel. Can we go inside? My heater's on the fritz. I've forgotten what my feet felt like.”

Her office looked the same as before; even the light quality hadn't changed. It was an island in the sea of time.

“You do look a little gray,” she said, opening a carved square in the paneling. “Is it too early for brandy?”

“Not if you join me.”

“Just a sip.” She filled two cut-glass snifters from a matching decanter filled with liquid the color of old gold and brought them to the desk. Mine was empty before she sat down. Her brows lifted. “You're not supposed to drink it like that. It was a gift from a parishioner. It's thirty years old.”

“It's old enough to go out on its own.”

“Would you like another?”

I shook my head. “The Widow Gates wants you to give me my walking papers.”

“Just how soon did she expect results?”

“It isn't that. It isn't what she said it was, either, that she wants to get on with her life. It all started when I asked her a second time if I could talk to her son.”

“That little boy? What could he know?”