Talking myself into it was what I was doing. Not that I needed much convincing.
Too much death on my mind today. That worried me a little, that I might be developing a preoccupation with it. But you can’t be confronted by death and not have it affect you in some way. An emotional empath like me couldn’t, anyway. Besides, there are different kinds of death and dying, the explicable and the inexplicable. I’d come up against both this morning, one right after the other, and it was the second kind, not the first, that kept troubling me. If I had a preoccupation, it was the same one I’d always had, the one that had motivated me for fifty-some years: an obsessive involvement with life and the need to solve at least a few of its mysteries.
The last cottage on the western shore was a green clapboard affair with a steep alpine roof; a burnt wood sign at the foot of the drive said The Ostergaards in Spencerian script. A dark blue van was parked near the front door, which I took to mean that Callie Ostergaard was still here. I’d half expected to find the place locked up, the widow gone away to Quincy to be with family or friends.
An older woman with hennaed hair and a take-charge manner came out to meet me as I climbed from the car. Not Callie Ostergaard; one of the summer residents, who announced that she was staying with Mrs. Ostergaard until her daughter arrived from someplace called Graeagle. I identified myself and asked how the widow was bearing up.
“As well as can be expected,” the woman said. “She’s a very strong person, thank God.”
“I’m sure she is. I’d like to speak to her, if I could.”
“Well, I don’t know....”
“Would you ask her if she’d mind seeing me? Just briefly? I have a few questions that might be important.”
“Questions? About what happened to Nils?”
“Please ask her.”
“... All right. You wait here.”
I waited about a minute. Then the door opened again and the woman motioned me inside, led me along a central hallway that emptied into a large lakefront room. Dark and cool in there: the drapes had been drawn. The woman sitting in one of two matching armchairs was in her seventies, trim, tiny, with short shag-cut white hair and a nut-brown face that seemed smooth, almost wrinkle-free in the half light.
“I’m sorry to intrude, Mrs. Ostergaard—”
“Not at all. It was good of you to come by.” Strong voice, with just an undercurrent of the grief she must be feeling. If she’d done any crying, it was long finished; she had her public face on, the one that a woman in a time of crisis applies with lipstick and rouge and an effort of will. “June said you have questions?”
I glanced at the henna-haired woman. She understood what the glance meant; her eyes shifted to Callie Ostergaard, who smiled wanly and said, “It’s all right, dear.” No argument from June; she nodded and left us alone.
Mrs. Ostergaard invited me to sit down. When I’d done that, she said, “Nils spoke well of you. He doesn’t ... didn’t always care for strangers.”
“I liked him, too. I’m really very sorry.”
“Thank you. It’s so hard to believe he’s gone, that I’ll never hear his voice again. It hasn’t really sunk in yet. I expect him to walk in the door any second....” Her head moved: a sad and bewildered little negative. “We were married fifty-seven years, you know. My father, the old coot, said it wouldn’t last six months.”
“Mrs. Ostergaard—”
“Callie. Everyone calls me Callie.”
“Callie, did Nils tell you where he was going last night? What his plans were?”
“No. No, he didn’t. He often went off by himself at night. On patrol, he called it. It gave him something to do that made him feel useful.”
“Did he mention the Stapleton property?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Does it seem odd to you that he’d park his truck off the road and go patrolling on foot, without a flashlight?”
“Odd? Well, he might have seen or heard something that made him suspicious. All sorts of things made Nils suspicious, not always with good cause.”
“Such as one of this year’s first-time visitors?”
“... I don’t know what you mean.”
I related my conversation with Nils on the lake. “Did he say anything to you along those lines?”
Small headshake. “He could be secretive, Nils could. Fifty-seven years, and still he kept his little secrets.”
“Do you have any idea what he meant by a fisherman not being what he seemed to be?”
“A criminal of some kind, I suppose. Hiding out.”
“Why would a criminal come to Deep Mountain Lake to hide out?”
“I can’t imagine that one would. But Nils ... well, all his years in law enforcement were uneventful. He never once used his gun, you know. He wouldn’t admit it, but I think he always dreamed of capturing a wanted man, a dangerous fugitive. Being a hero.” She blinked rapidly several times as she spoke the last. If it was a struggle against a new rush of tears, she won it with an effort. “Foolish. He was always a hero to me.”
Those words weren’t really for my ears; they were a verbalization of what she was feeling inside. I let a few seconds pass before I said, “There are four first-timers here now, Callie, including me. Did Nils say anything to you about the others, in any context?”
“I’m sorry, my mind isn’t clear. What are their names?”
“Jacob Strayhorn is one.”
“Strayhorn. Yes, I met him. Strange man. Like the little boy who pulled wings off flies, grown up. Nils said he wouldn’t trust that man as far as he could throw him.”
“Was there any specific reason he said that?”
“Strayhorn’s eyes. Something about his eyes.”
I said, “Hal Cantrell? He’s another.”
Her lips moved, repeating the name silently to herself. “I don’t know him,” she said at length. “At least, I don’t remember the name.”
“Real estate broker from Pacifica. Talkative and sly, but friendly enough.”
“I don’t believe I’ve met him. Or that Nils mentioned his name. But my memory ...”
“I understand. Dyce, Fred Dyce?”
“Oh, yes, the surly one. Nils had words with him when he first arrived.”
“An argument, you mean?”
“About fishing.”
“In general, or—?”
“He said Dyce was a blowhard who pretended to be an expert but had gotten all his knowledge from books. Nils hated that type of person.”
“A man who isn’t what he claims to be.”
“Well, yes, that’s right.”
“Did Nils accuse him of it to his face?”
“Oh yes. He never minced words.”
“What was Dyce’s reaction?”
“The usual with that sort. Bluster and obscenities.”
“Were there any other run-ins between them?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did Nils mention Dyce’s name yesterday or last night?”
“No.” She watched me steadily for a time. “You think that what happened wasn’t an accident.”
It was a statement, not a question, and it caught me unprepared. I was trying to frame a response when she said, “Don’t keep anything from me, please.”
“I won’t, Callie. The truth is, I don’t know. It could’ve been just that, a tragic accident.”
“Mack Judson said there was no doubt of it. The deputies who came by seemed to feel the same. Why don’t you agree?”
“No specific reason,” I said uncomfortably. “A feeling, that’s all. A kind of hunch.”
“Suspicious. You’re another like Nils.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you—”
“Upset me? My Lord, if his death wasn’t an accident, if that man Dyce or one of the others ... I want to know it. I have to know. Someone has to find out.”
I nodded. “Someone will.”
“You. That is why you came here, isn’t it? Why you’ve been a
sking so many questions?”
“Not exactly. I’m not in a position to conduct an official investigation.”
“Not even if you were hired to?”
“By you, Callie? No. I don’t do business that way.”
“An unofficial investigation, then. For my sake and for Nils’s. You didn’t know him well, but he was a good man. A good man—”
She broke off at the sound of a car arriving in a hurried squeal of brakes. “That will be Ellen,” she said after a moment. “Our daughter. Don’t mind her if she carries on. She’s very high-strung.”
I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I sat like a lump as a woman’s voice rose querulously out front.
Callie leaned toward me, her eyes fire-bright, and tapped my knee with a bony forefinger. “Find out,” she said in a fierce whisper. “Please. Find out!”
Mon., July 1—1:30 P.M.
I didn’t want to kill the old man. Last thing I wanted to happen, somebody to die up here before Dixon shows and pieces of Mr. Prosecutor go flying through the air. But what choice did I have? Damn Osterfart, he didn’t even give me a chance to take him out my way, with a bomb, destructive device, boobytrap designed for a meddling old bastard like him.
Knock knock, and there he was. Like to talk to you, he said, hard-eyed, mind if I come in?, and before I could say anything, react to stop him, he was inside. Looking around the way cops do, acting like he owned the place. I’d covered up the table before I went to the door, but the jar of marbles, the tools, my notebooks made lumps and shapes and he could see the carton and the bubble wrap on the floor.
What’re you building there? he said.
Not building anything, I said.
No? he said, and the way he said it, I knew he’d been snooping around outside, looking through the window. The shade was down, but there might’ve been just enough of a gap. What’s under the sheet? he said.
Trout flies, I said. It was the only thing I could think of. I tie my own flies, I said.
That so? he said. Mind if I have a look?
Rather you didn’t, I said. What do you want, I said, this time of night?
His eyes shifted to my binoculars hanging from the back of one of the chairs. Saw you out on the lake, he said, anchored over on the north shore watching cabins through those glasses. On more than one occasion, he said. Seems you spend more time looking than you do fishing, he said.
I tried to bluff him, make him believe he was imagining things. He wouldn’t bluff. Shrewd old bugger knew something was up and he’d keep picking at it, picking at it until he found out what it was.
His eyes were back on the lumps and shapes, the carton and bubble wrap. Let’s have a look at those flies of yours, he said, and he started over there and I knew I’d have to kill him, right then and there, no dicking around. I picked up a chunk of firewood from the basket and he was just lifting a corner of the sheet, bending forward to look underneath, when I eased up behind him. He never knew what hit him. He pulled the sheet half off the table when he fell, knocked off a screwdriver and the soldering iron, thump, thump, and then the big Thump when he landed. A quick look was all I needed. Skull cracked, blood oozing but not for long. One dead Osternosy.
So then I had his scrawny corpse to deal with. Had anybody seen him come here? I took a quick look outside. Nobody around. And I didn’t see his pickup. Parked it in those trees where we found it today, cat-footed over here to see what he could see. Ostersneaky.
Back inside I thought it all over carefully, weighing my options. Not good, any way you sliced it. (Sliced options? Hah! You can slice an onion, but you can’t slice an option.) Make him disappear completely or make it look like an accident, those were the only two that made any sense. Wait until late, take him out in the woods somewhere and bury him, nobody’d ever find his grave except animals and bugs—easiest and safest way. But when he turned up missing there’d be search parties, county cops tramping all over the area for days. The more cops and people around, the bigger the hazard to me and the less likely Dixon does what he’s supposed to do when he finally hauls his ass up here from the city. Everything has to seem normal when he shows, more or less normal anyway.
Accident was the smart way to go, I decided. I wrapped the old bugger’s body in the sheet, the bloody chunk of wood in a towel, waited until late, made sure I was alone, carried him out and drove him to the first deserted cottage that had a woodpile, carried him down there and arranged him and laid the bloodstained wood next to his head where it’d look like a piece from the pile, and got the hell out of there. Hard work, sweating like a pig when I got back here and burned the sheet and towel in the fireplace, but worth the effort and the risk.
Handled it all just right, too. Accident. Everybody thinks so, Judson and the others and the sheriff’s deputies.
Everybody except that smart-ass private cop?
Him. That one. I was sure he’d buy it along with the rest, and maybe he did, but now I’m not so sure. All those questions he asked, but then he backed off and said he had no doubts it was an accident, but maybe he does have doubts and he’s planning to do some snooping of his own. Another one like Osternosy and twice as dangerous if he gets the scent. Deadly enemy—I knew that the first time I laid eyes on him, didn’t I? I should have handled him differently, but it’s too late to worry about that now. Hindsight, the great teacher.
Ticklish situation. I could take him out, fix up a little surprise for him, boom! I know just how to do it, too—now. But I don’t want to risk it before Dixon comes unless I have to. Another dead cop blows the whole game sky high. Dixon, Dixon. He’s the one who has to blow sky high.
Won’t be long. Another day, two at the most. And even if that geriatric Mike Hammer is suspicious and comes snooping around here, so what? Nothing for him to find. All my tools, components, everything—locked away in the car. Put it all in the trunk last night while I was waiting to get rid of the old man’s corpse. Cleared up what little blood there was, put the place in apple-pie order.
So let him snoop. Let him ask as many questions as he wants. I know how to deal with him now, one way or the other. No damn private dickhead is going to screw things up for Donald Michael Latimer and his personal and private interpretation of Chapter 3.2, Section 12355, Subdivision (c) of the fucking California Penal Code.
NINE
I WANTED TO TALK TO ONE OR BOTH OF THE Judsons first, then Fred Dyce, but it was a while before I got to to the resort and an even longer while before I got to Dyce. Less than three minutes after I left the Ostergaard cabin I rounded a bend in the road and came on Marian Dixon walking toward me along the shoulder. She stopped when she recognized my car, waited for me to pull up alongside.
“I’m on my way to see Callie,” she said. Her eyes were sad, empty of their usual animation. “Mrs. Ostergaard. Is that where you’ve been?”
I said it was. And that I was sorry I hadn’t stopped by and asked her to come along with me but that I’d been distracted.
“It’s all right. How is she?”
“Bearing up. Her daughter’s with her now. And a woman named June.”
“June Adams. Good—Callie shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.” She brushed strands of hair away from her eyes and cheeks; the wind was up and it immediately blew the hair back across her face, so that she seemed to be looking at me through a screen of tattered yellow silk.
I said, “Hop in. I’ll drive you.”
Marian came around and slipped in beside me. When I had the car turned and moving in the opposite direction, she said, “I keep having trouble believing Nils is gone. He was such a presence here, such a good friend to everyone.”
Except one person, maybe, I thought. But I kept the thought to myself; there was nothing to be gained in sharing my suspicions with anybody other than Callie Ostergaard at this point. Instead, I gave voice to a platitude: “At least his death was quick.”
“And relatively painless. I called Rita Judson and she told me what happened.” A
couple of beats, and then she said, “Thank you for sending Chuck home to tell me.”
“I thought it’d be better if he didn’t hang around.”
“Yes, and I’m grateful.”
“He handling it okay? He and Nils seemed pretty fond of each other.”
“They were. He wouldn’t talk about it, wouldn’t come with me to see Callie, just shut himself up in his room. He’ll be all right, I think, but I wish Pat was here. He responds more readily to his father than he does to me. The male bond, I suppose.”
“Have you talked to Pat yet?”
“Yes. I called his office after I spoke to Rita and he’d just come back from court. He was very upset. He’s known Nils ever since he was a boy.”
“Does he know yet when he’ll be driving up?”
“No. It may not be until Wednesday.”
“Anything new on the bombings, did he say?”
“Forensics is nearly finished examining and comparing the evidence from the two crime scenes. They should know whether or not there’s a signature match within twenty-four hours.”
“That’s something, at least.”
“Yes. Something.”
We were at the Ostergaard cabin; I stopped at the head of the drive to let Marian out. Before she shut the door, she said, “Would you mind if I asked a small favor?”
“Go ahead.”
“Could you stop by later and talk to Chuck? He likes and respects you, and you’ve had so much experience with ... well, you know. It might be good for him right now.”
“Well ...”
“I don’t mean a father-son kind of talk—Pat will be here soon enough. Just... man to man. But if you’d rather not ...”
The look on her face made me say, “All right, I’ll give it a try. No promises, though.”
“None expected.”
She thanked me, went on down the incline. And I drove away, thinking: Talk, listen, provide the interim male bond, the voice of experience with ... well, you know. Sure, why not? I was good at that sort of thing, wasn’t I? Large part of the job, wasn’t it? I was not just a skip-tracer, a keyhole peeper; I was also a priest, a therapist, a teacher, a grief counselor, all too often a sin-eater, and yes, by golly, a surrogate pop now and then. Come one, come all, unload your woes on me and I’ll chew them and swallow them and regurgitate comfort and strength and wisdom that’ll lighten your burden, make your life and the lives of your loved ones easier, more relieved. A spiritual leader, that was something else I was supposed to be—the wise old charismatic bellwether guiding the lost and the hurt and the damaged and the innocent onto the path of righteousness, redemption, true understanding. Like a poor, pale-imitation Jesus, with bonded license and .38 Colt Bodyguard instead of rod and staff, with heart full of love and head full of sagacity and belly full of... well, you know.
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