“Where’s what?”
“Mike Farrell.”
“Does this look like a hotel? I don’t keep a register.” I could feel Joanne tense beside me. I didn’t look at her.
Joe Cutter said, “Okay, then we do it the hard way.” He reached into the car and brought out a long five-cell flashlight.
“Hold it,” I said. “Before you do any searching you can show me a piece of paper signed by somebody—and you can explain what you’re doing up here outside city jurisdiction. Since when are you working for the sheriff?”
Joanne said spryly, “No tickee, no lookee.” Her eyes danced—too brightly. I shook my head slightly.
Joe Cutter shook his head with an air of exasperated and disgusted patience. “Come off it, Sy. We can be friendly about this or I can get tough, whichever way you want it. You know better—this time of night I can’t get a warrant, but you make a stink and take it to court and I’ll have a warrant to show the judge with tonight’s date on it, and I’ll have some county cops to testify they gave me authority to work outside the city because the Aiello case is a joint effort, right? So why make a nuisance out of yourself? You butt out and shut your flap or I knock both of you right on your enchiladas, okay?”
As he spoke, Cutter pushed the button of his $80 holster; the molded clamshell popped open and he lovingly lifted his .357 Magnum, not pointing it at anything in particular.
I gave him a flat look and said, “Put that thing away. We’ve got a witness this time.”
Cutter shook his head again. “Where’s the dead guy?”
“What dead guy? Somebody gave you a bad tip.”
“Sure.”
“Tell me who tipped you and maybe we can get it straightened out.”
“Try another one, Sy. You killed Farrell and you haven’t had time to get rid of the body.”
I had put lights on in the house. The draw on the batteries brought the diesel generator to life. It began to thud and pound. I lifted my voice to carry above the racket: “Somebody lied to you.”
“Nobody lies to me,” he said, walking forward. “Not even you, Sy.” Straight-faced, he gestured with the Magnum. “Let’s go inside and look, okay?”
I gave in with an elaborate show of disgust; held the door for Joanne and went in ahead of him. Cutter went through the house with efficient speed, keeping the gun more or less pointed at us and herding us with him as he searched. Cutter wasn’t a ransacker; he had a compulsion toward military neatness; he left nothing disturbed, but didn’t miss a single place where a corpse might fit. He looked inside the refrigerator, checked the cabinets, opened every closet door and pawed through, got down to look under the couch and the bed, looked behind the Army-blanket drapes, poked his nose in every corner, even climbed on a chair to shine his flashlight into the swamp-cooler ducts.
When he was satisfied he exploded in a few choice phrases and took us outside. We went around the house, Cutter shining the flashlight in every direction. At the back of the house he lifted the lid of the generator enclosure and aimed the flashlight beam inside. The diesel exuded noise and heat and pollutant odors. He banged the lid down and went on around the house, making the full circuit, examining the edges of the stone foundation for signs of openings. He glanced into the Jeep, then shooed us up toward the rock-polishing shack. Joanne waited until he was looking the other way before she gave me a weak grin of relief. We went into the shack and Cutter stood still a moment, sizing it up. He found the light switch and turned it on.
The shack was cluttered with gear—workbench along one wall, most of the door occupied by tumblers driven by electric motors. The largest of the tumbler barrels was about the size of a ten-gallon keg. They rotated slowly on their tracks; the noise was soporific, a quiet swish and thud, gemstones revolving through viscous abrasive solutions of pumice and silicates. It took months to bring a tumbled stone to high polish; each stone had to be moved from coarser to finer solutions through the series of five tumblers.
Cutter said, “Where do you shut this stuff off?”
I pointed to the master switch. “Why? You expect we cut up your imaginary dead body and put the pieces inside?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said, deadpan. He opened the switch and lifted the lid on the large barrel. The polishing solution was the color of cement. He put down the flashlight, rolled up his sleeve, and plunged his hand inside. After he felt around, he withdrew his hand, shook it and looked around for something to clean himself with.
Joanne picked up a rag and handed it to him. “Thanks,” he said absently, wiped his forearm and hand meticulously, and tossed the rag aside. He followed pattern by sealing the barrel shut and turning the machinery on.
It was always hard to detect expressions on his immobile face but I had the feeling he was boiling with rage. It seemed a good time for it so I said, “What makes you think Mike Farrell’s dead? What makes you so sure it wasn’t Farrell himself who gave you this bum steer to keep you occupied while he gets out of the state? He probably killed Aiello and now he’s just making waves so he can get away in the confusion.”
He gave me his hooded glance and gestured with the Magnum. “Outside.”
He took us all around the hilltop, spending a half hour at it, walking a regular search pattern with flashlight and eyes to the ground. He didn’t find anything more than Ed Baker had found twelve hours earlier. Joanne slipped her hand into mine while we trailed along with him. Her fingers were slick with cold perspiration.
When we circled back to the front yard Cutter’s scarlet face was composed into such a parody of indifference that I was sure he was outraged. He lifted the lid of the galvanized trash can and poked around inside with the flashlight, replaced the lid and turned to face us, playing with the gun. He was standing with one foot crushing a rose stem.
He said, “I’ve got half a mind to run both of you in. Material witnesses.”
“To what? You’ve got half a mind, period.”
I baited him because he expected it, and because he knew as well as I did that he had no grounds to arrest us. Habeas corpus. He had already admitted to himself that he’d lost this round.
He said, “I’d like to pin the Aiello hit on you, by Jesus.”
Joanne said, “Simon didn’t kill Aiello.”
“I didn’t say he did. But I can pin it on him if I take a notion to. Maybe I won’t take a notion to, Sy, if you do what you’re told now—don’t mess in the Aiello thing any more, okay? We’ll find Farrell, or whoever did it. We don’t need amateur help. Understand?”
I said, “You had a bum steer. You’ve had your fun. Now you can go.”
He stepped across the roses and stood close before us, shaking his head like a patient father chastising an errant child. “You got to learn manners, Sy,” he said, and plunged the barrel of the Magnum into my stomach just under the ribcage.
I hadn’t been expecting it. It knocked me back against Joanne. She lost her balance and fell.
I choked down a sudden belly-lurching heave; pain flooded me. I should have been ready for it: Cutter was a creature of grudges.
I gave him a dismal stare and braced, knowing he wasn’t through. The .357 Magnum gave him total control of us, but knowing it, he did not smile—his sadism didn’t take the form of visible amusement. He grunted, blinked, feinted with the gun and kicked me in the shin. His boots had metal combat toes. Agony exploded in my shin; off-balance, I went down.
Joanne was on her knees, hissing words, and Cutter whipped the gun around toward her. “Freeze.”
The heavy boot came swinging at me; I rolled away but he took one step and kicked again. It caught me on the shoulder blade. He knew just where the tender spots were; he worked with scientific, methodical brutality. He crouched, elbows on knees, waiting for me to complete my roll; when I did, he cracked the steel Magnum lightly against my kneecap just a tap, but enough to blind me with pain. I felt coiling spasms.