Nash nodded thoughtfully. “You’re a very convincing man, Sheriff.” He finished his coffee. “Incidentally, where’s the pilot?”
“He’s in our little hospital out at the edge of town.”
“What’s his condition?”
“Pretty good. Got two broken fingers, cuts and bruises on his head and shoulders, a banged-up knee, and possible low-grade pneumonia from exposure. But I’d say he’s in great shape — considering the other fellow’s condition.”
Nash looked out the window. It was dark now, the little town’s streetlights on. He felt suddenly tired from the long drive, and realized that his sunburn was itching. “Anyplace in town to stay?”
“You bet. Mountaintop Motel, right at the end of Main Street. Couple fellows from Eureka Petroleum already staying there.”
“I’d like to go out to the lake in the morning, if that’s all right, see the dive site, get some pictures for my report.”
“No problem. I go out there about nine. Pick you up, if you like.”
“Thanks, Sheriff. I appreciate that. How about seeing the pilot?”
“That’s up to the doctors, but I’m sure it’ll be all right.”
“You’ve been very helpful, Sheriff,” Nash said, rising. “Thanks for the time.”
“See you in the morning,” said Bosey.
As Nash walked out to his rented car, he noticed at once that it was becoming considerably cooler on the mountain now that the sun had gone down. He could only imagine what the water temperature was at the bottom of Ghost Lake. If Sheriff Bosey’s description of the lake had been accurate, Richard Tenney’s body would, as the high-elevation air got colder during the night, soon resemble a frozen piece of driftwood, wafting slowly through miles of underwater caverns. Not a very peaceful grave, he thought. And immediately wondered: Or was it?
Hunching his shoulders against the cold, Nash got into his car and headed for the Mountaintop Motel.
After checking into the motel, Nash called Sam Spear, knowing the director of claims would still be in the office. Spear liked to brag that he only worked half days — twelve hours.
“Doesn’t look like we’ll get the body up, Sam,” he told Spear. “It’s at the bottom of a high-elevation spreader lake, floating around in subterranean caverns. It’s doubtful we’ll get the plane up, either, unless maybe it broke up and some pieces surface. I’ll know more tomorrow after I’ve been out to the dive site.”
“That’s bad, Jack, very bad. Without a body, we can’t eliminate foul play between the pilot and the victim. And without the plane, we can’t eliminate malicious tampering or industrial sabotage.”
“I know, Sam. But from what I’ve learned so far, the cost of a possibly successful dive for either one would be exorbitant. Not at all cost-effective for a three million payout.”
“Forget cost-effectiveness!” Spear stormed. “There’s not going to be any three million payout! Now listen to me, Jack,” his voice took on an urgency, “we’ve got to start digging. There’s got to be a glitch there someplace. Now you start asking questions up there. Find out if the pilot was suicidal in any way. Or whether he had a bottle of booze stashed in the cockpit. The victim’s wife is the beneficiary on both policies; find out if the pilot knew her at all. I want to know why we were double-shuffled on these two policies. Hell, nobody’s life is worth three million bucks, not even mine.”
“I’ll get to work on all the angles, Chief,” said Nash, because that was what Spear wanted to hear. And Spear loved to be called “Chief.”
“Remember, my boy, that claims director job is waiting for you.”
Yeah, right, Nash thought as he hung up.
It was too early yet for him to call Stella; he liked to save that for the last thing at night, when he was already in bed, because they had a phone-sex game they liked to play. So he put his coat back on and hurried across Main Street through the chill night air to the Hi Mountain Cafe. He hadn’t a clue what kind of place it was, but when he got past the steamed-up windows he found a neat little establishment run by Mom, Pop, and two daughters who waited tables. Nash ordered the day’s Supper Special, a trout plate with French fries and coleslaw.
While Nash was eating, two executive-looking types came in with a Sharon Stone look-alike who had two inches of a better body ah the way around. Nash figured the two were the men from Eureka Petroleum that the sheriff had mentioned, and the blonde was probably either the widow of the geologist who went down with the plane, or the pilot’s wife. Probably the latter. Pilots always seemed to marry well-built blondes; they seemed to go well with the image.
Nash didn’t bother going over and introducing himself. He liked to keep as low a profile as possible with people until it became necessary to talk to them. So he finished his supper alone, went back over to the motel, got a bag of chips and a can of pop out of the vending machine, and snacked while he watched part of a fight card being telecast on cable from Reno. Finally, when he noticed his earlier fatigue returning, he took a warm shower to soothe his sunburn, climbed into bed, and called Stella.
“Hi, it’s me,” he said when she answered.
“Hi, sugar. Where are you?”
“Little town called Cascade, up in the Granite Mountains of Nevada.”
“Oh, the adventurous life of a claims investigator,” she kidded. “Cold up there?”
“Cold as a well-digger’s ass.”
“How’s the room? You warm enough?”
“I’m fine. Had some good trout for dinner.”
“Waitress pretty?”
“Yeah, I guess. If a guy likes high-school girls who still have their baby fat. Which I don’t.”
“That’s my good boy,” Stella purred.
They talked a little about the claim and the fact that it looked bad for California All-Risk. Three million was by far the largest claim the comparatively small firm had ever been faced with paying. It had paid a one-million-dollar claim some years earlier when a personal-liability insured had gone postal over a job review and killed his supervisor and two coworkers. But aside from that incident, the company’s annual payouts had been remarkably modest when measured against premiums received. Of course, Sam Spear had foiled three other million-dollar claims on policy technicalities and investigative evidence, making him the legend in his own mind that he thought he was. And now, of course, he was trying, with Nash’s help, to do it again — on the company’s largest claim yet.
“Someone said at lunch today,” Stella told him, “that a claim this big might bankrupt the company.”
“That’s nonsense,” Nash said. “We’re a privately owned company. A hit like this would hurt the owners and the employees for the next two or three years, but the company would survive.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Stella drawled. “I don’t want to have to look for a job.”
“You wouldn’t have any trouble finding work. Any typing pool in L.A. would be happy to get those fast fingers of yours.”
“Hmmmm, I know. But I like the job I’ve got. It’s easy. Lets me save my fast fingers for other things.”