Accident was the smart way to go, I decided. I wrapped the old bugger’s body in the sheet, the bloody chunk of wood in a towel, waited until late, made sure I was alone, carried him out and drove him to the first deserted cottage that had a woodpile, carried him down there and arranged him and laid the bloodstained wood next to his head where it’d look like a piece from the pile, and got the hell out of there. Hard work, sweating like a pig when I got back here and burned the sheet and towel in the fireplace, but worth the effort and the risk.
Handled it all just right, too. Accident. Everybody thinks so, Judson and the others and the sheriff’s deputies.
Everybody except that smart-ass private cop?
Him. That one. I was sure he’d buy it along with the rest, and maybe he did, but now I’m not so sure. All those questions he asked, but then he backed off and said he had no doubts it was an accident, but maybe he does have doubts and he’s planning to do some snooping of his own. Another one like Osternosy and twice as dangerous if he gets the scent. Deadly enemy — I knew that the first time I laid eyes on him, didn’t I? I should have handled him differently, but it’s too late to worry about that now. Hindsight, the great teacher.
Ticklish situation. I could take him out, fix up a little surprise for him, boom! I know just how to do it, too — now. But I don’t want to risk it before Dixon comes unless I have to. Another dead cop blows the whole game sky high. Dixon, Dixon. He’s the one who has to blow sky high.
Won’t be long. Another day, two at the most. And even if that geriatric Mike Hammer is suspicious and comes snooping around here, so what? Nothing for him to find. All my tools, components, everything — locked away in the car. Put it all in the trunk last night while I was waiting to get rid of the old man’s corpse. Cleared up what little blood there was, put the place in apple-pie order.
So let him snoop. Let him ask as many questions as he wants. I know how to deal with him now, one way or the other. No damn private dickhead is going to screw things up for Donald Michael Latimer and his personal and private interpretation of Chapter 3.2, Section 12355, Subdivision (c) of the fucking California Penal Code.
9
I wanted to talk to one or both of the Judsons first, then Fred Dyce, but it was a while before I got to to the resort and an even longer while before I got to Dyce. Less than three minutes after I left the Ostergaard cabin I rounded a bend in the road and came on Marian Dixon walking toward me along the shoulder. She stopped when she recognized my car, waited for me to pull up alongside.
“I’m on my way to see Callie,” she said. Her eyes were sad, empty of their usual animation. “Mrs. Ostergaard. Is that where you’ve been?”
I said it was. And that I was sorry I hadn’t stopped by and asked her to come along with me but that I’d been distracted.
“It’s all right. How is she?”
“Bearing up. Her daughter’s with her now. And a woman named June.”
“June Adams. Good — Callie shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.” She brushed strands of hair away from her eyes and cheeks; the wind was up and it immediately blew the hair back across her face, so that she seemed to be looking at me through a screen of tattered yellow silk.
I said, “Hop in. I’ll drive you.”
Marian came around and slipped in beside me. When I had the car turned and moving in the opposite direction, she said, “I keep having trouble believing Nils is gone. He was such a presence here, such a good friend to everyone.”
Except one person, maybe, I thought. But I kept the thought to myself; there was nothing to be gained in sharing my suspicions with anybody other than Callie Ostergaard at this point. Instead, I gave voice to a platitude: “At least his death was quick.”
“And relatively painless. I called Rita Judson and she told me what happened.” A couple of beats, and then she said, “Thank you for sending Chuck home to tell me.”
“I thought it’d be better if he didn’t hang around.”
“Yes, and I’m grateful.”
“He handling it okay? He and Nils seemed pretty fond of each other.”
“They were. He wouldn’t talk about it, wouldn’t come with me to see Callie, just shut himself up in his room. He’ll be all right. I think, but I wish Pat was here. He responds more readily to his father than he does to me. The male bond. I suppose.”
“Have you talked to Pat yet?”
“Yes. I called his office after I spoke to Rita and he’d just come back from court. He was very upset. He’s known Nils ever since he was a boy.”
“Does he know yet when he’ll be driving up?”
“No. It may not be until Wednesday.”
“Anything new on the bombings, did he say?”
“Forensics is nearly finished examining and comparing the evidence from the two crime scenes. They should know whether or not there’s a signature match within twenty-four hours.”
“That’s something, at least.”
“Yes. Something.”
We were at the Ostergaard cabin; I stopped at the head of the drive to let Marian out. Before she shut the door, she said, “Would you mind if I asked a small favor?”
“Go ahead.”
“Could you stop by later and talk to Chuck? He likes and respects you, and you’ve had so much experience with… well, you know. It might be good for him right now.”
“Well…”
“I don’t mean a father-son kind of talk — Pat will be here soon enough. Just… man to man. But if you’d rather not…”
The look on her face made me say, “All right, I’ll give it a try. No promises, though.”
“None expected.”
She thanked me, went on down the incline. And I drove away, thinking: Talk, listen, provide the interim male bond, the voice of experience with… well, you know. Sure, why not? I was good at that sort of thing, wasn’t I? Large part of the job, wasn’t it? I was not just a skip-tracer, a keyhole peeper; I was also a priest, a therapist, a teacher, a grief counselor, all too often a sin-eater, and yes, by golly, a surrogate pop now and then. Come one, come all, unload your woes on me and I’ll chew them and swallow them and regurgitate comfort and strength and wisdom that’ll lighten your burden, make your life and the lives of your loved ones easier, more relieved. A spiritual leader, that was something else I was supposed to be — the wise old charismatic bellwether guiding the lost and the hurt and the damaged and the innocent onto the path of righteousness, redemption, true understanding. Like a poor, pale-imitation Jesus, with bonded license and .38 Colt Bodyguard instead of rod and staff, with heart full of love and head full of sagacity and belly full of… well, you know.
I shook myself, shook away the bitter thoughts. Now where had all that come from? All she’d asked me to do was talk to her son.
No, it was more than that — it was a gesture of faith and trust in me, a man she hardly knew, offered as so many others had offered before her. Faith and trust were two names for it; another was shifted responsibility, the kind that I didn’t always want and too often didn’t deserve because I couldn’t live up to it, couldn’t be or do any of the things that were expected of me.
Just say no. That was a nice little slogan, the perfect panacea. Too bad I was one of those who had never learned how, even to save my wise old charismatic psyche another bruise or two. The word simply wasn’t in my lexicon. Hell, I could not even say no to myself.