The State Police investigator told Wayne to take it easy, to look at facts. There was no apparent connection between the Cadillac and Lionel Adam’s murder. Investigating one did not lead to the other. Lionel’s body hadn’t been found in the marsh till three days later.
Wayne had been told that much. Duck hunters had come across the body, shot three times in the chest. “But what day was he killed? Haven’t you found that out yet?”
“When we do we’ll let you know,” the investigator said. “How’s that?”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” Wayne said. “You might also let me know, when you get around to it, why they want to kill us. My wife didn’t do nothing to them. Is it they want to shoot her on account of me? Who are these guys? They’ve been around here a week almost and you can’t find them? Where the hell are you looking?”
Local police and county deputies walked off as Wayne spoke, got in their cars. The State Police investigator waited till he was through, then went out to the woods where evidence technicians were still looking around.
Carmen said, “That was some speech,” and took Wayne in the house. “But what good is yelling at them? It just gets them mad at you.”
“That’s the whole point of what I’m saying. They act like it’s our fault. Did I antagonize the two guys? Did you aim at the one when you shot at him? I would’ve, I know that, and if I hit him I’d be in jail up in Port Huron awaiting trial.”
“They’ve been nice to me,” Carmen said, “but you rub them the wrong way. Why did you go into all that about getting the speeding ticket and driving through Ohio?”
“Because those are times I got pissed off at cops and didn’t say anything, when maybe if I had I would’ve felt better.”
“You feel better now?”
“Not much. Let’s have a beer.”
Carmen said, “That sounds like a good idea.” She said, “You know how when you cross your t you put the bar above the stem?”
“You said it meant I was witty.”
“It does, but sometimes—I’ve never told you— there’s sort of a downward slant to your t bar and that shows a quick temper.”
“I’ll work on crossing it straighter,” Wayne said, “see if I can improve my personality.”
“You might just try to lighten up,” Carmen said.
Later on, when the FBI special agent called and asked if it would be convenient for them to stop by, Carmen said yes, of course. When she told Wayne they were coming he didn’t say a word and Carmen wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. She had never seen her husband in a fight or a situation where he ever hit anyone, but believed it could happen almost anytime now.
Two of them, both wearing dark suits, got out of the Ford sedan. The one on the other side of the car walked off toward the woods. Carmen saw the State Police detective out by the tree line looking this way. The one that got out from behind the wheel had thick dark hair, beginning to show gray, and was nice-looking. He nodded to them on the porch saying, “Mr. and Mrs. Colson, I’m Paul Scallen, I called you earlier. May I come up?”
Carmen said, “Please.” Wayne didn’t say a word.
The man was taller than she’d thought, growing as he came up the steps, taller than Wayne and older, probably in his late forties, showing them his credentials now in a case with a gold shield pinned to it. Carmen saw FBI in big light-blue letters and his name printed over it in black, much smaller. Paul Scallen. It said he was a Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, United States Department of Justice. On the bottom part was his picture and more writing too small to read. Carmen wondered if there was a difference between a special agent and just a plain agent. She liked his rust-colored tie with the blue shirt and dark-gray suit. No hanky in the pocket. He looked like a businessman.
Wayne was staring at the credentials. Carmen wondered if he was reading the small print until he said, “That’s the same color as the guy’s car”— meaning the light-blue FBI letters—“a big god-damn Cadillac nobody can seem to find.”
Swell, Carmen thought. Here we go.
She was surprised when the FBI man said, “You noticed that too,” sounding a little surprised himself. “It was the first thing I thought of when I saw the car. The Windsor Police found it at the airport, the one over there.”
“So they’re gone,” Wayne said.
Carmen thought he sounded disappointed. It seemed to perk up the FBI man, who said, “Well, not necessarily. They found it the same day Mrs. Colson chased one of them off, I understand with a shotgun.” Giving Carmen a nod as he said it. “And the other one killed the girl in the store. So they didn’t fly out and they haven’t come back for the car. The Windsor Police have it under surveillance, but we think the two guys dumped it.”
Wayne said, “But you don’t know if they’re still around.”
“We think they are.”
“You’re not sure though.”
“Let me say we have reason to believe they are.”
“You check the car registration?”
“It belongs to a company in Toronto. We contacted the police there, they followed up and were told the car was stolen. But we don’t believe it. We think they gave the car to one of the guys to use. For another matter first, something that happened in Detroit the day before they came to the real estate office.” The FBI man looked at Carmen. “I understand you work for Nelson Davies.”
“I did; not anymore.”
“Well, I can understand, after what happened.”
“That wasn’t why I quit.”
“Wait a minute,” Wayne said. “What kind of company loans a car to a guy that kills people?”
“A company that hires him to do it,” the FBI man said. “A company that’s operated by the organized crime people in Toronto. Mafioso, just like the ones we have here.”
“You say they gave the car to one of the guys,” Wayne said. “Which one, the Indian?”
“Part Indian, Ojibway, part French-Canadian. His name’s Armand Degas, at least that’s who we think we have here. We know he was seen on Walpole Island last week and we assume, if it’s the same guy, both you and Mrs. Colson got a good look at him.” The FBI man paused, staring at Wayne. “You had to have been pretty close to hit him with that iron-working tool. What do you call it, a sleever bar?”
Wayne nodded and seemed to think about it a moment, Carmen wondering what he was going to say next.
“What I should’ve done was broke a few bones, put those guys in the hospital, in traction.”
Now the FBI man was nodding. “That’s not a bad place to question suspects, when they’re in pain and can’t move.”
Carmen watched. Neither one of them smiled but it didn’t matter. She could sense that all at once they had tuned in to each other’s attitude and were going to get along fine from here on. Now Wayne was asking Scallen if he wanted a beer. Another good sign. Or he could have instant coffee; they were temporarily out of the real stuff. Scallen said no thanks, he didn’t care for anything, but went into the kitchen with them and took a place at the counter. Carmen turned on the overhead light. She watched Scallen take a white envelope from his inside coat pocket. Wayne asked her if she wanted a beer and she hesitated because a federal special agent was sitting there and then said, okay, why not? Wayne said, “We’re not working, he is.” Scallen smiled. He said to Carmen, “That slug barrel gives a kick, doesn’t it?” Carmen touched her shoulder and rolled her eyes just enough. He said,
“It took an awful lot of nerve, what you did, to stand up to a man like that.” Carmen said she hoped she’d never have to do it again. She saw Scallen taking two black-and-white photos out of the envelope, laying them on the counter. Wayne popped open the cans of beer and handed one to her saying, “My wife’s a winner, that’s why I married her.” She saw Scallen half-turned on the stool, waiting.