Nailed (18 page)

“I had a knife in my hand.”

“Pardon me?” the chief asked.

Paula didn’t look up; she kept her eyes on the drawing.

“When I got Trent inside and closed the door … and saw that it had killed Sumo. I had a knife in my hand. I didn’t know if it would try to break through the glass and get us, too. So, I held the knife up. I … I think I was growling at it. It had reduced me to its level, but I was ready to fight for my son’s life. Ready to fight for mine.”

Paula Derby used the pencil she held to sketch a jagged scar over the cat’s left eye.

“There. That’s what it looks like.”

She gave the drawing materials back to Corrie. The game warden and the chief of police glanced at each other. No question. It was the same cat.

“Please find it,” Paula said. “Find it and kill it. Before it takes somebody’s kid, not just their pet.”

Chapter 22

Monday

Clay Steadman, staying completely in character, decided to go pre-emptive. He called a news conference that morning at the civic auditorium. He did not have to say pretty please to draw a capacity crowd.

When Annie Stratton signaled that the media mob was ready, the mayor made his entrance. He strode to the lectern at center stage and took a sip from a glass of water that had been left there for him. He calmly looked out at his audience until they were as quiet and attentive as a classroom of parochial school kids.

“I have a statement to make,” the mayor said. “Afterwards, I’ll take your questions. Yesterday evening, a mountain lion entered the backyard of a residence in Goldstrike. A young boy was playing on the rear deck of the house at the time, but he was not hurt. His mother quickly took him indoors. However, the lion killed the family’s dog and made off with it.

“This was the second attack by a lion within a span of three days. This past Friday, a female jogger was attacked while running on Route 38 two miles northwest of town. Fortunately, she also survived. After the initial attack, we had no reason to think the incident was anything but an aberration. Still, the chief of police had called for assistance from the state department of fish and game. The state responded by sending us Game Warden Cordelia Knox, who is also a wildlife biologist.

“Through Warden Knox’s efforts, we have determined that the same animal was involved in both attacks. Warden Knox is now hunting the animal. We hope, but cannot guarantee, that the animal will be killed quickly.”

Several members of the media throng were desperate at this point to start shouting out questions. But they knew better than to interrupt Clay Steadman when he was speaking as the mayor of his town. He’d simply have them thrown out and make no apology about it. Still, if he didn’t finish soon, there was a danger any number of reporters might spontaneously combust.

“That is why I’m using the good offices of all those present today to alert the public in Goldstrike about how dangerous this mountain lion has proven to be. I couldn’t wait until I go on the air this evening to issue the warning. Warden Knox advises me that children are especially vulnerable to such predators, so I urge all parents and day care providers to be extremely careful.

“I also urge all of you in the media to report this story responsibly.”

The mayor gave the crowd his best cold-blooded killer stare to emphasize his next point.

“I will be
very
unhappy with anyone who sensationalizes this story or causes undue public fear with scare mongering approaches to it.”

Of course, not even Clay Steadman could completely inhibit the media from its love of the prurient, and he knew it. He just wanted to put them on notice, maybe give them pause before they went off the deep end entirely.

“I’ll take your questions now,” the mayor said.

There were the usual several seconds of competing babble until Annie Stratton pointed to a reporter and loudly called out his name.

“Mr. Mayor, will you tell us the name of the family that was attacked so we can interview them?”

“No. Their privacy is to be respected. If they wish to contact you, that’s their call.”

From their grumbling, this clearly was not an attitude the press appreciated or would want to see encouraged. Annie called out another reporter’s name before the complaining could get too loud.

“Mr. Mayor, in your opinion, should the state have sent more than just one game warden to help hunt down this animal?”

“Warden Knox was joined by a colleague from the fish and game department this morning. I believe his name is …” The mayor turned to Annie Stratton for help.

“Tucker Marsden,” the press secretary supplied.

“Tucker Marsden. But the thing you have to keep in mind is that the government’s resources are as limited as the people’s tolerance for taxes. That’s the first lesson anyone who holds office learns. However, if it becomes clear to me that more help is needed, we’ll ask for it. Or we’ll find funds of our own to pay for it.”

Before Annie could call on the next questioner, a wise guy at the back of the room called out, “Are you going to put a hundred thousand dollars on the lion’s head, too, Mr. Mayor?”

There was no laughter. The room grew deathly still. With Clay Steadman, there was always the real possibility he might come down into the audience and punch out any loudmouth he didn’t like. When the mayor and his ex-wife had come out of the courthouse in Santa Monica after receiving their divorce decree, he’d done just that to a photographer who jumped into their path to get a last picture of the Steadmans together. But the mayor didn’t follow such a bare knuckle course at the moment.

“No,” he said. “What I might do, though, is tie you up and cover you with steak sauce. When the lion comes for you, we can either shoot it or let the poor bastard die of food poisoning.”

Now a ripple of laughter ran through the auditorium, but it was of the nervous variety. The media weren’t entirely sure the mayor was kidding. Annie called on Ben Dexter next.

“Frivolous questions aside, Mayor Steadman, do you think this situation with the mountain lion will neither distract your police department nor strain its resources in its efforts to find the killer of Isaac Cardwell?”

“No.”

“Then it’s still your position that the FBI shouldn’t be called in to assist with the case?”

“Chief Ketchum has been forwarding to the FBI any material he thinks they should have. He will continue to do so.”

“One final question, sir. Are you struck by the timing of the attacks by this mountain lion, coming as they do after Mrs. Mahalia Cardwell said God would punish this town until her grandson’s killer was caught?”

“Do you believe in curses, Mr. Dexter?”

“I’m just a reporter, sir. What matters is your opinion, and those of the townspeople.”

“In that case, you can have my opinion. Goldstrike has always been a lucky town. And anyone who lives here pretty much has to consider himself lucky, too. But right now our luck has turned a bit sour. That happens to everyone. Things will right themselves soon enough. And that’s my opinion. But the fact is, the first attack by the mountain lion happened
before
Mrs. Cardwell offered her opinion of what actions the Almighty might take.”

“Yes, sir,” Dexter conceded. “But you said the first attack happened this past Friday. Which, if I have my timeline right, was just
after
Isaac Cardwell was killed. Maybe that’s the more important fact.”

Deputy Chief Oliver Gosden didn’t like Colin Ring from the moment he set eyes on him. The man had a big square pink face with piggy little blue eyes, a snub nose, and a lipless mouth. He had dark brown hair, going gray, cut short in a Caesar fashion that was a little too precious for someone as big as him. On the other hand, he seemed at ease in the olive drab short sleeve shirt with epaulettes, and matching o.d. slacks. And the thin white scar that ran down his right cheek to the dimple in his chin looked just right.

If Oliver had seen him in a line-up, he’d have said the man was a stone-cold killer. Even coming across Ring for the first time in Teddy’s diner, plowing through a plate of grilled hot dogs and scrambled eggs, the whole mess covered with ketchup, gave the deputy chief no reason to change his opinion.

Ring looked up at Oliver while chewing a forkful of his revolting breakfast with an open mouth. He washed the food down with a slug of buttermilk. He punctuated his gross mastication with a self-satisfied belch and a contemptuous grin.

Putting on a broad cockney accent, Ring asked, “‘Aven’t come to nick me for me criminal table manners, ‘ave ye, guv?”

“Are you Colin Ring?” Oliver asked, unimpressed.

“At your bloody service,” the man replied, returning his attention to his food.

The chief had called Oliver at home last night to tell him about the mountain lion attack. He’d also told the deputy chief to find Ring this morning. Question him about his relationships with Isaac and Mahalia Cardwell. Then the chief had apologized to Oliver for having to disturb him at home.

But the call had turned out not to be a disturbance at all. Oliver and Lauren had already tucked Danny into bed in the afterglow of ice cream and bedtime stories. Hearing how a young boy had been endangered and delivered from danger, they’d felt that much more grateful for the security and wellbeing of their own family. They’d made the sweetest love since … since the first time after Oliver had almost died four years ago.

Both of the Gosdens had sworn that the conception of their next child would be planned, but Oliver dearly hoped a baby — a girl this time — had been conceived last night. Someone they would protect fiercely from mountain lions or any other menace the world might spawn. Afterwards, they’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms, and Oliver woke up feeling better than anytime he could remember.

The good feeling lasted only until he caught up with Colin Ring. The man hadn’t been hard to find. He was registered under his own name at the Gasthaus Heidi, a hotel with a Swiss alpine motif and a staff fluent in German, French, Italian and the queen’s English. It catered to European tourists but was owned by a Japanese conglomerate.

Ring hadn’t been in his room when Oliver arrived, but the hotel manager made inquiries and told the deputy chief that English writer had asked the concierge to recommend a “greasy spoon” with a distinctly local flavor for his morning meal. So chances were good he could be found at Teddy’s.

“Did Reverend Isaac Cardwell stay at the hotel with Mr. Ring?”

The hotel manager checked his computer. “Yes. That is, he checked in the same night as Mr. Ring. Of course, each gentleman had his own room.”

“Of course,” Oliver mimicked. “And you heard about Reverend Cardwell’s murder?”

The manager nodded. “Shocking.”

“But you didn’t think to mention the fact that the victim had been a guest at your hotel to the police department?”

Now, the man looked truly shocked. “But what would his stay with us have to do with what befell the poor man?” The manager looked at his computer again. “He was here only one night.”

The man’s German accent became thicker the more defensive he got. It reminded Oliver that the Swiss were tight with their secrets. Didn’t like to be embarrassed about little things like murdered hotel guests — or being bankers for the Nazis. The deputy chief was tempted to ask to see the concierge’s green card.

Instead, he inquired, “How much did the reverend’s room cost for that one night?”

The man was hesitant to reply, but he was astute enough to read the body language of the policeman standing in front of him. “Four hundred and twenty-four dollars and twelve cents.”

“Did the reverend pay the tab himself?”

This really challenged the manager’s native reticence, but finally he said, “No. Mr. Ring put both rooms on his credit card.”

“Did you speak to Reverend Cardwell at all yourself?”

“Yes. Just once. The gentleman asked if there was a church nearby. I told him he might find St. Mark’s Episcopal a congenial place.”

“That was it?”

The concierge nodded emphatically. “If you have any further questions, I’m most certain you can find Mr. Ring at Teddy’s.”

Most eating places in town had a view of the mountains, the lake, or both. Teddy’s was at the end of an alley off Fremont Street and looked out on the loading dock of a Michelin tire store. The diner had a hand painted sign that didn’t bother to include its name. Rather it showed a coffee cup with a lipstick stain on it, an accompanying saucer with a cigarette butt, and a pair of horn-rimmed sunglasses with a cracked right lens. The owner, Teddy Kapp, figured this iconography would clearly communicate the nature of his business to anyone he cared to see come through his door.

Apparently, it worked for Colin Ring.

Oliver sat down and asked the Brit, “How long did you know Isaac Cardwell?”

“All too briefly, I’m afraid.” He looked up at the deputy chief. “I feel with a bit more prompting he could have been a bloody marvelous source for my book.”

“How did you find him in the first place?”

“Indirectly. Didn’t even know the bugger existed a few weeks ago. It was his granny I went to see. Then up he popped. Bloody miracle, I thought at the time. Unknown son of the bugger I’m doing my book on. Thought he’d have it in for his bloody old man.”

“Did he?”

Oliver saw Ring’s piggy eyes become reflective. “Truly hard to say, mate. He was eager enough to help me or so it seemed. But he never actually said a harsh word about Jimmy Bloody Thunder in front of me.”

“What’s your interest in Reverend Thunder in the first place?”

Ring snorted. “He’s the subject of my bloody book, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, I understand that. What I want to know is why you picked him?”

Ring’s lipless smile was lupine. “I’m fascinated by the idea of redemption, mate. Mainly because I don’t believe it bloody exists. You look at your Jimmy Thunder, and what do you see? A poor fellow from a broken family, his mum beats him about his bloody head with the family Bible. He overcomes all that to become one of your gridiron football stars. Then after an unfortunate loss of composure in which an opponent accidentally dies, he’s packed off to prison. But our lad’s not done. After he comes out, he finds God and the telly. He ministers to millions and undoubtedly makes millions more for his own accounts. It’s bloody marvelous, isn’t it?”