“It’d be great if Theresa could have another think,” Nealon says, “see if she can put a name to any of the voices. Maybe you could ask her. I got the sense she’d listen to you.”
“I’ll ask her next time I see her,” Cal says. The last thing he wants is for Trey to get specific. “Not sure when that’ll be, though. We don’t have a regular schedule.”
“What about yourself?” Nealon asks, cocking an eye at him over the glass. “Would you have any new ideas? Anything you’ve heard around the place, maybe?”
“Man,” Cal says, giving him a look of disbelief. “Come on, now. You think anyone’s gonna tell me something like that?”
Nealon laughs. “Ah, I know what you mean. Places like this, they wouldn’t give you the steam off their piss, in case you’d find a way to use it against them. But you could’ve picked something up. I’d say they might underrate you, round here, and that’d be a mistake.”
“Mostly,” Cal says, “people just want to pick my brains for what I might have heard from you. They don’t have much to offer in exchange.”
“You could ask,” Nealon says.
They look at each other. Over the field, the swallows’ twitters and chirrs swirl in the warm air.
“I could ask,” Cal says. “I doubt anyone would answer.”
“You won’t know till you try.”
“This place already thinks I’m buddy-buddy with you. If I start sticking my nose in, asking questions, I’m gonna get nothing but a fuckton of disinformation.”
“I don’t mind that, sure. You know how it works, man. A few answers would be great, but just asking the right questions could do a lot to get things moving.”
“I live here,” Cal says. “That’s what I do now. Once you’ve packed up and gone, I still gotta live here.”
He never considered doing differently, but saying the words hits home in a way he wasn’t expecting. It’s not that he wants his cop life back; that’s gone and done with, and he doesn’t regret it. But somehow he seems to have spent the last while cutting himself off from everyone round him. If this goes on, he’ll wind up a hermit, holed up in this house with no one to talk to but Rip and the rooks.
“No problem,” Nealon says easily. He’s too experienced to keep pushing when he’ll get nowhere. “Had to give it a shot.” He settles back in the rocking chair, shifting it to turn his other cheek to the sun. “Jaysus, the heat. If I don’t watch myself, I’ll go home looking like a lobster. The missus won’t know me.”
“It’s some sun,” Cal agrees. He doesn’t believe in Nealon’s missus. “I was thinking about shaving off my beard, till everyone pointed out I’d be two-toned.”
“You would, all right.” Nealon examines Cal’s face, letting his eyes move leisurely over the bruises, which have faded to faint yellow-green shadows. “Why’d you fight Johnny Reddy?” he inquires.
Cal recognizes the shift as the conversation switches track. He’s felt it plenty of times before, but then he was always the one pulling the lever. Nealon’s making a point: Cal can be a cop, or he can be a suspect. Just like the guy said, he’s rattling cages.
“I didn’t fight anyone,” he says. “I’m a guest in this country. I mind my manners.”
“Johnny says different. So does his face.”
Cal has pulled this one too often to fall for it. “Well,” he says, lifting an eyebrow, “then you best ask him the reason.”
Nealon grins, unabashed. “Nah. Johnny says he fell down the mountain drunk.”
“Then he probably did.”
“I saw your knuckles, the other day. They’ve healed now.”
Cal glances down at his knuckles, bemused. “They might’ve been scraped up,” he agrees. “My hands mostly are. Goes with the job.”
“It would, yeah,” Nealon acknowledges. “How’s Johnny treat Theresa?”
“He treats her OK,” Cal says. He expected this, and he’s a long way from feeling any need to worry. He’s on guard, but he was that anyway. “He’s not gonna win any Father of the Year awards, but I’ve seen a lot worse.”
Nealon nods like he’s giving this some deep thought. “What about Blake?” he asks. “How’d he treat her?”
Cal shrugs. “Far as I know, he never said two words to her.”
“As far as you know.”
“If she had any hassle with him, she’d’ve told me.”
“Maybe, maybe not. You’d never know with teenagers. Blake seem like the type that might take an interest in teenage girls?”
“He didn’t run around wearing a badge that said pervert,” Cal says. “That’s as much as I can tell you. I hardly saw the guy.”
“You saw enough of him to spot he was dodgy,” Nealon points out.
“Yep. That wasn’t hard.”
“No? Anyone else spot it?”
“No one mentioned anything,” Cal says. “But I doubt I was the only one. When I moved here, I didn’t bring up what I used to do, but people made me for a cop inside a week. I’d bet good money that some of ’em, at least, made Blake.”
Nealon considers that. “They might’ve,” he agrees. “No one’s said a bad word about the man, but like we said, they’re slippery, down here—or careful, if you want to put it that way. Even if they made him, though, why would they want to kill him? They’d just stay outa the dodgy fucker’s way.”
Nealon could be testing, but Cal doesn’t think he is. Just like Mart predicted, no one has said a word about any gold. “Most likely,” he says. “That’s what I did.”
Nealon smiles at Cal. “GPS works grand down here on the flat,” he assures him, “away from the trees. If I have to check out your phone, you’ll have nothing to worry about, as long as you stayed home that night.”
“I was here,” Cal says. “All evening and all night, till Trey came round in the morning. But if I’d been out killing anyone, I’da left my phone at home.”
“You would, o’ course,” Nealon agrees. He arranges his legs more comfortably and takes a pleasurable swig of his beer. “I’ll tell you one interesting thing I’ve got from the phone tracking,” he says. “I managed to get a warrant for Johnny’s records, seeing as he was the closest known associate. My man Johnny says he was at home all day and all night, before Blake was found. The whole family says the same. Johnny’s phone says different, but. During the day, it did what phones do on the mountain, all right: bounced around from this side to that side to the bleedin’ Arctic Circle. But in the evening, he was racking up the Fitbit steps big-time. He headed down off the mountain, he passed by here—didja see him?”
“Nope,” Cal says. “We’re not on dropping-in terms.”
“I got that, yeah.” Nealon’s eyes flick to Cal’s bruises one more time. “Johnny spent a good while over at Mrs. Lena Dunne’s place. That’s your fiancée, isn’t that right?”
“Yep,” Cal says. “Unless she smartens up.”
Nealon laughs. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ve met her other options. Did she see Johnny that evening?”
“She didn’t mention it,” Cal says. “Ask her.”
“I will,” Nealon assures him. “Give me a chance, man; I’ll get to her.”
“From what you say,” Cal points out, “Blake didn’t die in the evening.”
“Ah, no. And Johnny never went near his place, anyway. But once someone lies to me, I’m interested. And…” He points his glass at Cal. “You mentioned Johnny passing by, while you were hanging on with the body for the uniforms to show up. Guess where he went after he left yous.”
Cal shakes his head.
“He says he went for a walk, to clear his head from the terrible shock. Musha, God love him.” Nealon raises his eyes to heaven. “Where he went was down to Blake’s Airbnb. He spent about fifteen minutes there, and then his phone started doing the mountainy dance again, so it looks like he legged it home. He’s got no key to Blake’s that we know of, but there’s a spare under a rock by the door, right where anyone would look for it. So that’s another lie.” He gives Cal a meaningful look.