Better than nice, actually.
“A woman named Kava Every used to work at your firm,” Waverly said.
Waterfield raised an eyebrow.
“That’s right. Do you know her?”
“She’s my cousin. That whole temp thing today, that was sort of unintended,” she said. “I came to town to see if I could find out what happened to her. That’s why I came to the firm, to see if anyone might know something.”
The words sunk in.
Waterfield’s face changed.
“So you aren’t really a temp?”
“No, but after you wanted me to get you food, well, you seemed nice so I figured, what the hell,” she said. “Then one thing led to another …”
Waterfield shook his head in amusement.
Then he got serious.
“Kava was a good person,” he said. “It was a damn shame, what happened to her.”
True.
“Do you have any idea who might have done it?”
Waterfield got a distant look.
“There’s one little thing,” he said. “I don’t know if it’s anything or not.”
“Tell me.”
He hesitated.
“Do you live in San Francisco?”
“No, Denver.”
“That’s a long ways off.”
Right.
It was.
“I’m actually thinking of moving here,” she said. “Trade the sunshine for fog.”
“Well, if there’s anything I can do to convince you to do it, let me know.”
“I will.”
He speared a shrimp, chewed and swallowed, washing it down with a sip of tea. “The cops talked to a number of us at Bristol after the fact. The theory was that it was a murder rather than an accident or suicide and that the murder was done by someone who knew her and knew her well, a boyfriend or lover to be precise. None of us at the firm knew anything about a boyfriend or lover.”
“So it was a dead end,” Waverly said.
“It was. Over the years it’s been gnawing at me. She was a vibrant woman. She wasn’t the kind of woman to not have a sex life. In hindsight, I think she was seeing someone in the firm. I think they were keeping it quiet to avoid complications.”
“Who was it?”
“Two people come to mind,” he said. “One is an associate architect named Brian Fernier.”
Waverly tried to picture him and drew a blank.
“He wasn’t at work today,” Waterfield said. “The other is Tom Bristol. Actually, he makes the most sense. If he was having an affair with one of the firm’s architects, there’d be cries of favoritism every time she got assigned to a good project or promoted or whatever. They’d have a motive to keep it close to the vest.”
“Tom Bristol.”
“Right, Tom Bristol.”
“Tell me about him,” Waverly said.
Waterfield frowned.
“He’s a hell of a man, actually. You don’t build up a firm like ours and raise it to national recognition without being something of a force.”
Waverly took a sip of tea.
“I’m going to come back tomorrow and continue temping,” she said. “I need to see him up close and personal.”
Waterfield’s face tightened.
“Be careful.”
24
Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Evening
River had no intent to bring January with him to bury the bikers’ bodies but she insisted and had already learned how to get her way. He wasn’t exactly sure how it happened but it was a fact. It wasn’t just a product of her being attractive. He’d had plenty better. There was something else at work, something he couldn’t put his finger on.
He pulled to the shoulder, turned off the headlights and killed the engine a half-mile short of the scene.
The sun had already crept behind the mountains.
Twilight was thick.
By the time he got to the bodies, visibility would be down to thirty steps.
He popped the hood and disconnected the positive battery cable.
January would stay with the car. If anyone stopped, she’d tell them it broke down and that her boyfriend had gone to get help.
That would explain the car being there.
River would head into the terrain for fifty steps and then walk parallel to the road until he got to the bodies. He’d bury them deep enough to keep the coyotes out.
He got the shovel out of the trunk.
January stepped out and watched.
The air was quiet except for crickets. A bat zigzagged overhead.
“Be back in a jiffy,” River said.
“Wait.”
She put her arms around his neck and pressed her stomach to his. It was the first time they had touched. It felt nice. It felt right.
“Don’t go. Something’s wrong.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, just something.”
He looked around.
Everything was normal.
“It’s just the night playing a trick.”
She looked around, then raised her lips so close to his that he could feel the warmth of her breath.
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
He headed into the dark with the shovel in hand, counting fifty steps then turning left. An orange moon lifted off the horizon.
The terrain dipped and the temperature followed.
The road was a strip of black to his left, darker than the surroundings but not by much. It was visible enough to follow and that’s all he needed.
In his pocket was a flashlight.
He’d only use it if he couldn’t find the bodies.
A whoosh came overhead.
He looked up and saw nothing, but pictured a bat snatching a bug.
“Bad night to be a bug,” he muttered.
Somewhere in the distance a coyote barked.
No pack joined in.
It wasn’t a hunt.
Maybe it was just a lost soul out there in the world alone, separated from his kind.
Something’s wrong.
That’s what January said.
Something’s wrong.
River suddenly realized she was right.
Something was going to happen.
Something bad.
He shook it off and kept going.
He didn’t need the flashlight to find the bodies, the rancid smell pulled him in. He shined the light down to find something he didn’t expect, namely that both men had been torn apart by coyotes. Their faces and necks were mostly gone, their hands too.
Now the flies were having their turn.
He went through their pockets.
There he found a folded up newspaper article. It was about the murder of a businessman in Kansas City last week. He shoved it in his wallet and started digging.
The soil was hardly soil at all.
It was mostly rock.
He should have brought a pick.
It took over an hour to dig a hole for the both of them to where they were under a good foot. He filled it in, disbursed the extra dirt, rolled a couple of big rocks on top and then raked everything down. If anyone wandered out here it would look suspicious for a couple of days. After that the wind would make it less and less visible. The first good rain would cloak it completely.
He headed back for the car.
When he got to where it should be, it wasn’t there.
He must have passed it or not gone far enough.
He hiked in one direction down the road far enough to know it wasn’t that way, then turned around and went the other way.
It wasn’t there either.
It was gone.
January James.
He should have never trusted her.
25
Day One
July 21, 1952
Monday Afternoon
Wilde knocked on Michelle Day’s door, trying with all his might to put the image of this morning out of his head. The harder he tried the more vivid it got. He could see her hips wiggling with all the clarity of the movie screen down at the Zaza Theatre. He could feel her passion and taste her breath.