Last Ragged Breath (15 page)

Bell wanted to correct her—in this case it was the state police crime lab, not the Raythune County prosecutor's office, that would decide when the body could be released for burial—but it didn't matter. They were all one thing to Diana Hackel now: The Authorities. The
you people
constituting the target of her discontent.

“I have a few questions, if that's okay,” Bell said.

“Suit yourself.”

“I'd like to get a better sense of your husband. You mentioned the other night that he was good at his job. Lots of energy. Really threw himself into his work.”

“He was a salesman. He liked to sell things. That's how we got together, in fact. He was working for a Toyota dealership. I needed a car. I walked out of there with a Corolla—and a dinner date. A few months later, we got married.”

“Did he enjoy working for Mountain Magic?”

Diana thought about her answer before offering it up. “I honestly don't know. I mean, he said he did. But no matter where he was working, he always insisted he was having a ball. That was part of the shtick.”

“The shtick.”

“Yeah. You know—the optimism, the pep, the snappy patter.” Diana's tired voice suddenly was infused with the phony zeal of a carnival barker, and she waggled her hands on either side of her face: “‘It's all good! It's terrific! It's fan-
tas
-tic! It's un-fucking-believable!'” She relapsed into weariness. “The pressure was on. That much, I do know. Carolyn Runyon's a total bitch. She'd call the house at all hours, demanding to speak to him. She'd have her panties in a bunch over some big emergency—usually just some routine problem—and she'd be yelling and screaming at Eddie to fix it. Finally he just started staying here through the week, so he could be on site. The motel has a special deal for Mountain Magic employees. He came home on weekends—when he could. That happened less and less, though. Things have been heading to a real crisis point. If they don't break ground soon, they'll never be able to stay on schedule. And if they fall too far behind on the construction timetable—chances are, a lot of the backers will pull out.”

The sole waitress who worked the afternoon shift had finally sauntered over. She stopped chewing gum long enough to ask Bell if she wanted anything to drink.

“I'm good,” Bell said. She looked over at the bar. Ricky Garrison was wiping down a section of it with a striped cloth. His shirtsleeves were rolled up way past his elbows, and even at a distance, even in the dimness, Bell could see the muscles in his right arm as he dug at a spot, muscles that once had hurled a tiny white ball at speeds upwards of ninety-nine miles an hour with uncanny accuracy—his fastball was a thing of beauty—and that now were applied to the mopping up of spilled liquor. She wondered how much he remembered about his playing days; the concussion had left him foggy-brained, with a tremor in his hands.

The waitress, young and henna-haired and skinny, eyed Diana's wineglass.

“Sure, Jolene,” Diana said. “I'll have another.”

Bell waited for the waitress to leave before resuming her questions.

“Did your husband ever talk about Royce Dillard?”

“Maybe. Could be. Eddie talked about a lot of people. I heard a lot of names. I can't say I specifically remember him talking about anybody named Dillard. But I also can't say that he didn't. It's kind of a blur of names, tell you the truth.” She looked at Bell, fleetingly amused. “He even mentioned you, once or twice.”

“Me.”

“Yeah. Something about a county commissioners' meeting. You spoke, right? And said you weren't exactly tickled pink about the resort?”

“I expressed some reservations. Mainly about the tax abatements and what the return on those was likely to be.”

“Yeah, well, that was Ed's job. Keeping track of who was opposed to the project and then going to talk to them and bringing them around. If he hadn't come to see you yet, believe me—he was on his way.” She laughed. “You'd have been putty in his hands. Trust me on that. Eddie Hackel could sell sand to a camel.”

The waitress returned. She tried to pick up the old wineglass and replace it with the new one, but Diana swatted at her hand; she wanted both glasses there before her, every drop available. The waitress shrugged and withdrew. Fine by her.

“When was the last time you spoke to your husband?”

“Thursday morning. I got to my hotel in Charleston on Wednesday night, too late to call him. So I tried him the next day. About nine, I think. I don't know. Check his cell.” She frowned. “You have his cell, right? It wasn't lost or—”

“We have it.” Hackel's phone and other personal items had been recovered from his hotel room by Deputy Mathers. The missed call from his wife was recorded in the log. That was the only recent activity. “Apparently he didn't take it with him when he left his room on Thursday afternoon.”

Diana frowned again, deeper this time. “That's weird. Eddie was one of those guys whose cell might as well be surgically attached to his ear. Never went
anywhere
without it.” She finished her glass of wine and immediately switched it out for the other one. The waitress drifted by again. Diana signaled her for another. “Look, can we wrap this up? I've got to get going pretty soon. Got to call my kids. Try to explain—” She pulled in a deep breath, and then released it again in the form of a heavy sigh. “Don't get me wrong. I'm glad you've got the bastard who killed him. I'm pleased as fucking punch. But I just wish I didn't have to stick around here during the trial, you know? This place is like poison to me now.
Poison
.” She drained her glass. The next one had just arrived.

“Had anyone made any threats against your husband? Did he mention being afraid of anyone?”

Diana gave her a sharp look. “I thought you already caught the guy.”

“We've charged someone, yes. But part of my job, Mrs. Hackel, is to make it clear that we've considered all the possibilities. That we didn't overlook anything.”

“Okay.” Diana flicked a fingernail several times against the side of her new glass, as if to welcome it to the grim party. “Yeah, he got some threats. I mean, sure, most of the people in your little town here think Mountain Magic's a great idea. Nice big shiny resort and all the business it'll bring. Some of them, though, think the opposite. They think it's just a bunch of rich guys looking for another place to party. And that it'll destroy the land. You know what? They're probably right. But good luck trying to stop it. Money wins. Always has, always will. End of story.”

Abruptly, Diana stood up. She was more than a little unsteady on her feet. She swayed for a few seconds, and then sat back down again. “Whoa,” she said.

Bell decided to take advantage of this unexpected coda. “The way I understand it, your husband was trying to persuade Royce Dillard to sell his property to Mountain Magic. Dillard said no, but your husband persisted. Really pushed him. Confronted him every time he had the chance. I take it that wouldn't surprise you.”

“Do you know any salesmen, Mrs. Elkins? If you did, you wouldn't ask me that. A ‘No' to a man like Ed Hackel didn't mean ‘No.' It meant, ‘Try again. Make me a better offer. Tempt me.' Anyway, ever since you arrested Dillard, people around here have been telling me about him. About how he's just plain nuts. Some kind of crazy loner, right? Maybe Eddie just ran into him on a bad day. Said the wrong thing. Maybe Dillard was off his meds. Whatever.”

She uttered a small belch, which didn't seem to embarrass her.

“Look,” Diana went on. “My husband was no saint. He had a quick temper and he—well, let's just say he liked to have a good time, okay? Partying was a big part of his job. Being sociable. Making sure everybody was nice and loose and happy. But he didn't deserve to die the way he did. Like I said, he was a good father. A really good father. He loved his kids. And you know what's so funny? Want to know what's so all-fired, goddamned funny?”

Bell didn't say anything, so Diana continued.

“This is really none of your business, but here goes. I'm pregnant again. Just found out last month.” She waved toward the wineglass. “I know. I know I shouldn't. Won't happen again. Swear. I just couldn't face—couldn't think about raising my kids without—Or the fact that this baby won't ever know—”

Diana stopped. She tried to compose herself. “That's what Eddie and I were going to talk about over dinner. The new baby. How everything had to change. He was talking about maybe coming home for good, maybe finding another job so he could do that. Was it ever going to happen? I don't know. But he was considering it. And that's the part that just tears me up inside.” Her head wobbled. The alcohol seemed to hit her in a wave. “He never got the chance to change.” She almost slid out of her seat.

Bell put a hand on her arm to help steady her. “You're not driving anywhere tonight, right?”

Diana shook her head. That didn't go well, and her face grew even paler from the brief slosh of nausea it brought. “Going back to my room. Calling the kids from there.”

“Speaking of your kids,” Bell said. She made her voice as casual as possible. “I hope your family will be okay. Financially, I mean. I assume your husband had a good life insurance policy.”

She'd had to ask. Collecting a life insurance settlement was the most glaringly conspicuous of motives for one spouse when the other one showed up dead—but it still happened. It happened all the time.

“Yeah, well, you know what?” Diana said. Her words were slurred, but filled with resentment. “When I told Eddie I was pregnant, he said he'd get himself a new policy. A much, much bigger one. 'Cause there'd be three kids now, not just two. That's what he promised me. But guess what? He canceled the old policy, all right. He just never signed the papers for the new one. Too busy, I guess. Too busy getting a bunch of hillbillies to sell their land.” She spat her next word. “Bastard.” All the warmth she'd expressed for her husband had vanished.

“When did you find out he'd never gotten the new policy?” Bell asked. She felt a rising excitement: This could be it. A plausible reason for someone other than Royce Dillard to have wanted Hackel dead.

“Couple of weeks ago,” Diana answered. “The insurance guy called me to check on it. That's why I needed to sit down with Eddie. To get him to promise to go sign the damned papers.”

Bell would have it checked out, of course, but if Diana's timeline was accurate, then the widow had known she'd derive no financial benefit from her husband's death. No motive there.

“That's a shame,” Bell said evenly.

“Well, thank God I've got my business.”

“So what kind of business is it?”

“Antiques. Still in the planning stages, but I'm going to open my own store back in Falls Church.” She paused, and then quickly added, “Dealer in Charleston's been advising me. The ins and outs. How to get started. The basics.” She shrugged. Bitterness seemed to stack up behind her next words, like cars at a roadblock. “Seems pretty goddamned pointless right now. Everything does, come to think of it.”

With that she lurched away, bumping into furniture as she left the bar, muttering
Fuckit
or
Dammit
each time her hip rammed a chair or an empty table. She kept on going, though, because if she wanted to leave, she had no choice. There was only one way out.

 

Chapter Sixteen

Lunch? Bell never had lunch. Lunch meant peanut butter crackers and a Diet Coke at her desk. Lunch meant the last broken-off piano key of a Kit Kat bar that she'd squirreled away in her purse a few days ago; if she brushed off the lint and dug out that funny green dot stuck to it, she'd be good to go. Lunch meant a fifth cup of coffee. Or lunch meant nothing. It was a time of day. That was all.

Lunch most certainly did not mean a date. Which was why, when David Gage called her a few minutes after ten on Tuesday morning and proposed just that—having lunch together—Bell was surprised, temporarily flummoxed by the very notion of a midday social event.
Well,
she'd replied.
I usually don't—well, I suppose that would be—well, okay. Sure. Okay.
Change was good, right?

At eleven forty-five Bell heard the voice of her secretary, Lee Ann Frickie, from Lee Ann's desk in the outer office: “Got company, Belfa.” Typically Lee Ann, who was sixty-seven years old but admitted it to no one but her doctor and the DMV, would use the phone to communicate, but Bell had left her door open all morning to accommodate a varied, in-and-out stream of appointments, and a slightly raised human voice seemed more effective in this case than any technology.

“Oh, and your sister called,” Lee Ann added. “Nothing urgent. Said to give her a jingle when you get a chance.”

Bell rose. By the time she'd come around from behind her desk, Gage was already standing in her office, his eyes making the circuit: the shoulder-high row of glass-fronted bookcases and their cargo of leather-bound law books; the leaded windows that looked out on the black-and-white streets of downtown Acker's Gap; and finally Bell's desk itself, an unimpressive block of orangey should-have-been-scrap lumber that some bamboozling furniture wholesaler had unloaded on the county decades ago.

“So this is it,” he said. “Your lair.”

She smiled at the word and, letting him take her hands in his, leaned toward him. Gage kissed her on the cheek. She did a quick internal check of what she felt at the exact moment of his kiss: Anything? Anything at all? Then she silently took herself to task.
If you've got to check,
Bell thought,
it's not there
.

She remembered—against her will, but the memory came of its own volition—what it felt like when she and Clay first kissed, that melting sensation that had rocketed her back to the emotions of adolescence, that perpetual restlessness, the sort that left you almost airborne, your senses on high alert.