The Hunting Wind: An Alex McKnight Mystery (22 page)

“My thought exactly,” he said. “I’ve got his number here if you want it. I don’t know if we should just call the guy or not. What do you think?”

“Good question,” I said. “Let’s think about that one.”

“Okay, so you want the other plate now? It gets better.”

“How can it get better?” I said. “We know it’s Maria, right?”

“The plate is registered to Maria Zambelli,” he said. “The address given is on Romney Street in Farmington.”

“Leopold’s house,” I said.

“Right.”

“So now we know the last name she’s using these days. Where’s the ‘better’ part?”

“That name, Alex. Zambelli. It sounded familiar to me. I was sitting here for a half hour trying to remember where I’ve heard it before.”

“And?”

“You remember when you came back up here after you were done running around with Randy? What did you tell me?”

“Hell, I don’t know. I told you what happened. About how we ended up at Leopold’s house.”

“And about how you were kidnapped and held hostage in the basement.”

“All right, Leon, I don’t have to relive the whole thing now. What’s your point?”

“You told me that they thought you were working for this guy named Harwood, right? That’s why they did that to you?”

“Yeah?”

“And when you told me that, what did I say?”

“I don’t honestly remember. I’m sorry.”

“I told you we should try to find out about Harwood, so we could help them, right?”

“Okay, I remember now. And I said forget about it.”

“Exactly. And do you think I just forgot about it?”

“Knowing you, no,” I said. “Now that you mention it.”

“I just poked around a little bit, Alex. On the Internet, looking up the name Harwood.”

“Okay, what did you find, Leon?”

“Nothing,” he said. “At least it seemed like nothing at the time. I was searching through a database of old newspaper articles, looking for any hits on Harwood. You know, like if I found an article about a man named Harwood being arrested for stalking somebody. Something like that. But I came up empty. So I let it go. But then I remembered, somewhere when I was looking, I saw those two names together. Harwood and Zambelli.”

“Where did you see them together, Leon? Were you able to go back and find it?”

“Sure, all I had to do was go back and look for any articles that had both of those names,” he said. “I’ve got it right here. Harwood-Zambelli, Incorporated. A real estate development company, formed in 1969. They were mentioned in a state investigation in 1977 after purchasing an acreage lot from the state. There
was some suspicion of bid tampering, but no charges were ever filed.”

“Harwood-Zambelli,” I said. “Any first names in the article?”

“No, but I’m gonna keep looking.”

“Real estate, huh? Just out of curiosity, where’s the land they bought?”

“It’s up near Traverse City,” he said.

“A couple hours north of here,” I said. “Do you have anything else on that?”

“That’s all I have right now,” he said. “I just thought you’d like to know. Assuming there’s a connection.”

“Be a hell of a coincidence if it isn’t,” I said. “Damn it, Leon, you do good work, even when you’re sitting on your ass all day.”

“So what are you going to do now?” he said.

I looked out at Maria’s car, less than thirty feet away. “I’m feeling a little dry,” I said. “I’m gonna go have a drink.” I hung up, got out of the truck, and walked right through the front door.

Nothing happened. It wasn’t at all like the scene in the saloon, when the gunslinger pushes open the swinging doors and the piano stops playing and everybody looks up. Nobody even noticed me. They all went on eating their breakfasts or brunches or drinking their early beers.

Maria was in the same spot as the night before. She sat reading a newspaper, with an empty plate on the bar in front of her. I went right over and sat down next to her.

“Ms. Zambelli,” I said. “Good morning.”

She put her paper down and looked at me. It was my first chance to see her up close, and for the love of God, she had eyes that could make a man write poetry.

Or hell, even sing Romeo’s song. In French.

The last woman I had known with eyes like that was Sylvia Fulton, and those eyes had owned me for a year and a half before she finally went away. Maria’s eyes were darker, but they had that same way of making you feel like you were losing your balance when you looked into them.

“Do I know you?” she said.

The bartender stepped in before I could say anything. He leaned over the bar until his face was about twelve inches from mine, and he said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

When I had first hit this town the night before, it seemed a little strange that I’d found Maria so quickly. Just walked into the only bar, and there she was. But then it hadn’t taken long to see why she could hide in plain sight like this. There were certainly enough well-armed men around to come to her rescue.

“Your name’s Harry, if I recall,” I said. “Where’s Rocky? I wanted to say hello to him when I came in.”

“You’ve got ten seconds to get out of here,” he said.

“Yeah, count to ten,” I said. “That always works for me.” I threw a couple bills on the bar. “And then get me a beer.”

He didn’t look down at the bills. He didn’t get me a beer. Instead, he took exactly one step backward and
then, without taking his eyes off me for a second, grabbed the phone off the wall.

“Hold on, Harry,” she said. “Before you arrest him, let’s hear what the man has to say. It might be good for a laugh.”

“Now why on earth would you arrest me?” I said to him. “I’m just sitting here trying to buy a beer.”

He didn’t say anything. I could see his knuckles whiten as he gripped the phone.

“Never mind,” I said. “I’m sure you guys would think of something.”

“We’re waiting to hear your story,” she said. She picked up her pack of cigarettes and pulled one out. “Do you have a light?”

“I don’t smoke,” I said.

Harry put the phone down and produced a lighter. As he held it to the tip of her cigarette, once again he never took his eyes off me for a second. The man was talented.

“You like having big men around to look after you, don’t you,” I said.

“You’re not exactly a lightweight yourself,” she said. “I have to admit, you’re put together better than any of those other men Charles has sent after me.”

“By Charles, I assume you mean Mr. Harwood?”

“Aren’t you the guy who’s been following me around in the white Cadillac the last couple days?”

“No, ma’am,” I said. “I drive a truck.”

“Well, who the hell are you, then?” she said. “No, wait. Let me guess.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and then blew the smoke straight upward. “I bet you I know. My brother told me a couple men came by his house last week looking for me. Mother
convinced him that Charles didn’t send them, but Leo’s still not convinced.”

“I thought your brother hates being called Leo,” I said.

“Aha, so you
were
one of those men,” she said. “I thought he sent you on your way without telling you where I was.”

“Ms. Zambelli,” I said. “Maria.” Harry bristled when I said her name, like I had taken an indecent liberty. “Didn’t your brother tell you who we were?”

“I think he mentioned a couple names,” she said, taking a drag on her cigarette. “I don’t remember them.”

“My name is Alex McKnight,” I said. “Which shouldn’t mean anything to you. But the man I was with was Randy Wilkins.”

She looked at me without saying anything. After a long moment, she looked away.

“Do you remember him?” I said.

“He’s the man who was shot here a couple days ago,” she said. “That’s where I’ve heard that name. The chief told me.” She looked up at Harry, but he didn’t notice. He was too busy watching me.

“Yes,” I said. “Randy was looking for you. Do you remember him? From thirty years ago?”

“No,” she said. “That was a long time ago.”

I hesitated. “You don’t remember him? Your mother did. As soon as she saw him.”

“My mother has a good memory,” she said. “It’s one of her many gifts. Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit most of them.”

“My God,” I said. “I don’t believe this. You’re telling me you don’t remember him. And he didn’t find
you here? I mean, before he got shot? He didn’t talk to you at all?”

“Harry,” she said. “You’ve got some customers waiting on you.” She nodded her head toward two men on the other side of the bar. They were standing over two empty glasses and looking like their patience was about used up.

Harry didn’t move. He kept watching me.

“Go ahead,” she said. “I think he’s harmless. You can go ahead and frisk him if it’ll make you feel better.”

He backed away slowly and went over to the two men. He kept watching me as he poured out a couple drafts.

Maria put her hands together in front of her face. Without looking at me, she whispered something.

“I can’t hear you,” I said.

“Shhhhh,” she said in a low voice. She kept her hands in front of her face. “Just act natural. Tell me you made a mistake and then leave. In twenty minutes, I’ll go out to my car. Just follow me.”

She brought her hands down and put out her cigarette. She jabbed it in the ashtray like she was punishing it. “I’m sorry,” she said out loud as Harry came back to us. “I don’t remember a Randy Wilkins. The name means nothing to me.”

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in my truck, watching the front door, wondering if my new friend Harry would be coming out to ask me why I was still on the premises. The sun had just come out, a rare event on any of Michigan’s shorelines in mid-April. Maria stepped out into the sunlight and stood there blinking for a moment. She was short and compact, like her brother, Leopold. But where Leopold had muscles, Maria had curves. She looked around the parking lot and saw me sitting there in my truck. She stared right at me for a long time, her head tilted a little to the side. Then she went over to her red Mustang and got in.

She pulled out of the parking lot. I followed her as she took a left toward the center of town. At the intersection, I saw Stu outside pumping gas, but he didn’t look up at either one of us. Maria took a left at the traffic light and went west, toward the shoreline. I lost sight of her for a few seconds; then when I saw her car again, it was stopped in front of the boat launch. I pulled in next to her.

She jumped out of her car, opened my passenger door, slid into the cab, and then closed the door behind her. “Tell me everything you know,” she said. She opened up a black leather bag and left her right hand inside it.

“You don’t waste time,” I said. “And do you mind telling me what kind of gun you have in that bag?”

“Somebody will see us,” she said. “Just tell me. Is he going to live?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “The doctor says they’re going to operate on him. A fragment went up into his brain.”

“I can’t believe this is happening.” Her right hand stayed in the bag. I imagined a little revolver with a pearl handle. At least it wasn’t a shotgun.

“I’m supposed to call the hospital later,” I said. “The doctor may have a better idea then.”

“How do you know Randy?” she said. “You’re a friend of his?”

“I was an old teammate of his. He came to me last week and asked me to help him find you. He told me all about how he met you in Detroit, back in 1971.”

“You were his teammate then? In Detroit? I’m sorry, I’m trying to remember you . . .”

“No, we played ball together in Toledo. He got called up in September, but I didn’t. So I wasn’t around when he met you.”

“Why did he say he was trying to find me?”

“Maria, I don’t blame you for being careful, but I’ve had too many guns pointed at me this week. It’s starting to get to me.”

“It’s not pointed at you,” she said. “I’m just holding it.”

“Either you trust me or you don’t,” I said. “If you don’t, then get out of the truck and I’ll be on my way.”

She pulled her right hand out of the bag. For one frozen instant, I saw a flash of something white in her hand.

It was a hairbrush.

I took a breath. “Remind me to never play poker with you,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “After all I’ve been through . . . Well, never mind. Just tell me what he said. Why was Randy trying to find me?”

“He said some pretty crazy things. About running out on you back then, and still thinking about you all these years later. And then suddenly deciding that he had to find you again.”

“My God,” she said.

“Of course, now I know he was probably trying to scam you.”

She looked at me. She didn’t say anything.

“We ended up at your brother’s house,” I said. “You know about that. I thought it was all over. I thought he went back to California. Then I found out he came here and got himself shot.”

She looked out the window. The sun went behind a cloud, turning the lake a different shade of green.

“Maria,” I said. “I swear, I had no idea he was a criminal. Not until the chief told me.”

“You hadn’t seen him at all in what, thirty years?” she said. “You had no contact with him?”

“No,” I said.

“And then he just comes back and asks you to help him? Why did he do that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Because I live in Michigan. Because I know Detroit.”

“And why did you help him?”

“I don’t know that, either,” I said. “Because he asked me to. Because I thought he was looking for you for a good reason. Or at least a harmless reason.
I had no idea he was trying to scam you. Although I suppose it makes sense now. His racket is real estate, and I assume this has something to do with Zambelli-Harwood. . . .”

She looked me in the eyes. “How do you know about that?”

“My partner,” I said. “He found an old news article. He just told me about it. The Zambelli in the name, is that you, or . . .”

“My husband,” she said. “My late husband. Har-wood killed him.”

I didn’t say anything. The words hung in the air.

A car drove by on the road behind us. Maria slid down in her seat.

“When we were in the bar,” I said, “why didn’t you want Harry to know you recognized Randy’s name?”