Shadow Man (23 page)

Charlie Moon pulled the Expedition up to a crumbling curb, parked under the shade of a mulberry tree. The property was concealed by a hedge of rosebushes that had not been trimmed since Mr. Reagan was president. Three particularly fine butter-colored blossoms were hanging over the sidewalk, well within the public domain. The lawman recognized the clear hazard to public health—some innocent child might come zipping by on a skateboard and get a thorn in the eye. Seeing his duty, Moon did not hesitate. He unfolded his pocketknife, removed the prickly stems.

He pushed a rusty wrought-iron gate open, followed the remnants of a bricked walk through a weedy lawn. Smothered with purple lilacs, choked with Virginia creepers, the little brick house seemed to be gasping for a final breath. The painted-concrete front porch was bordered by clusters of forlorn four-o’clocks and pots of sickly geraniums. He stepped on a horsehair welcome mat, wiped each boot toe on the back of his trousers, tapped lightly on the door. He pretended not to notice the small, roundish face that appeared in a window, behind a filmy net of lace curtain.

The eighty-year-old woman blinked at the seven-foot-tall man.
My goodness, what is Charlie Moon doing here—and all dressed up like he was going to the senior prom?
The lady paused momentarily by a mirror, blinked through trifocals at a mop of white hair, patted a bit of silver fluff into place.

As the door opened, the Ute removed his dove-gray John B. Stetson hat.

The five-foot-two woman looked up at him. “Well knock me over with a canary feather, if it isn’t Beanstalk Charlie.”

That had been his high school nickname from the time he’d gotten his fourteen-year-old growth spurt. “It’s me all right.” He had been afraid of her way back then, and Miss Atherton looked just as tough as she’d ever been. “Uh—I’m sorry to just drop in, but when I called you on the phone this morning—”

She laughed, shushed him with a flutter of a blue-veined hand. “Oh, I’ve got where I detest these modern so-called conveniences. If a person won’t come here and see me, why, I’d rather they just leave me be.” She noticed what he had in his hand. Arched an eyebrow.

“This is for you.” He presented the offering.

She accepted the freshly harvested blossoms. “Oh—I absolutely
love
any kind of flower. And yellow roses are my very favorite.” The teacher smiled at her former high-school pupil. “How did you know, Charlie?”

“Trade secret,” the lawman said.

“No, really.”

“I asked around in the local bars and pool halls. Talked to a couple of your scruffy boyfriends. Both of ’em said yellow roses was just the thing.”

“Oh, foo—I haven’t had a boyfriend since the big war. And come to think of it, I guess I don’t have any manners.” She stepped aside, made an inviting gesture with the bouquet. “Please come inside.”

The immaculate inner sanctum was the antithesis of the seedy lawn. There were lace doilies on every chair arm, a faint scent of peach blossoms in the air, not a molecule of dust from one flower-papered wall to another. He hoped he wasn’t tracking dirt on the spotless blue carpet.

Miss Atherton ushered her unexpected guest to an over-stuffed couch, put the roses in a crystal vase, vanished into the kitchen to make some green tea, reappeared shortly with this healthy beverage. She also brought an offering of salted cashews, tiny cookies, and candied fruit—all arranged in perfect symmetry on a lacquered Japanese tray.

Moon enjoyed the cookies and nuts, tried a sugared plum, pretended to like the tea—which was about as good as any sample of hot water a man might happen to find in a translucent china cup. But after taking a taste or two, he concluded that heated H
₂
O had a distinct edge on this grass-tinted brew. Having been a well-brought-up boy, he drank it just the same.

They talked for an hour or more. About old times, old friends, how it was way back then when everything was better.

Finally, she said: “I know very well you haven’t come here for idle conversation.” She eyed the crisply pressed suit. “In fact, it appears that you have merely stopped by on your way.”

“On my way where?”

“To see some nice young lady.” Her eyes sparkled. “Am I right?”

A grin split Moon’s dark face. “You’re a long way from being wrong.”

“Who is she?”

“Lila Mae McTeague’s her name.”

“I knew a McTeague once, in Indianapolis. I believe he sold men’s shoes.”
Or was it ladies’ hats?

“Sounds like a boyfriend.”

“Almost.” Her eyes began to glaze over at the memory. “I think he had a crush on me.”
Perhaps I should have stayed in Indiana….

He held his silence while the old woman dreamed her dreams.

Presently, she returned to the present. “We’ve just about used up the small talk, Charles. Is there anything in particular you have on your mind?”

“Oh, this and that. Denver politics. Major League baseball. The price of beef.” He gave her a peculiar look. “Or we could talk about your particular specialty.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean the stuff you tried to teach me when I was a junior at Ignacio High.”

“English or biology?”
He could certainly do with a refresher in the former.

“Oh, I don’t have a problem with English. It’s the science of living things that’s lately raised some questions in my mind.” He turned a frosted cookie in his hands. “When I was a young fellow, there was lots of things I didn’t pay nearly enough attention to. But lately, some of these issues have begun to pique my interest. Even keep me awake at night.”

Charlie had always been an unusual, unpredictable boy. “Biology is a rather broad field, especially nowadays, but I do try to keep up. What are you interested in?”

“When it comes to breeding cattle,” the rancher said, “I guess I know my business about as well as the next stockman—I mean about reproduction and such.” He frowned with intense concentration. “If I was to cross a Hereford with a Brahma, or an Angus with a buffalo, I’d know what kind of calf to expect. But there’s some other things I’m not so sure about.”

Barely able to bear the suspense, the bright-eyed little schoolteacher put her teacup on the tray, leaned forward. She asked what, exactly, it was that he wanted to know.

Moon told her. Exactly.

The schoolmarm shook her head in a manner that suggested a mild disappointment in this former pupil. “Charles, I am surprised that you should have the least doubt on such an elementary issue. Such an outcome as you report is, well…so unlikely as to be immediately dismissed.”

“But not impossible?”

“There are rare exceptions.” She blinked at him. “But we’re talking
very
long odds.”

“A lot depends on this.” The tribal investigator stared at the cookie. “I need to be dead sure.” Her scholarly assurance had given him some hope, but he was only halfway there. He needed technical assistance from someone who could be trusted to keep her mouth shut. “Miss Atherton, do you have a computer?”

“Well of course I do.” Pride of ownership sparkled in her eyes. “A 3.6-gigahertz laptop with over 200 megabytes of RAM and a 600-gigabyte hard drive.”

“And I bet you know how to find things on the Internet.”

“In my sleep. What shall I Google for you?”

“Google?”

“Charles, Charles—you are
so
behind the times.” Miss Atherton sighed. “What sort of information do you require?”

He told her.

“If it’s there, I’ll find it.” She brought the laptop to the parlor, got right to work.

Thirty minutes later, Charlie Moon was feeling good. No, three notches better than good. Blissful, even. Happy enough to drink a half-pint of hot, greenish water and enjoy every drop. He lifted the cup to salute the elderly scholar. “Miss Atherton, if you’ve got any left in the pot, can I have another dose of this fine beverage?”

“
May
I,” she shot back.

“What?”

“
May
I have another cup of green tea.”

“Sure,” he said. “While you’re pouring some for me, help yourself to a shot.”

Giving lie to the vile rumor that he operated on “Indian time,” the tribal investigator arrived at the restaurant four minutes early. McTeague’s government-issue Ford sedan was not yet in the parking lot, the lunch crowd was long gone, the proprietor was behind the counter, munching on a king-size carrot.

Big Tony saw the customer, waved the vegetable like a flag. “How ya doin’, Chollie?”

“Fine, Tony. How’re you?”

“I’m on a horrible diet and I don’t want to talk about it.” The chef scowled at his customer, snapped off another bite of the orange root. “What’s that paper bag—you bring your own lunch?”

“Just a precaution—I’m sure there’s something on the menu that’ll strike my fancy.” Moon homed in on his favorite spot by the window, jerked out a chair.

Tony brought a menu and a mug of coffee, gave the table a hearty swipe. “You eatin’ alone today?”

“Sure hope not.” Moon spooned six helpings of sugar into the beverage. “I’m expecting an exceptional lady.”

“Whatta you mean by ’ceptional?”

“I mean she’s a knockout on wheels and brainy to boot. And not only that, she is gainfully employed and well-heeled. Did I mention that she will be paying the bill?”

This produced a derisive snort. “That’ll be the day—when some good-looking doll with the do-re-mi buys
you
lunch.”

“Would you care to place a modest wager on that?” Moon laid a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “Mr. Jackson says she picks up the check.”

For Tony, a bet involving hard cash in plain sight was harder to resist than a jelly doughnut soaked in honey. “Even Steven?”

“Unless you want to give me ten-to-one.”

“Hah! That’ll be the day.” The proprietor removed a crisp pair of tens from his wallet, covered the twenty. “You want I should put this dough in the usual spot?”

“Certainly.” Moon consulted the menu. “How’s the lasagna?”

Tony removed a cranberry-glass bud vase from a tiny bric-a-brac shelf, stuffed the rolled-up bills into it. “Please, don’t talk to me about that.” He gazed wistfully at the menu, imagined a big slab of
that,
licked his lips. “In fact, don’t even say the name of it out loud.”

“L-word makes your mouth water, huh?”

The famished fellow nodded. “Like Niagara Falls after a forty days and forty nights of rain upstream.”

Moon made a face. “Try to go a little lighter on the vivid descriptions of your drooling, Tony. You’re not exactly helping my appetite.”

“Listen to me, Chollie—you skinny guys don’t have no idea what a serious appetite is. If I should fall offa this diet, I’ll start off with a whole tray of baked…of baked
you know what.
And that’d be just for starters.” He turned his broad backside toward the customer. “If this knockout-on-wheels lady happens to show up, and you two get around to deciding what you want to eat, don’t tell me nothing out loud—just put a finger on the menu.”

At three minutes and fourteen seconds past the hour, FBI special agent Lila Mae McTeague burst through the door.

Moon got up to pull a chair out for the lady. He also scowled at his watch. “Among us Native Americans, promptness is considered a cardinal virtue.”

“Can it,” she said, and seated herself. “I’ve had a hectic day.”

Big Tony plopped a glass of water in front of the new arrival. He smiled down at the elegant woman.
Chollie wasn’t kidding. She’s right up there with Audrey Hepburn. In fact, she’s a good head taller than Audrey was.

Moon explained the rule that was in effect during Big Tony’s current diet.

McTeague dutifully tapped the menu at her entrée selection, verbally requested iced tea. After Moon had put his finger on the lasagna and the restaurateur had departed, she gave her date the eye. “Well?”

He gave it right back to her. “Well what?”

“Well what’s on your mind?”

Moon reached across the table, took her hand in his. “I’ll tell you what’s on my mind. You and me. Cozy little cabin on a lake.” He gazed at the ceiling. “Big sky full of twinkling stars and—”

“None of your blarney.” The pretty woman blushed, pulled her hand away. “I’m on duty.”

“Hmm,” he said.

She straightened the collar of her blouse. “What does that mean?”

“It means that I’m cogitating. And what I come up with is this—if you are on duty, then maybe I shouldn’t give you the present I brought.”

She flashed him a little-girl smile. “What did you bring me?”

“Guess.”

“Apricot bonbons?”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to add an ounce to your trim figure.”

Another blush. “Flowers, then.”

“Nope. I had some yellow roses this morning, but I gave ’em to another lady friend.”

She lost the smile, arched a perfect brow. “What, then?”

He reached under the table, placed his offering between the candle holders. “This.”

McTeague made a face. “You brought me a present in a brown paper bag?”

“I was in a hurry.”

She looked inside. “Charlie—it’s nothing but a filthy old tin can.”

“They hardly ever make ’em out of tin anymore, McTeague. That is genuine American steel.”

The FBI agent sniffed. “And it stinks!”

“Now don’t go out of your way to hurt my feelings—I’m not made of stone.”

She sniffed again. “But it
does
stink.”

“It does not
stink,
” he said. “It has a particular kind of pungent scent.”

“Like what?”

“You’re one of Uncle Sam’s finest. You tell me.”

A third sniff. This one more technical. “Kerosene?”

“That’s what my aunt Daisy’s nose thought.”
Only she thought she was smelling her cup of coffee.

She gave the can a long, hard look. “Is this some sort of evidence from your aunt’s trailer fire?”

“There is no fooling Special Agent McTeague.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. There is no fooling Special Agent McTeague.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll send it off to Forensics in D.C.” A thoughtful pause. “What should our white-smocked beaker geeks expect to find?”

“If we was lucky enough to win the lottery, there’d be some prints on the can that wasn’t mine.”

“And discounting such an unlikely piece of good fortune?”

He shrugged. “It’s a shot in the dark.”

McTeague studied the Ute’s face. “Thank you for the stinky can.”

He raised his coffee mug. “You are entirely welcome.”

“Now, in exchange for the piece of trash, I’ve got something for you.”

“Okay.” He grinned. “But don’t go overboard. This is a public place.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, cowboy.” The FBI agent leaned forward, lowered her voice. “My gift comes in two parts. First, there’s the information, then the advice. Both have something to do with your professional relationship to the late Dr. Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe.”

Moon did not look pleased. “This sounds like something that will ruin my lunch.”

She continued, without a trace of sympathy. “Since his houseboat was destroyed, we’ve been collecting fragments that wash up here and there. Divers have recovered some of the heavier remnants. Forensics have detected traces of high explosives on a portion of the engine’s output manifold. We’re talking TNT—a type that is commonly used in mining and road construction. Your client was obviously murdered.”

The lawman toyed with his coffee mug. “I appreciate the information. I bet I can guess the advice.”

“I’m sure you can.” She reached across the table to touch his hand. “I know it’s tough to lose a client. You’ll want to find out what happened to Dr. Blinkoe. But leave it alone. This particular homicide is Bureau business. I have permission to keep you informed about our progress, but the bottom line is this: You stay clear of the case.”

“Okay.”

She shot him a suspicious look. “I warn you to keep clear of the Blinkoe homicide, and that’s all you’ve got to say—‘okay’?”

He seemed to be thinking hard. “Okay,
ma’am
?”

She was about to reply when the waiter arrived with her iced tea.

The angry man in the pickup watched Big Tony’s Restaurant from across the street. He took a sip of whiskey from a pewter flask; his hungry stomach rumbled.
So what’re the skinny Indian and the FBI gal gabbing about?
The silenced rifle was behind the seat.
I could shoot ’em both from right here.
He grinned.
Sure, knock ’em off in broad daylight, then just drive away. Boy, howdy—wouldn’t that be something to write home about? If I had a real home
…The grin gradually slipped away.
I’ve got to be patient. Wait till I can get the job done right.