A Matter of Malice

by Thomas King

  Fish or cut bait.

  Pearl was at her desk on the mezzanine. Calder Banks and Gloria Baker-Doyle were sitting on the sofa, going over a script.

  “Hey, Thumps.” Calder was off the sofa in one easy movement. “Good to have you on board.”

  “Brilliant,” said Gloria. “Let the detecting begin.”

  Pearl held up a CD case. “The files you requested.”

  Thumps considered the case. “One disc?”

  “That’s right,” said Pearl. She set the disc on the desk. “It’s the complete file that Nina had on Samuels.”

  Thumps left the disc where it sat. “That wasn’t our deal.”

  Pearl was smiling, but her eyes could have started forest fires. “What you need to understand, Mr. DreadfulWater, is that I’m responsible for this program.”

  “I understand that.”

  “And I’m the one paying you.”

  Thumps touched the note in his jacket pocket. Getting blindsided once in a day was enough. “Our deal was that I got everything.”

  “Nina was working on ideas and research for other episodes,” said Pearl. “Those notes have nothing to do with the matter at hand.”

  “You keep the file on the Obsidian Murders,” said Thumps. “That was our deal. But I get everything else.”

  “Not going to happen,” said Pearl.

  “It’s your money,” said Thumps.

  “I’m glad we understand each other,” said Pearl.

  “But it’s my call.”

  Pearl’s smile slipped. “Don’t be petulant.”

  “Fish or cut bait,” said Thumps.

  THUMPS CAUGHT THE sheriff in his office, playing with the old percolator.

  “Are you really making fresh coffee?”

  Duke had the percolator in one hand and the power cord in the other. “Something’s wrong with it.”

  Thumps shook his head. “I’ve been telling you that for years.”

  Hockney plugged the cord into the wall and banged the side of the coffee maker. “Shit.”

  Thumps tried to sound sympathetic. “May have to get a new one.”

  “They don’t make them like this anymore,” said Duke.

  “Praise be to heaven,” said Thumps.

  “You just come by to annoy me?”

  “How about I take you out for coffee.”

  Hockney set the percolator to one side. “Which means you need my help.”

  “Nope,” said Thumps. “All part of the DreadfulWater Howdy program. Being neighbourly and all.”

  “Yippee.”

  “I’ll take you to Mirrors.”

  “Going to take more than a cup of coffee at some fancy café to buy my help.”

  “I’ll throw in a muffin.”

  “Sold,” said Duke.

  MIRRORS WAS BUSIER than Thumps would have thought. But then, most of the people weren’t drinking coffee. They were working on their laptops. He wondered if there was a time limit to a free work area or if you had to buy another cup of coffee every so often, like putting coins in a parking meter.

  Not that anyone puts coins in a meter anymore. Everything was digitized now. The world ran on credit cards and consumer debt.

  Hockney took the chair against the wall.

  “In case bad guys with guns come in,” said Duke, “and I have to save you.”

  “Did you know that this place is modelled on Café Brasilero in Montevideo?”

  “Montevideo?”

  “Uruguay,” said Thumps. “Bottom of South America? Atlantic coast? Below Brazil. To the right of Argentina?”

  “Damn it, DreadfulWater,” said Duke. “You trying to piss me off?”

  “Brasilero was Eduardo Galeano’s favourite coffee house.”

  “What are you? The Google bunny?” Hockney craned his neck at the choices on the board above the bar. “Maybe I’ll get a Boozy Affogato.”

  “Forget it,” said Thumps. “It’s $8.50 and you won’t like it.”

  “Or a Ca phe sua da.”

  There wasn’t a reason for it, but suddenly Thumps felt exhausted. He folded his arms and put his head on the table.

  “You going to sleep?”

  “Just for a moment.”

  “That the diabetes,” said Duke, “or are you just trying to play on my sympathies?”

  “You don’t have any sympathies.”

  Duke looked around the room. “Do you think they’ll let us stay if we don’t have a computer?”

  The server arrived and departed with an order for two black coffees and one carrot muffin.

  “Hear Claire is back in town,” said Duke.

  “She is.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “She wants to adopt two little girls.”

  The sheriff chewed on the idea for a moment. “That come as a surprise?”

  “Found out this morning,” said Thumps. “Over breakfast.”

  “You got a part in any of this?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I can’t help you,” said Hockney. “Macy and me never had kids.”

  “Don’t need your help with that.”

  “Sure as hell need someone’s help,” said Duke. “I hear raising kids is like having dogs, but without the unconditional love or the cute tricks.”

  “I think she wants me to move in with her and the kids.”

  “Her place? On the reservation?”

  Thumps nodded.

  “She’s got a nice spot,” said the sheriff. “Good view of the river. Open spaces. Clean air.”

  “How you like the coffee?”

  “Weak,” said Hockney.

  “The muffin?”

  “Got a bunch of healthy stuff in it,” said the sheriff. “Who does that to a muffin?”

  The server brought the coffee pot over. “You gentlemen are drinking black coffee. Is that right?”

  “It is,” said Duke.

  “We don’t get much of that,” said the young woman.

  The sheriff put on his best smile. It made his face go lopsided. “Any of the staff here have kids?”

  “Sure,” said the woman. “Rita has three and Richard has one.”

  “My friend here is thinking about becoming a father.”

  “Congratulations,” said the woman. “Bet that’s exciting.”

  The sheriff touched the brim of his hat. “What about Rita and Richard? They find children exciting?”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “Rita says she works here so she can get a break and relax.”

  Duke turned to Thumps. “If you lived out in the middle of nowhere, you could get a couple of dogs. They could chase the kids around and you wouldn’t have to do all that much.”

  “You gentlemen want anything else?”

  “Next time,” said the sheriff, “I’ll bring my laptop.”

  DEPUTY SHERIFF Lance Packard was waiting for them when Thumps and Duke got back to the sheriff’s office.

  “Mayor came by,” said Lance. “Brought these.”

  Lance held up a bright blue T-shirt with the word “Howdy” written across the front in gold letters.

  The sheriff grunted something that sounded like a truck skidding to a stop in loose gravel. “What the hell are we supposed to do with these?”

  Lance held the shirt against his chest. “Supposed to give them out to citizens we see being civic.”

  “This ain’t a state fair.” Hockney settled himself behind his desk. “So what’s your favour?”

  “Maslow’s phone records.”

  Duke softened his face in an effort to look stupid.

  “Cell and hotel.”

  Duke turned to Lance. “Deputy Packard,” said the sheriff, “is the Nina Maslow case an ongoing investigation?”

  Lance was a little slow off the mark. And then he caught up. “Yes, sir,” he said, “it is.”

  “And is this office in the habit of sharing information on an ongoing case with civilians?”

  “No, sir,” said Lance, “we’re not.” />
  Duke turned back to Thumps and spread his arms out as if the gesture was the answer.

  “Cell and hotel,” Thumps repeated.

  “What do I get?”

  “My help.”

  “Deputy Packard,” said Duke, “have we received an official report from the coroner as to the cause of death?”

  “No, sir,” said Lance, “we haven’t.”

  “So we don’t know if Maslow’s death was an accident or something else.”

  “It wasn’t an accident,” said Thumps. “Did the Honda have a GPS?”

  “It did,” said Duke.

  “Then I’ll need those records as well.”

  Hockney shook his head. “Official investigation, the results of which are to be shared only with duly appointed officers of the law.”

  Thumps waited for the punchline.

  Duke opened his drawer and took out a folder and a badge. “I’d have to deputize you before I could give you that information.”

  “Come on, Duke.”

  “Temporary assignment.” Duke held up the badge. “No benefits, but all the coffee you can drink. How does that sound?”

  Thumps gestured at the old percolator. “What if it can’t be fixed?”

  “Suppose I’ll have to shoot it,” said the sheriff.

  “Can I watch?”

  “Figure out what happened to Maslow,” said Duke, “and I’ll let you do the shooting.”

  Thumps shoved the badge into his pocket and opened the folder. “How’d you get these so fast?”

  “Friends in high places,” said the sheriff.

  “Lance hacked her cell?”

  Packard’s face turned red.

  “Hacking is illegal,” said Duke. “Investigating a possible murder is not.”

  Thumps scanned the list. “Local and international.”

  “It seems our Maslow got around.”

  “You going to make me look them up?”

  “I had to look them up.”

  “You probably got Lance to do that.”

  “Same thing.”

  Some writer whose name Thumps couldn’t remember had said that there wasn’t any pleasure but meanness. Whoever it was had to have been thinking about Sheriff Duke Hockney.

  “What about the GPS?”

  “Got Stas working on it.” Hockney stood and hitched his pants. “So what are we looking for?”

  Thumps tried to picture two little girls chased by a pack of puppies across the high prairies with him in full pursuit.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Okay,” said the sheriff. “Raise your right hand.”

  Thirty-Four

  When Thumps got to the Aegean, Archie Kousoulas was standing at the register, talking with a man dressed up to look like a drugstore cowboy. Tooled boots, snap shirt, leather vest, denim jacket, and tan felt Stetson. Along with an oversized silver sheriff’s badge. Thumps couldn’t hear what the two were saying, but the cowboy kept tugging at the cuffs of his shirt and working his feet in the boots as though someone had dressed him when he wasn’t looking.

  In clothes a size too small.

  The vintage suit that Archie had tried to sell Thumps was still on the rack, and while he waited for the little Greek to finish with Marshal Dillon, he slipped the coat on. It fit reasonably well. The sleeves were a bit short, but there was room to let them out. And there was a matching vest, so it was actually two outfits in one. Thumps tried to imagine an occasion where he would need a suit. Aside from breakfast with Claire, he could think of only two.

  Funerals and weddings.

  And he didn’t go to either.

  Both were depressing in their own way. With funerals it was self-evident. A dead body in a casket. A graveside ceremony under a winter sun. Ashes laid on water or thrown to the wind.

  Weddings weren’t much better. The whole idea of happy ever after was patently absurd. Sure, Thumps knew couples such as Duke and Macy who had stayed together, who appeared to have reached a long-term understanding. But they were the exception.

  What were the figures Thumps had seen? Fifty percent? Sixty? No better than the odds you got at the tables in Atlantic City and Las Vegas.

  “Let me guess.” Archie appeared at his shoulder. “You didn’t come here to buy the suit.”

  “It’s a nice suit.”

  “Sure, it’s a nice suit,” said Archie. “And it looks good on you.”

  The cowboy was waiting by the window as though he expected a stagecoach to pull up in front of the old library.

  “Customer?”

  “Gofer from the mayor’s office,” said Archie. “She doesn’t think I’m doing enough to promote her Howdy program.”

  “What does she want you to do?”

  “Wants me to host a hoedown,” said Archie. “What the hell is a hoedown?”

  Now that he thought about it, Thumps wasn’t sure he knew what a hoedown was either. Something to do with horses? Something to do with cattle? A dance in a barn?

  “So why are you here?”

  “I need to use your computer.” Thumps held up the folder and the three discs. “It’s police business.”

  “I thought you were a photographer.”

  “I am,” said Thumps. “I’m just doing Duke a favour.”

  Archie grumped all the way to the office. “You know, most people have their own computers.”

  “I have a computer.”

  “Sure, but does it work?” Archie plopped himself down in front of the monitors and held out his hand.

  “I can do it,” said Thumps. “It’s confidential material.”

  “You suggesting I’m not confidential?”

  “You’re not confidential.”

  “Give me the damn discs.”

  Thumps wanted to continue the argument, but he knew it would just delay the process. Instead, he set the discs on the desk and pulled up a chair so he could watch the screen closest to him.

  Archie shuffled through the discs. “Trudy Samuels, Amelia Nash, Key West. Where do you want to start?”

  “Key West.”

  “I remember this one.” Archie squinted at the screen. “In 2007, three women were found on a luxury yacht in Conch Harbor Marina. Each of them had had the number 48169 tattooed on the back of their necks after they had been killed.”

  “48169?”

  “It’s the zip code for Hell, Michigan,” said Archie. “Case was never solved.”

  “What about Amelia Nash?”

  “You don’t get out much, do you?”

  “So, she was famous?”

  Archie took the first disc out and put the second one in. “Alice in Wonderland? The Lost Templar? The Red Assassin?”

  Thumps kept his eyes on the monitor.

  “Hollywood star on the rise.”

  “But?”

  “Murder-suicide,” said Archie. “They were in Las Vegas for some gala benefit.”

  “They?”

  “Nash and her boyfriend, Donny Berlin. Actor. Country and western singer.”

  “What happened?”

  “Who knows?” said Archie. “Berlin shot Nash and then shot himself.”

  Thumps speed-read the story on the screen. “Why would Maslow be interested in a murder-suicide?”

  “Have to ask her,” said Archie. “Except you can’t.”

  “Malice Aforethought only deals with unsolved cases.”

  Archie shrugged. “All I can tell you is that Nina Maslow was one organized woman. Look at this. Each file begins with a general summary of the case. She’s got the forensics, the police reports, witness statements, news coverage, photographs. Where the hell does she get all this stuff?”

  “Let’s see the Samuels disc.”

  Archie put the last disc in. “What are we looking for?”

  “No idea,” said Thumps. “Are there any notes?”

  “Notes?”

  “Personal notes,” said Thumps. “Ideas that Maslow might have had about the case. Insights? Suspicions?”


  “This is a large file.” Archie adjusted his glasses. “It’s going to take a while to sort through all of this.”

  “Can you just print it off?”

  “All of it?”

  “All the files,” said Thumps. “Samuels, Nash, and Key West.”

  Archie moved the mouse and worked the keys. “The Samuels file by itself is 242 pages.”

  Thumps nodded.

  “That’s half a ream of paper.”

  “But you can print it off, right?”

  “Do you know how many trees it takes to make 242 sheets of paper?”

  “Archie . . .”

  “And there are two other discs.” Archie sucked his face up to one side as though he were looking for something stuck between his teeth. “If you had a computer that worked, you could read the files electronically and help save the planet.”

  Thumps took the printout the sheriff had given him and flattened it on the desk. “I also need you to check some phone numbers.”

  Archie pushed back in his chair.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks. A bunch of the numbers are repeats.”

  “Don’t you have other friends with computers?”

  Thumps flashed a weak smile. “No one I trust as much as you.”

  While the printer worked its way through the files, Archie looked up the phone numbers and lectured Thumps on the basics of responsible conservation.

  “I hope you recycle paper.”

  “What’s 34-931?” said Thumps, pointing to an entry.

  “International area code for Spain.” Archie marked the number with a pencil check. “Barcelona, to be specific.”

  “Maslow called Barcelona?”

  “All to the same number,” said Archie. “I hear Gaudí’s Sagrada Familia is not to be missed.”

  “Any calls from Barcelona?”

  “Nope,” said Archie. “All of these are fairly old. Nothing recent.”

  “What about the 631 code?”

  “New York,” said Archie. “Recycling paper can make a big difference.”

  “How many calls?”

  Archie tapped the pencil on the desk. “Again, the calls are all outgoing and to one number.”

  “Any calls to Barcelona after the ones to New York begin?”

  Archie checked the printout. “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing,” said Thumps. “818?”

  “Los Angeles,” said Archie. “So is 310.”

  “And 702?”

  Archie worked his fingers on the keyboard. “Las Vegas.”