Chapter 30
Corrie Knox and Tucker Marsden had been out hunting the mountain lion since four A.M. They followed the big cat’s tracks through the pine forest above the north end of Lake Adeline. The trail led them to the skull of a fawn.
“Look,” Tucker told Corrie. “The fucker’s gone back to eating Bambis. All is right with the world again.”
Tucker held his rifle at the ready while Corrie knelt for a closer inspection of the young deer’s skull. She had a professional’s detachment about the demise of the fawn. Deer were the staple of a lion’s diet. It was one of their reasons for being. Even so, she felt a sense of foreboding as she looked at the fragment of bone.
“This is one hungry animal,” she said, rising. “It’s almost as if he knows he won’t be able to hunt much longer, so he’s gorging while he still can.”
She scanned the forest, not forgetting to look up.
Tucker said derisively, “Don’t go all mystical on me now. Let’s remember we’re the professionals here.” Then he paused to look around, too. “You know, I think that bastard’s not too far away. He could be watching us right now.”
“I feel the same way,” Corrie said.
“Heeeere, kitty, kitty, kitty,” Tucker crooned. “Come on out so we can put a couple rounds between those great big cat eyes of yours.”
The two game wardens stood back to back, rifles ready, straining to see any sign of the cat. The animal was close; they both sensed it. They also knew there was almost no chance they’d get so much as a glimpse of it, much less a clean shot.
“So what’s this chief of police you’re bunking with like?” Tucker inquired softly.
“We’re not bunking.”
“No?”
“No.”
“So, it’s platonic?”
“So far,” Corrie responded. If Tucker wanted to be so nosy, she thought, let’s see how he responded to that.
“Guy’s supposed to be a racist, if you can believe what you read in the paper,” Tucker said. He felt Corrie stiffen against his back.
She said, “He’s supposed to be in recovery, if you read closely.”
Tucker tried another tack. “Must be an older dude, being the chief of police and all.”
“Yeah, he’s older.”
There was a flash of movement through the trees that caused both hunters to bring their rifles to bear. But it wasn’t the lion, just a mature doe, perhaps the dead fawn’s mother. In the twinkling of an eye, she disappeared. Corrie and Tucker watched to see if the big cat, who they were sure was nearby, took up pursuit. But no chase ensued.
Their adrenaline drained and they slumped against each other.
“Kitty didn’t take off after Bambi’s mom,” Tuck said. “And there’s a lot more meat on her bones.”
“She’s a lot faster and stronger, too. Maybe our cat isn’t up to that kind of chase any more.”
“Would explain why he’s taken a fancy to us puny bipeds. So how
old
is this guy you’re not sleeping with?”
“Pretty old.”
“Like he could be your father?”
“Not that old.”
“Well, tell me he’s good looking at least.”
“He’s good looking … and he can hit a jump shot from the three-point line.”
Tucker laughed. “A cop
and
a jock. How phallic can you get?”
“Yeah. Its’ almost as bad a combination as a game warden who’s a rock climber — and we know how great that worked out. There is one difference between the two of you, though.”
“Yeah, he’s old.”
“The difference I meant is that Ron’s a grownup.”
“I’ll grow up when I get old.”
“I don’t want to wait.”
“Which was why we broke up.”
They let a long silence ensue, before Tucker finally filled it. “I hate to admit this, but if you get something good going with this guy, I’m happy for you.”
“Why do I feel there’s a kicker coming?” Corrie inquired.
“No kicker. I’m only sorry it couldn’t be me.”
“What, you got noble when I wasn’t looking?”
“Yeah … Makes you hot, doesn’t it?”
Corrie gave Tuck an elbow in the ribs, but not a hard one.
“You think your new friend is going to catch his killer?” Tuck asked.
Corrie paused a moment, then answered, “I don’t know. But I think he has to be doing at least as well tracking his quarry as we are with ours.”
The patrol unit carrying Officers Jack Dennehy and Bert Cardozo pulled up behind the chief’s car on Lake Shore Drive just outside of Jimmy Thunder’s estate. The two uniformed patrolmen walked over to where the chief sat waiting for them.
They greeted him with salutes, a gesture Ron appreciated after all of the various kinds of shit he’d been taking from people. After his confrontation with Marcus Martin, the chief had backed his unit onto the public thoroughfare and radioed Sergeant Stanley to send him the two senior patrol officers on duty.
“What can we do for you, Chief?” Dennehy asked.
Ron handed him a copy of the photo printout of Didi DuPree, along with DuPree’s rap sheet. Dennehy shared the material with his partner. The chief instructed his two officers, “Wait right here and watch for this guy. He may be on his way in or on his way out. Better for us if you collar him trying to get in. But either way, you make the arrest.”
“What’s the charge, Chief?” Cardozo wanted to know.
“Suspicion of murder. One look at this guy’s sheet, you know he’s bad. So be careful.”
“How careful, Chief?” Dennehy asked blandly.
“As careful as you have to be. I’ll back you whatever you do. But the point of all this is I want to talk with this guy.”
“Anything else we should watch out for?” Cardozo inquired.
“There’s a lawyer inside the gates name of Marcus Martin. He may try to give you some grief about harassing Jimmy Thunder. He gets in your faces, try to be polite. You’re public servants on a public street doing the public’s business.”
“Tell him to piss in his hat, only politely,” Cardozo said.
“Kid gloves all the way?” Dennehy wanted to know.
“As long as the only hassle he gives you is verbal, let it roll off your backs. But if DuPree shows up, don’t let Martin stop you from bringing him in.”
“Didi Du, straight to you. Gotcha, Chief,” Cardozo said.
Dennehy rolled his eyes. “He wants to do stand-up, Chief. Everybody’s a comedian but me. I don’t have a fucking sense of humor at all. I’ll make sure we bring this mope in if he shows.”
Ron had considered replacing Cardozo, and Dennehy had seen what he was thinking. The cop interceded for his partner.
“Really, Chief. Bert’ll be okay. And he’ll do better than me talking to this lawyer, if he comes out. I hate fucking lawyers. Especially since my divorce.”
Now the chief wondered if he should replace them both. Maybe have Oliver and Caz Stanley sit out here. But he didn’t want to take the time or cause any griping in the ranks. He’d have to trust them.
“Okay. Just remember, don’t underestimate DuPree.”
The two cops saluted again, and Ron left.
That, he hoped, was one chore taken care of. Now he had to keep his cool when he confronted Special Agent Francis Horgan of the FBI — even though the fed had sicced Marcus Martin on him, trying once again to screw him and hijack the Isaac Cardwell case.
As Ron drove off, he got the first glimmer of an idea that might let him turn things around on Horgan. In fact, he might take things one of two ways, depending on his mood.
Clay Steadman looked at the memo Ron Ketchum had routed to him, and he had the same thought the chief had:
Punch
a mountain lion? Even for an icon of the Hollywood fantasy factory, the notion seemed a reach. But there it was in black and white along with all of the other do’s and don’ts of dealing with your local feline carnivores.
The chief wrote to the mayor that Warden Knox thought these safety tips should be publicly disseminated, and he was deferring to her expertise. He suggested that the tips could be posted on the home page of the town’s website immediately, a press release could be drafted for the noon news, and the mayor could discuss the tips on his evening TV program.
What Ron Ketchum hadn’t mentioned was that publicizing the information would frighten the public more. If ignorance was bliss, a public warning meant something was closing in on you fast. The increased public tension would make both the mayor’s job and the chief’s job harder. But Clay Steadman didn’t believe in keeping people in the dark. Democracy worked best, in his view, when the BS was kept to an absolute minimum. And secrecy generated nothing but BS.
The mayor was pleased that the man he’d hired for his chief of police seemed to feel the same way. His thoughts were interrupted when his secretary buzzed him and announced that the deputy chief of police was in the outer office and requested a moment of the mayor’s time.
“Send him in,” the mayor said.
Oliver entered the mayor’s office and saluted smartly.
The two men had met several times, but didn’t really know one another personally. Oliver Gosden was Ron Ketchum’s hire, and Clay Steadman’s approval of that hiring had been routine.
“That’s not necessary,” the mayor informed the deputy chief.
“It’s not?” Oliver asked, dropping his arm.
“Simple good manners are all I ever expect from anyone. Have a seat, Deputy Chief.”
Oliver sat down.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m trying to get a line on a suspect in the Cardwell killing, Mr. Mayor. This particular suspect is a foreign national. I was sure he’d have a criminal record, but NCIC and Interpol say he’s clean.”
“But you still think he isn’t?”
“What the man does, he writes celebrity biographies. But what he really is, he’s a character assassin. Only when I look at him, I think he might’ve carried the assassination part one step further to help his book along.”
Clay Steadman recognized and accepted the necessity of dealing with the mainstream media. But his opinion of paparazzi and attack biographers was that they were bacteria in search of an antibiotic.
“What’s this guy’s name?”
“Colin Ring.”
“He’s a Brit?” the mayor asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I know some studio people who do book acquisitions. That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it, Deputy Chief? See if this character has done something that hasn’t made the police blotter, but still doesn’t pass the smell test.”
“That’s just what I had in mind, Mr. Mayor.”
“I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.”
Oliver stood and almost saluted again, but he caught himself.
“I appreciate your help,” he said.
“That’s what I’m here for,” the mayor replied. “You’re married, aren’t you, Deputy Chief?”
“Yes, sir.”
“After things calm down around here I’d like to have you and Mrs. Gosden out to the house for dinner. So we can all get to know each other a little better.”
“I’d like that, too.”
If only he could get over the urge to salute the man every ten seconds.
Ron found Francis Horgan where he expected him to be — at the Hilton. It was just the kind of all American place where a fed was bound to stay. Clean, comfortable and more justifiable on the old expense account than the Ritz-Carlton .
The Hilton, like every other hostelry in town, was supposed to be sold out. But law enforcement people knew that every good hotel manager held back at least one suite for his boss, his girlfriend, or the president of the United States: some person of significance who might drop in unexpectedly.
Accordingly, the suite was one of the best the hotel had to offer. And if you were an important minion of the federal government, like Francis “the Feeb” Horgan, why, you got a discount. Good corporate PR. Ron, however, was less than thrilled that Horgan got to live the good life at taxpayer expense while he fucked around with Ron’s investigation.
“Would you like me to call up and announce your arrival?” the hotel manager asked the chief.
“No,” Ron said. “Let’s make it a surprise. Mr. Horgan and I enjoy playing our little tricks on one another.”
Knowing his bread was buttered locally, the manager graciously acceded to the chief’s wish.
Which let Ron brush right past the junior feeb who opened the door to the suite. The guy didn’t have time to do more than shout, “Hey!” before Ron found Horgan enjoying his breakfast on a balcony with a panoramic view of Lake Adeline.
Seeing that the table had been democratically set to include Horgan’s lessers — two in number judged by the place settings — Ron decided the initial part of his play. He seated himself as if he had an engraved invitation in his hand. He took a croissant from a basket and poured himself a cup of coffee. He helped himself to fruit salad and scrambled eggs. Not bothering to look at Horgan, he started to eat his fruit salad.