Bullet Beach (24 page)

‘I can answer that,' Kowalski said.

‘Let's go,' Zarga said to Taupin, who stood and readied himself in the same casual manner that he would to leave a dinner table. ‘You have anything to say to or any questions to ask of my client, feel free to call me.'

He said this to Saddler, who said, ‘One more question. Is your client involved in any way with Colombia or Colombians?'

‘I occasionally have a cup of coffee,' Taupin said with a straight face. The two of them walked out.

Saddler turned to Kowalski. ‘Your turn.'

Kowalski sighed. ‘My coffee comes from Rawanda and Zimbabwe.'

‘Your Colombia comment, what was that about?'

‘Working on it.'

‘You better work pretty fast,' Collins said. ‘Taupin will be going to the press, armed with what went on here today. And your client will be raw meat thrown into the press cage.'

‘The nice thing is it can't ruin me financially,' Cross said, standing.

Lauren Saddler shook her head as she faced Cross.

‘You claim that Taupin was responsible for four deaths including his son-in-law and worse, his wife. Yet he let you witness it. My guess is that his clothing will not show gunpowder residue. My guess is that only your fingerprints will be on the weapon. And what were you doing there? You weren't invited. And the only thing you have on your side is a witness, who is your lawyer and friend.'

Cross had no idea why they weren't arresting him. He knew how all of this would look to a jury. Maybe Saddler read his mind.

She pulled him away from Kowalski and she spoke in a near whisper.

‘I know you didn't do it. There is no motive, but it sure as hell looks like you did. You have twenty-four hours, the time it will take for us to get the reports from the crime scene. After that, with the huge preponderance of evidence against you, I'll have no choice but to have you arrested, charged with murder, and request that the judge order you to be held in custody without bail.'

Once inside Kowalski's Ravenswood home, Cross settled on to the sofa and the attorney brought in a bottle of Powers Irish Whiskey, the bottle in one hand and two cups in the other. Casey had been at the door to welcome them, but seemed momentarily confused with the constant change in people and places as well as the odd times of their coming and going. Einstein didn't move. He was snuggled up with Kowalski's bulldog.

‘Saddler's trying to help,' Kowalski said as he poured a generous shot into Cross's glass. ‘So is Collins.'

‘I know.'

‘You have any thoughts?'

‘The two girls.'

‘Two?'

‘The one in the trunk and the one in Taupin's house. The maid who ran away when she saw what was going on.'

‘She saw what was going on?' Kowalski asked, an incredulous look on his face.

‘She saw me strapped in the chair . . .'

‘For God's sake, Cross why are you just telling me this now? Why didn't you say anything tonight?'

‘I'm still sorting all of this out. I didn't want Taupin to know about her. He might be able to find her faster than we can. And he'd kill her. I don't know, but I get the impression that she's an immigrant, probably illegal. If so, she's long gone. I just wanted to keep her out of it for as long as I could.'

‘And the one in the trunk?' Kowalski asked.

‘Look enough alike that they could be related. Hispanic probably.'

‘Colombian,' Kowalski said. ‘Same as . . .'

‘Yes.'

‘You're just now . . .'

‘It's just now coming together.' Cross took a deep sip. ‘Taupin told his wife that she screwed everything up. Then he shot her.'

‘We have to find the girl,' Kowalski said. ‘We find her, she says you were bound in the chair, it's over. You're free.'

He fumbled in his pockets for awhile, finally pulling out a few business cards. He sorted through them. He picked up his cell.

‘Collins,' Kowalski said connecting. ‘I know, I know. Without sleep we go crazy. But you're a big, strong guy. You can stay up a little longer. Listen, you have to talk to the cops up at the lake. We're looking for a young Latina.' He turned to Cross. ‘What does she look like?'

‘Maybe five-foot two, skinny, long black hair, brown eyes. Last seen she was wearing a black polyester uniform.'

Kowalski repeated the description for Collins. ‘Why? Because she saw Cross taped to the chair, maybe more. Fearing for her life, she took off. Possibly an immigrant. She could be undocumented. So she might be hiding. Hell,' he said, ‘she's got to be hiding.'

Where would she hide, Cross asked himself. Might she have family? If so, were they in danger? Did she go to the neighbors? If so, the local police would have found her by now. If she were illegal, she would hide from the police, probably from everybody.

She was the key to all of this. She would not only validate Cross's claim he was taped to the chair, she might very well know who the girl was in the trunk. And who might want Marshall Talbot dead? That was how all of this started, Cross trying to figure out who killed Talbot and the girl and why.

‘Get some sleep,' Kowalski said. ‘You all stay here tonight. We'll plot something out in the morning.'

Cross figured he only had tomorrow.

By morning he discovered he'd have to face it exhausted. It was a rough and tumble attempt at slumber. It ended with him wrapped in his bedclothes, struggling to get free. It was nearly a Gordian knot, a situation that paralleled his own. How could he do what he needed to do in one day?

Kowalski was up and had fed the menagerie before Cross finished his shower. He had scrambled eggs and made coffee for Cross, who took them out in the yard to get some fresh air by the river.

‘I'm beginning to feel like the little woman,' Kowalski said, stepping outside and lighting up a cigar.

‘Yep, the little woman,' Cross said. ‘Seeing you in a little cotton dress is the stuff of nightmares.' He sipped his coffee, looked at a branch moving down the river. He watched it hang up on the slight bend. ‘Speaking of cotton dresses, can we find out what the woman in the trunk was wearing?'

‘We can.'

‘Can we find out who in this little group of killers and dead people had a license to fly?'

‘We can. What did you do, have a telling dream last night?' Kowalski asked.

‘I went through every second of every event that led to this,' Cross said. ‘The guy with the shotgun, the police and the bodies in the trunk, Edelman's hanging, Lancaster's attack, and Raymond Taupin's blood-letting. That is when I wasn't strangling the pillow.'

‘So you know what this is all about?'

‘No. But I remember that the girl who peeked in and saw me at the lake house wore a black uniform. A maid's uniform. I thought then how strange. I didn't know that the hired help still dressed that way. The young woman in the trunk of the car I was sent to repo wore black. It didn't seem dressy. I think it was something a waitress would wear.'

‘Or maid,' Kowalski said.

‘Yes. She's probably an illegal alien. And if so, she's scared to death and probably has no place to go, let alone find a way to get there.'

Kowalski nodded. ‘And the license?'

‘They have a plane,' Cross said. ‘I want to know which one is the pilot in the family. I want to know who flew it. And when? Can you do all of this?'

‘And you, what are you doing?'

‘Going fishing.'

TWENTY-FOUR

Shanahan was treated as an outpatient at the hospital in Phuket City. No serious damage was done – a couple of cuts on the arm where flesh struck rock instead of sand. Some friction burns and some bruises. But no concussion, no fractures. He fared better than the cleaning woman whose death was now on him. If not for his nosing around, she would be alive. Sometimes, if people elect to become involved in a dangerous situation, the victims can be less than sympathetic. However, this woman made no such deal. Her death was senseless and her murderer need not expect mercy.

Shanahan was on his way in a couple of hours. But just
where
was up in the air. His room at the inn didn't exist. And even if it did, he didn't want to stay there.

He stopped to buy a few clothes and some toiletries and to make a few calls. One was to Cross to request that he pick up Maureen at the airport. Cross seemed distracted, Shanahan thought, but agreed to make sure Maureen would be met.

He also called Bangkok. As he waited in the hospital and saw how professional the doctors and nurses were, something that had troubled him earlier bubbled to the surface. He couldn't reconcile Channarong's professionalism with Billy the Kid's lack of it. The young man's absolute lack of discretion, not to mention the shabby shape the pistol was in, was an uncharacteristic recommendation. Shanahan had another discussion with his Bangkok guide.

Billy the Kid, said Channarong, was an ironic nickname. It was like calling a big guy ‘Tiny' or a fat guy, ‘Slim.' Billy was probably sixty and possessed a restrained personality.

Had Channarong heard from him?

‘Not since I called him. I hadn't heard from either of you,' Channarong said, ‘so I assumed everything went according to plan.'

‘Thanks,' Shanahan said. He took a tuk-tuk, a form of transportation Shanahan thought of as a lawnmower with an awning, from Phuket City back to Patong Beach. There he sat, sipping a beer, and thinking about the situation. The Germans had bothered him before merely by their rude presence and barely contained threat of violence in the bar. They bothered him more now.

Shanahan decided that since the little bar on the other, very quiet beach, was the center of activity, that's where Shanahan would set up camp. Maybe it was just keeping your enemies closer or maybe not. In the end, he had to stay somewhere and he'd bet this was pretty cheap lodging.

But first, he went to the hotel where he and Maureen had stayed. He talked with the manager who seemed more than a little uneasy. Could be the explosion. Could be he was in on it. Could be that he couldn't answer the question. Had Shanahan brought the violence upon his little inn or did he have some responsibility for keeping his customers safe? No. Quite likely another innocent victim in a greedy competition.

Shanahan asked if he had any messages. There were none. The police were eager to talk with him. Not that eager,Shanahan thought. They would have come by the hospital. Shanahan trampled through the debris in his room. The room smelled of sulphur, some of it the smell of burnt wood. The room was covered in a gray residue. There was a singed piece of string wound around the doorknob on the inside. He went to the corner closet and knelt down to open the room safe. It wasn't destroyed. And it was operable. Shanahan plucked the gun from the safe. He put it in the plastic bag that held his new clothes.

The man who was the bartender, waiter and landlord looked at Shanahan strangely. It could have been Shanahan's post-bomb apparel or that the elderly man's luggage was a plastic bag; but this didn't appear to be a place with prohibitively high standards.

The room, on the second floor, had a window that overlooked the ocean, but no balcony. It had no bath. The communal bathroom was down the hall. Everything in the room – a bureau, table, double bed – had been around awhile and showed it. On the other hand, the place was clean. One could mistake a closed window with an open one, the attention to cleanliness so observed. Even the bathroom, shared by the occupants of the six rooms on the floor, was spotless.

As nice as they were at the hospital, Shanahan hadn't showered and he had put on the old clothes. He went down the hall, his pistol buried under a towel, and showered in room temperature water, brushed his teeth, and put on his new clothing.

‘A shiny new nickel,' Shanahan said to his reflection. He put the revolver in the canvas bag he had bought for that purpose and slung the bag over his shoulder. A different person he was, Shanahan thought, with a beard and now with a bag, not to mention these strange clothes. He went downstairs to see if food was available in the bar. There was, in fact, rice and some sort of fish in curry sauce which tasted especially good with beer.

He wasn't wrong about the Germans. They were staying at the same place. They came stumbling down from their upstairs rooms, grousing and complaining as they spilled into the bar area a half hour after Shanahan sat down. When they saw Shanahan, the only other customer in the place, there was a wide-eyed moment, followed by silence. Their conversations were held in uncharacteristic low tones. Next came the stolen glances.

Their behavior simply confirmed what Shanahan already believed. Running into the Germans wasn't a coincidence. Maybe this kind of behavior wouldn't hold up as evidence in a real court, but it was the kind of evidence, supported by a healthy paranoia, that had kept Shanahan alive all these years.

The four bottles of beer arrived and the table of Germans went about their business. That left Shanahan's mind where it had begun to go before they got there – back to Maureen. He worried about the chilly parting. It wasn't the first time he'd felt this gulf between them, but it didn't happen often or last long. This one felt the deepest. It might be a while before it was resolved.

There were times when he would slip back into his old ways, a kind of chauvinism born of duty. She would have none of it. And she would occasionally try to manage his investigations. But Shanahan knew it was almost always about her wanting to be part of his life as well as her concern for his safety. Whatever difficulties they had with each other – and they were remarkably few – would be settled within hours if not minutes.