Riders on the Storm (12 page)

“He goes in the bar and maybe an hour later he comes out with Niven. They walk over to the elevator and that's the last I see of them.”

“You remember Niven's room number?”

“Three twenty-six.”

I gave him one of the tens.

I rode to the third floor with a pair of older salesmen who were blaming the decline in their business on hippies. From what I could tell they sold shoes wholesale.

“They don't even take baths that often. Why are they going to give a shit about shoes that really support their feet?”

“I just wish I was getting as much sex as those bastards get.”

“I just wish they were wearing out shoes when they were getting it.”

When the doors opened to the third floor a man smiled at me and I smiled at him. It was Chief You-Can-Call-Me-Paul Foster.

As soon as the doors closed behind me, he said, “Let me see if my psychic powers are working today. You're here to check out the room of a man named Niven. I believe the first name is Gordon.”

“A legend in my business.”

“Would that business be lawyer or investigator?”

“I'm sure you already know the answer to that.”

“The hospital tells me that he'd suffered a stroke a while back. This sure as hell couldn't be any good for him.”

“He's a nice guy. And I wasn't exaggerating about him being a legend.”

“I see. I'm told that Mr. Niven has been in town for two days. I assume you ran into him?”

“Excuse me.” A man approached, checking his watch, his sweaty face suggesting that he'd overslept. He moved us aside and then practically dove onto the elevator when it opened up.

After the doors closed again, I said, “Yeah, I did run into him.”

“A prominent private investigator comes to our little community at the same time one of our most prominent citizens is murdered. Am I wrong in seeing a possible connection?”

“He was here before Donovan was murdered.”

Then he struck. “You really piss me off.” The anger came on like summer heat lightning; a flare in the eyes and now pure hot fury in the voice. “You should have called me and told me about Niven. I've given you some leeway here because I expect you to keep me informed.”

He was cop with all cops' privileges and powers. I told him most of the truth. “He wouldn't tell me why he's in town but it is peculiar that he got here right before Donovan got murdered.”

“You've got quite a vocabulary, McCain. ‘Peculiar' doesn't cover it and you know it.”

Niven could still have been tailing Valerie Donovan for reasons having nothing to do with her husband's murder. I didn't believe that and Foster wouldn't either. But I wanted to keep the photograph to myself.

“He was supposed to die. Niven. The way he was worked over.”

We stood aside for more folks in need of the elevator.

When we were alone again, he said, “We now have two people in the hospital.”

“I thought of that myself.”

“According to you, two people who are completely unrelated to Donovan's murder.”

“I didn't say that. Exactly.”

“He's coming around. Your friend Cullen.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Chiefs of police they keep informed. Not private investigators.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“The shrink is saying possibly later this afternoon. He emphasizes ‘possibly.'”

“As his lawyer, I'd like to be there if you interview him.”

“Comes in handy, doesn't it? The P.I. gets to sit in on the interrogation because he's a lawyer. But I don't have to allow it.”

“Are you really that pissed off at me?”

But he said nothing. Just pressed the button for the elevator.

When the doors opened he stepped aboard.

The doors closed.

Senator O'Shay, even though he might hopefully be on his way out, still had undeniable power.

He had managed to commandeer the city council, the police department, and one of our high schools to make certain that his cynical parade came off.

I had all sorts of principled reasons not to go have a look—I'm rarely happier than when I feel principled—but I walked over four blocks to the large Presbyterian church that the parade was just now passing by.

Marching band music has always embarrassed me for some reason. It's so damned
big
. But along with the embarrassment is a thrill I hate admitting to.

Heat and clamor and mothers hanging on to their little ones so they wouldn't burst into the street and dads with kids' legs wrapped around their shoulders and young couples wooing to the enormous tinny music as if it was a love song.

I looked at the faces. The faces of war. Just about everybody was in this war, either by participating directly or having a family member, near or distant, over there. You could tell the people who had soldiers over there, especially the women. Some of them cried and some of them held up their children as if to be blessed by all the people in the parade. They needed to be bound up in the swaddling clothes
of what devious politicians called patriotism. Patriotism could calm your anxiety sometimes; patriotism could rock you to sleep at night; and most importantly, patriotism could quell your doubts about the worthiness of this war. My kind of patriotism—the patriotism of my generation—probably didn't count because we had as many questions as we had answers.

There weren't any floats. There hadn't been time for that. But there was a band in bright yellow uniforms, the drumline, the pomp or pomposity (your choice) of the plumed drum major. And there were convertibles, new and shiny ones on loan from the most important local dealers, and there was the mayor riding on the back of one of them followed by two uniformed soldiers on the back of another, and then a flatbed truck with a few soldiers in wheelchairs and a few more missing arms or legs. Seeing them paraded this way infuriated me and then when I saw the maroon Caddy convertible with O'Shay on the back of it I thought of what those men on the flatbed had suffered at the hands of this man and I had that fleeting Lee Harvey Oswald thought that was so much in the air these days—bang bang bang and no more O'Shay. But there were thousands and thousands more of him in our government. Ike called it the military-industrial complex but nobody had paid him much attention. And I was just a three-beer fantasy killer anyway. There were millions of us these days. With the murder of JFK, assassination was a popular game with many political daydreamers.

And then I saw him. Directly across the street.

Teddy Byrnes.

If he saw me he didn't let on. The crowd was alive as one, this great joyous animal seduced by the white-haired wizard who waved at them with papal authority.

The only satisfaction I could take was that O'Shay must have known that he was going to lose; that he would have to suffer what was for men like him a disgrace. A slender hope on my part.

And when I looked again Teddy Byrnes was gone.

I wondered if Foster was right. I wondered if Byrnes really had meant to kill Gordon Niven.

I
SAT ALONE IN THE OFFICE AND CALLED
ZOOM
AND TALKED
to Tim Duffy. He said he'd been discreetly asking questions of the gang that Teddy Byrnes was part of but they didn't seem to have any news about him.

I called Lindsey Shepard and lucked out. I got an answering machine for the psych clinic but when I started to leave a message she picked up herself.

“I was talking to Chief Foster this morning and he said that Will seems to be somewhat responsive now.”

“That's what Dr. Rattigan told me, too. I talked to him late last night. I called this morning and was told that the chief hopes to talk with Will later this afternoon. I'm sure he wants me to tell him that
it's all right but I have my doubts and so does my husband. In fact we were discussing it when you called.”

“Can you stop him from interrogating Will?”

“No. I can tell him that I think this could be very harmful. If it's too intense it could send Will right back inside and then we wouldn't be able to reach him again. I'm going to call him—and Randall's going to be on an extension phone in case the chief thinks I'm just a nervous female—and give him our opinion and hope he takes it.”

I heard another phone come on the line. “Maybe you could back us up on this. Give him a call yourself. Tell him you've talked with us and you hope he'll take us seriously. You seem to have a strong relationship with him.”

“So do you and Lindsey.”

Lindsey said, “But a call from you wouldn't hurt.”

“I'm afraid right now he wouldn't be very happy to hear from me. We've had a disagreement about something and he's not too happy.”

“Oh,” Randall said, “that's too bad. Well, after we hang up here, we're going to call him ourselves.”

“I'd appreciate it if you'd keep me posted.”

“We certainly will,” Randall said.

On impulse I next called Mary.

“The Lindstrom residence. Nicole speaking.”

“Hi, Nicole. You do a great job of answering the phone.”

“Mom trained me.” I noticed Mary was “Mom” to her while to Kate she was “Mommy.”

“Is your mom handy, honey?”

“I'll go get her for you, Sam. Are you coming over tonight?”

“I hope so. If I don't get too busy.”

“On Saturday night Mom always makes tacos.”

“I'll bet they're good.”

“Thanks, honey.” Mary was on the line now from the kitchen.

“I told Sam that if he came over tonight he could have tacos.”

Laughing, Mary said, “I believe the legal term for that is bribery.”

“I'm going to finish my book now. It's due at the library today. Bye, Sam.”

“Bye, sweetie.”

“It's official now. They
both
like you.”

“And they say they'll give me tacos.”

We spent several minutes talking about last night and then I asked her if I'd gotten any calls.

“Just one. Whoever you talked to at the hospital gave you a courtesy call back saying that Will's doctor would like you to call him.”

I wrote the number down and read it back to her to be sure.

“So do I make extra tacos tonight for a certain visitor?”

“Muy tacos. Muy.”

“I was in your Spanish class, remember? I'm trying to think—which one of us got the A and which one got the C?”

“Yeah, I felt sorry for you when we saw our report cards. And you'd studied so hard.”

“Uh-huh.”

That was when Kevin Maines walked in. His uniform today was short sleeves and walking shorts, necessary when you're dragging your ass through high eighties, high humidity as a U.S. mailman. He also wore the postal service's version of the pith helmet.

“I'll call you later, Mary.”

Usually on Saturdays Kevin just shoves the mail underneath the door. Today he set three number-ten envelopes and a small manila envelope on my desk.

His light blue shirt was soaked darker blue under his pits. “Anything new on that Donovan thing?”

“Nothing that I know of.”

“I know two people who used to work for Donovan. One said he was a great guy and one said he was a giant asshole.”

“I suppose we've all got some of both in us.”

“Yeah, my boss is like that. You never know who you're gonna meet when you show up in the morning. I could live without that kinda crap.”

The number-ten envelopes contained two bills and a check from a client paying off his entire eight-hundred-dollar fee. Very nice.

The manila envelope contained three photographs and a short note. After I'd read the latter and studied the photographs, I got up and walked down the hall and got myself a Pepsi. Then I came back and went through the photos and note again.

May be in some trouble here. Hotel room trashed

and two threatening calls telling me to leave town.

You know the drill, McCain. If anything happens to me—

Niven

I lined up the three small color photos on my desk. Each depicted the same couple in three different settings. One in a back yard in bright afternoon, judging by the shadows where they were making out. The second was in a small river pavilion just at dusk. And the third was entering a motel room. In the one in a back yard he had his hand on her ass.

They had one of those relationships where enough was never enough. Valerie Donovan and Lon Anders.

I wondered what Chief Foster, aka “Paul,” would make of these.

Sometimes the obvious conclusion was the correct conclusion. They're having an affair. Lon has always wanted the business to himself anyway. Like just about everybody else, he's seen
Double Indemnity
or one of its dozens and dozens of knockoffs. He knows how this sort of thing works. But he's smarter than the people in the James M. Cain novel or movie. He waits until he has the chance to make it look like a murder by someone else who seemed to have a motive. The argument between Will and Donovan was well known. So was the fight they had at the party.