Hard Cold Winter (10 page)

A
T EIGHT THE NEXT
morning I was carefully shaving around the scar that followed my jawline. The slim furrow had a bad habit of catching the razor. I’d long since learned that going very slowly was the only way to keep from adding another mark to my face.

Leo had still been awake when I’d gotten in the night before from A. Borealis. He’d nodded hello and then gone back to reading a year-old
Sport
magazine. Dono had subscribed to the UK weekly to follow the Ulster coverage. Addy Proctor had collected Dono’s mail while I’d been overseas, and a tall stack of issues had grown in the front room.

I’d heard Leo go out around midnight. This morning he was still gone, and his pack was leaning against the hearth.

As I scraped the stubble from my face I thought about Kend Haymes’s strange flock of friends. Suspicious Charlie Shearman. Controlled Barrett Yorke. And her loyal and potentially spine-cracking brother, Parson. Were they just circling the wagons around one of their own, out of class courtesy? Maybe they did care for Elana, but more so for
Kend. Or perhaps there were secrets between friends that the new guy with the suspect pedigree should never know.

And Trudy Dobbs. I’d see if I could get a line on her. Had she been gone on vacation before any of this went down? Or had she left in a hurry?

I had an hour before my appointment, or whatever it was, with Maurice Haymes. Charlie Shearman had done me a small favor, without meaning to. I hadn’t considered whether the Haymes family might be worried I was going to sue them. That might be the reason for Maurice’s sudden urge to meet me. Hell, maybe they were thinking about suing
me
, just for hiking over their private land.

Over breakfast I found Trudy’s profile online. Her latest post showed a stock picture of a tropical beach at sunset, with the caption
Off for a week in Paradise!!! See you later!!
It was followed by a couple of dozen replies, including one from Barrett, marveling at her trip and asking where she was going. There was no response from Trudy.

The time stamp on the post was near nine thirty in the morning on Saturday. Elana and Kend had been shot sometime Friday night.

It could be coincidence. Trudy leaves at the end of the workweek, for a vacation off the grid. Her bestie Elana and Kend go to the cabin, also away from civilization. Taken separately, neither event sounded unusual. But put them together, and I was very interested in talking to Trudy Dobbs.

On my way out to the truck I heard Stanley woof excitedly, from down the block.

Leo was standing in the street outside Addy Proctor’s house, holding a stunted length of heavy rope. He tossed it high in the air and Stanley leapt to catch it. As I came closer I spotted Addy sitting in her usual wicker chair on the porch, wearing a white snowsuit trimmed with fake fur. Stanley’s leash lay on the table next to her.

“Drop,” Addy said. Stanley chewed on the chunk of rope, and danced side to side, his eyes on Leo. Leo didn’t move. His attention was as focused on the dog as Stanley’s was on him. Addy repeated the command. Stanley set the rope down and ran in a big circle, off the street
and into the lawn, tearing up wads of earth and grass, and back to Leo again. I walked over the mud-splattered flagstones to Addy. She tutted.

“Ready for Westminster,” I said.

“Ready for a nap,” she said, “just too excited to know it.”

Leo picked up the rope and tossed it again. Stanley’s pale flanks were covered with his own slobber and splashes of dirt.

“Everything okay?” I said.

“With me and Stanley, sure,” said Addy, speaking under her breath. “I don’t know about your friend.”

“Leo’s safe.”

“Well of course he’s safe. I’ve never seen Stanley take to someone so quickly. But he’s been throwing that toy for an hour, with hardly a word beyond saying hello. I never even had to start our morning walk.”

“How’d you know he was with me?”

“From what I choose to see as an advantage of being old. I hardly sleep more than two hours at a time. Mister Pak was sitting out on your stone steps half the night, without the decency to smoke like I do, and then I suppose he went for a long walk. Stanley and I met him when we came out. I had to take the first step to make introductions.”

No kidding. “Leo’s the quiet type.”

Addy frowned at me. “Give me more credit. I’ve worked in hospitals. I saw plenty of young men there, after Vietnam.”

“Okay. So you know. Leo takes life piece by piece, I think.”

“As do we all.”

“I’ll ask him to join me this morning.”

“Nonsense. Leave them be. If Stanley sleeps through lunch I’ll save hundreds on dog food.”

I nodded to Leo as I passed, and he nodded back. Happy. Maybe.

THE COLUMBIA TOWER ELEVATOR
opened on the thirty-fourth floor to reveal three large letters in brushed steel on the opposite wall. HDC. The glass door separating the offices from the elevator bank elaborated that the letters stood for Haymes Development/Construction.

The receptionist managed to leap to attention while remaining seated when I told her whom I was there to see. She picked up her phone to announce my arrival, and then whisked me to the far end of the building, past a couple of hundred office people doing office things. I didn’t see anyone who looked like an actual construction worker.

We reached a set of large wooden double doors. Maurice Haymes’s name was on the right-hand door in the same aluminum letters as in the lobby, but smaller. Downright humble.

The receptionist didn’t pause, but opened the door and nodded me inside.

Haymes’s office was about the same square footage as the ground floor of my house. There was a full-sized conference table made of dark walnut, and another sitting area with a coffee table and club chairs.

The man standing behind the giant wraparound desk looked enough like Kend for me to know I was looking at Maurice Haymes. His short red curls were liberally sprinkled with gray. He wore a dress shirt and tie, but his jacket was draped over his chair. He looked fit and energized.

“Mr. Shaw, please come in,” Haymes said, in a voice that an anchorman would have envied.

Another man was sitting in a chair in front of the desk. He angled himself to look at me, but didn’t stand. Even sitting, he was very tall, and very thin. About the same age as Maurice Haymes, sixtyish, and immaculately dressed in a gray three-piece suit and tie with a Windsor knot.

“Thank you, Bonnie,” said the thin man in the chair. The receptionist nodded and left, closing the door.

Haymes came around to shake my hand firmly. “I’m pleased you could come and see us, Mr. Shaw. I’m Maurice Haymes. This is Arthur Ostrander.”

Ostrander nodded. His gray hair was combed straight back from a widow’s peak.

“Please,” said Ostrander, gesturing to the chair the chair across from him. I sat down. He leaned back in his chair, seemingly satisfied to have us both at the same altitude.

Haymes sat on the edge of the desk. “First of all, Mr. Shaw, I want to say thank you for what you did for my son.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Kend was—everything a father could want. I truly do not understand what may have happened.”

Haymes’s sorrow sounded authentic. Maybe it was. But his polished manner gave everything that he said the impression that he was working from a script.

Ostrander jumped in. “We understand from the county sheriff’s office that you frightened away the animal. That took some courage.”

“Perhaps not for a soldier,” said Haymes.

Ostrander nodded. “Indeed. But we wanted to talk to you about something else. Could we offer you a coffee first?”

I was starting to get dizzy from the glad-handing. “I’m fine, thank you. You’re an attorney, Mr. Ostrander?”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a concern?”

“Just trying to understand why we’re all here.”

“Of course, of course.” Ostrander tried on a sympathetic smile. His gaunt face and widow’s peak made him look like a cartoon mortician. “It’s a difficult time for the family. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

“For Elana’s family, too.”

“Yes. You knew Miss Coll?”

“When we were kids.”

“And her uncle? William Willard?”

They were well informed. I shouldn’t be surprised. The Haymes name probably swung enough weight to have cops and hospital workers lining up to share details about the case.

“Was Kend in trouble?” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“In trouble. Under stress. Did you know of any reason he might have hurt Elana, and himself? Stop me if you want to take these one by one.”

Ostrander stiffened. “That’s hardly your—”

“I want to ask you for your help, Mr. Shaw,” said Haymes. “We’re
as upset by Miss Coll’s death as you are. She was a victim. But I believe Kend was, too, of his own emotions. Perhaps one day we’ll understand. For now, all we can do is deal with the pieces.”

“What sort of help?”

“Kend worked for HDC. Not full-time, you understand, but he was a trusted employee. He had taken some HDC property with him to the cabin, we believe. Boxes of documents which he was sorting through for me. Did you notice those, while you were—with Kend and Elana?”

Documents. I looked at Ostrander, who was poker-faced, and back to Haymes. “Not that I saw.”

“You wouldn’t have missed them, the boxes would be large. The material isn’t top secret—not like the information you’ve had clearance to see, I’m sure.” Haymes gave me a manly smirk. “But it is proprietary. The documents might be of interest to competitors, and we would like them back.”

“I imagine. But they weren’t there.”

“You’re certain?”

“Like you said, I wouldn’t have missed them.”

Haymes looked at me. He didn’t say anything. Despite his strong energy, there were bags of fatigue under his eyes that even the year-round tan couldn’t fully conceal.

“Perhaps Kend was working with the files elsewhere,” said Ostrander. “Miss Coll may have had another apartment.”

“Would you keep an eye out for those, Mr. Shaw?” prompted Haymes. “I’d consider it a personal favor.”

Ostrander gave a slow nod. “Should you happen across any HDC property, we would of course reimburse you for your efforts.”

“Handsomely,” Haymes said. “You have served your country with valor. In Iraq and Afghanistan, and elsewhere.” He paused, maybe to let me be impressed by the extent of their reach. “It can’t be easy to reintegrate after so long away. This could lead to bigger things. Much bigger.”

He stood up off the desk. The interview was over. Ostrander made a business card appear and handed it to me without getting up.

“Good luck, Mr. Shaw. I do hope we’ll speak again,” Haymes said,
giving me another handshake of precisely the same firmness as the first one.

THE COLUMBIA ELEVATOR WAS
fast, but going down thirty-three floors still gave me time to think.

Boxes. Of papers. I could believe the first part, because of what I had seen, or hadn’t, in the back of Elana’s Volvo hatchback. That empty space could have held plenty of large, heavy cartons. But if Haymes and Ostrander really thought I was buying the part about proprietary documents, I should be insulted.

Still, they had painted the carrot a nice bright orange.
Get whatever Kend had at the cabin back for us, and we’ll make it worth your time.

It was an easy bet that the alarm schematic I’d found in Kend’s apartment was linked to the boxes Haymes and Ostrander were so eager to reacquire. Taken from HDC or one of its many sister companies by Kend himself, most likely.

So why ask me, and not pressure the cops, or hire some P.I. to track down their precious boxes?

Ostrander had asked me about Willard. It wasn’t a long jump to assume they knew about the big man’s criminal history. They had also pulled a few strings to learn my military record. In which case, they might have dug deep enough to learn about Dono.

I could follow their reasoning. Willard’s a crook. Dono was a crook. So maybe Elana and I are as well. And I happened to be at the scene, with two dead bodies and however many missing mystery boxes.

I modified my previous thought about the carrot:
Give us our stuff back, and we’ll pay you your ransom.

Back in the Columbia’s underground garage, I turned the corner to walk down the long ramp. The garage was brightly lit, maybe to reduce the tomb-like feeling of being a hundred feet below ground underneath a skyscraper. The workday morning ensured that every parking space was filled. A flash of light caught my eye.

Near my pickup truck.

I ducked and moved silently down the row of parked cars. Someone was near the truck, only an outline from behind. The light shone again. A small flashlight. And the door of the truck was open.

The figure turned slightly and I crouched behind a Prius’s fender. It was a man, broadly built, and dressed in a suit and tie.

The stocky man who had unlocked Kend’s apartment, and taken his computer.

He quietly closed the door on the cab of the truck. Then he shone the light through the canopy’s smoked glass, taking a scan of the pickup’s bed. I was very grateful that I had removed the Persian rug with Dono’s rifles and pistols at the house.

The stout guy walked around to the far side of the truck. I slipped past the few cars between us. The last car was a black Acura RLX Sport. List price about sixty K. Factory alarm standard.

I stomped on the Acura’s bumper. The horn blared and the flashing lights threw the man’s startled face into view through the canopy windows. He rushed to the rear again. As he rounded the corner of the truck we collided. In the tangle of limbs I lifted his wallet from his breast pocket.

He swiped at it. “Give that—”

I sidestepped, already looking at the driver’s license.

“Rudolph Rusk,” I read, almost shouting over the klaxon shriek of the Acura. I matadored him as he lunged again. With the echo in the garage, it was like being inside an air-raid siren. Rusk stopped trying to catch me. He wasn’t built for chasing.