Lake Charles (23 page)

Taking vacation didn’t thrill my boss. There was too much strife. My old temptation to chuck it all and hit the road shook me again. Go north, young man for Alaska or bust. I’d get with my dad Angus. That was the right stuff. We’d drink, laugh, and fish. We’d cheer on the Iditarod. We’d do many things.

Then a new image crystallized of Cobb, young and happy, gunning his bass boat over Lake Charles. I liked seeing him that way and not immured inside of King Tut’s tomb we left on the mountaintop. More fear gripped me when Edna lost and dazed somewhere beyond Will Thomas Mountain staggered into my imaginings. Where had she gone? Had Sizemore captured her? Had she made it to dry land? Of course she did. No body of water ran deep enough to drown her. She was a tough cookie.

It’d been good to touch home. The trip back to my cab truck was a slow walk. Clay-streaked and dented, it showed its true age in the brassy sun. A silver-armored Airstream clanked by traveling on the two-laner. The Florida snowbirds were getting an early jump on their winter exodus. I yearned to hitch on and leave with them, but all of my reveries never once set me in motion.

I hoisted into the cab truck, and we departed. Tuesday had turned hot and muggy, but the warm air fanned through the open windows over us. Mr. Kuzawa captained the wheel. His wolflike eyes flashed between the mirrors, but I spotted no bogeys lurking in mine.

“Sizemore grows his cash crop and pockets his profits,” said Herzog. “He keeps a raft of corrupt officials on his payroll. Do you see the odds you’re bucking, Brendan?”

“It’s not all bad. Judge Yarrow granted me bail.”

“As a maverick judge, she’s the rare exception,” said Herzog. “She’s on a medical leave of absence. Skin treatments, I heard, so we’ve got our work cut out for us. I’m not being funny either.”

“Speaking of funny, here’s one for you,” said Mr. Kuzawa. “Last night a jangling phone woke me, and it wasn’t mine.” He angled a hard glance at Herzog.

“There’s no phone in Room 7.” I joined in with Mr. Kuzawa’s glare.

“Guys, I just left a message for my secretary to obtain a status update,” said Herzog. “She returned my call, and we talked for six minutes, maybe more. Stuff is perking at the office. For one thing, there’s Brendan’s case to consider. Her callback must be what disturbed you. My apologies.”

My question went to Mr. Kuzawa. “Did you overhear what he really did say?”

“No. Late at night he likes to mutter.”

“Oh yeah? Whenever we talk, he speaks right up. What gives, Counselor?”

“Use your heads. I lowered my voice because those walls are paper thin. Disturbing your rest wasn’t my intent.”

“Who is your office help?” I asked.

“You know Salem Rojos works for me. She’ll go into pre-law at my alma matter. Satisfied? Or do we stop at the next coin phone, and ask her to corroborate my claim?”

My curt words beat down his stuffy defensiveness. “Yeah, I know Salem, but Herzog, I don’t like you. I never have since the first day Mama Jo hired you to be my lawyer.”

“Brendan, you’re skating on thin ice. Mighty thin. Insult me again, and I’ll drop your case.”

I bit my tongue. Lawyers were a necessary evil.

Mr. Kuzawa felt no constraints. “Here on, you stay within eyeshot, lawyer. Another screwy move like last night and I’ll slit your throat with my Buck knife. Promise.”

“Save your threats, Kuzawa. They don’t ruffle me. Working in criminal jurisprudence, I hear them daily. Vulgarity just goes with the territory.”

“Hearing vulgarity and experiencing it is like apples and oranges,” said Mr. Kuzawa.

The hangdog lawyer said nothing.

* * *

The majestic sycamores cast their pools of shade over our cruise. A part of me wanted to go off and lounge under them, fall asleep, and demand that the dreams reveal everything to me. Then a big “what if” fear raked me. What if my dreams refused to play out to the end? What if they balked at unraveling more threads to Ashleigh’s narrative? Where did that leave me? In the lurch, that’s where.

Cobb had died for no sensible cause. The shadowy driver parked in the wine-colored sedan at the Chewink Motel hectored me. My manhunt to go after Ashleigh’s killer had hit a sand trap. Worst of all, we’d gotten no closer to reaching the wayward Edna. The base of my stomach fell free. I fished out her yellow parrot barrette from my pocket. The talisman offered me the physical proof that she’d been through the pot growers’ campsite. Re-establishing that link helped to rekindle my hopes.

We had to be running on the right track. I recalled my thoughts last night before falling asleep at the Chewink Motel to delve into the pressmen’s strike and the involvement of a Sizemore. My chin tilt caught Mr. Kuzawa’s eye. He was one historical source to tap, but I also wanted to learn about the bigger picture.

A sly smile prefaced my question. “Is your public library card valid?”

“My library card?” Disgusted, he blew his nose on his handkerchief. “Do you own a damn yacht?”

“I have a library card. What’s your interest?” asked Herzog.

“To do some research on local history.”

“Not a union man, eh, Kuzawa?” said Herzog.

“Don’t insult me. If the money got tight, we just took a second or third job.” Mr. Kuzawa pronounced each word with care approaching reverence. “Old Pierre swore the IPU would back the strikers no matter how tough it got. He’d have guaranteed them a slice of paradise, if they’d stick it out with him.”

“Did he promise this before or after they coughed up their union dues?” I asked.

Mr. Kuzawa’s caustic smile didn’t waver. “After, natch. The strikers never saw a penny. There at the end the IPU big shots wouldn’t give them the freckles off their ass, and I never heard of Pierre’s fate. The coward probably slinked out of town late one night with his tail tucked between his legs.”

“Why is Sizemore’s affiliation with the strike so important?” asked Herzog.

“Because my balls are on the block for a murder I didn’t do, and I’ve run out of ideas on how to get him,” I replied. “Look, Victor told us Ashleigh said her father raises huge amounts of pot at Lake Charles, and Edna disappeared from there.”

“He’s our primary target,” said Mr. Kuzawa. “Press on.”

We continued poring over the newspaper coverage on the strike. Nearest to the stairwell, I first heard the reedy cadences from the top of the stairs. My heart jolted a beat. I’d a memory of the same ominous voices. Pointing, I mouthed a warning to the others. “Sheriff’s deputies are upstairs.”

Mr. Kuzawa drew out and thumb-cocked his .44. He leaned and growled at Herzog’s ear. “Get rid of ’em. Fast. I’ll be watching.
Capiche
, lawyer?”

Bug-eyed, he nodded. “I know the sheriff’s deputies from court. Go duck behind those stacks. I’ve got this covered.”

“Make sure of it.”

Mr. Kuzawa and I retreated to behind the tall bookshelves. I looked through a portal in the books at Wines and Ramsey trailing a witch-faced, snake-thin lady filing downstairs. The placard upstairs at her unmanned desk had identified her, “Mrs. Ada Zigler, Assistant Librarian.”

“Are you taking a nap, Herzog?” asked Wines.

“It’s a slow day, and I’m doing a little genealogical research,” replied Herzog in a friendly way. “My family is from Yellow Snake, and I’m researching the old newspapers.”

His cover story struck me as screwy, but then he had the reputation of a screwball. I hoped the sheriff’s deputies didn’t check the microfilm reader’s screen to see what he had displayed.

Mrs. Zigler’s eyes blazed on him. “I saw the light on down here. Can’t you read the sign we posted upstairs? This area is restricted to staff only. You lack the proper accreditation. I phoned my sheriff’s deputies to explain it to you.”

Squinting over the mildewy encyclopedias, I didn’t like her snide tone.

“Doesn’t your library maintain a reciprocal use agreement with ours?” asked Herzog.

“We do but that’s not the point. You’re not the staff, and you shouldn’t mishandle the microfilm.”

“Sorry.”

Wines grinned at her. “Aw, dial it back, Ada. Granted Herzog might be a big, clumsy meatball, but he’s not hurting anything. He just blundered his way down here. No harm, no foul, eh?”

“Maybe not but we librarians maintain rules for order.”

Thinking of something, Wines scowled down at Herzog. “Where’s your client, Counselor?”

He blinked innocent-like. “Can you be more specific, Deputy?”

“Don’t play dumb. I mean Fishback the killer you got out on bail.”

“As far as I know, Mr. Fishback is at home or work.”

I shifted to get a better view and brushed against a misshelved encyclopedia. My hand whipped back in time to intercept its tumble to the floor. Just down the aisle from me, Mr. Kuzawa shook his head.

“Fishback has been AWOL since Friday. His cab truck is gone. He didn’t call or report for work. His boss is a bit miffed,” said Ramsey.

“Now I do recall he went fishing at Lake Charles,” said Herzog. “He must be on vacation. Maybe his boss pulled in every direction simply forgot.”

“That alleged fishing trip is a crock. Our drive-by saw nobody at Lake Charles, and it reeks to do any serious fishing.” Wines shuffled their topics. “What scuttlebutt have you heard down your way on this gory stick up?”

“Sorry, I’m a bookworm, and I don’t tune in the TV news,” replied Herzog. “What happened?”

“Old Lady Simmons killed one thief before she took two of them prisoner,” replied Wines.

“Amazing heroic stuff.” Ramsey sucked between his black meerschaum nubs for teeth. “She shoots better than I do.”

“Fear and adrenaline,” said Herzog.

I watched Wines hook his thumbs in his utility belt, and his taut face turn pugnacious. “I beg your pardon, Counselor.”