by Gregory Ashe
The words left Hazard speechless and empty, as though an icy, arctic gale were blasting its way through him.
Naomi, though, seemed less affected. “I didn’t say it was perfect. I said there was a correlation—”
“Correlation,” Hazard said through numb lips, “is not causation.”
Somers gave Hazard an appraising look, as though he’d heard something in Hazard’s voice that Hazard hadn’t meant to give away. Tossing the photograph onto the desktop, Somers said, “Give us the name and anything else you have. No more speeches, Naomi, or we’re out of here.”
Naomi compressed her lips until they formed a white line. She stirred the pile of fallen papers with one foot until she produced a single sheet on which a driver’s license had been photocopied, which she passed to Somers.
“Charles Armistead. He’s missing.”
“The fire was this morning, Naomi. How long has he been missing?”
“He was supposed to come to a meeting last night. He didn’t. No one has been able to find him today.”
“Did you check his apartment? Did you try his cell phone? Did you call family and friends?”
“Of course we did. No one has any idea where he is.”
Somers squinted at the photocopied license and then passed it to Hazard. The copy was grainy, and the man’s picture on the license—poor quality to begin with—told Hazard nothing. The man might have been bald. He might have had very light-colored hair. He might have been wearing a ten-gallon hat. The details on the license helped a little more, but not much: thirty-two years old, five-ten, a hundred and ninety pounds. The general build and profile matched the victim from the fire, but so did thousands of other people in Dore County.
“Do you have a better picture?” Hazard asked.
Naomi shook her head. “Like many of the Volunteers, Chuckie wanted to live off-grid as much as possible. Our fascist, interfering government required a photo ID to operate his legally owned vehicle—think about that, if you want to think about something really crazy—but otherwise, Chuckie refused to make himself a victim of Big Brother.”
“What the hell does that mean, Naomi?” Somers asked. “Can you speak English for once?”
“It means he refused to be a cog in the machine.”
“It means,” Hazard said, “he avoided anything that would document his presence, activities, that kind of stuff. I assume you mean unofficially as well—no Facebook, no Twitter, nothing like that?”
Hazard spotted the lie, but only because he was looking for it. “Of course he didn’t,” Naomi said, her eyes flicking away from Hazard’s face. “No utility bills, no banking, none of that, as far as it was possible.”
“Great,” Somers said, heaving a sigh. “You want us to prove that a ghost got murdered. We need something, Naomi. Where did he live? Who can we talk to?”
“Chuckie’s people aren’t interested in talking to you. And they couldn’t help you even if they wanted to. Nobody knows what happened to him.”
“So what can you give us?”
“I can give you his killer.”
Hazard’s eyebrows shot up at this. “That’s very convenient.”
“It’s more than convenient, Detective. It’s justice.” Naomi tapped at her computer, and then she rotated the laptop and displayed the screen. On it, a blown-up photograph showed a small woman, obviously of Asian descent, who wore jeans and a T-shirt and her hair cut in a short, skater style. In one hand, she held a sign that said, Lock and Load, Ladies. “This,” Naomi said, “is Lynn Fukuma. She insists on being called Lynk, but her given name is Lynn. She’s a professor at Wroxall College. And she’s the one who killed Chuckie.”
Hazard leaned forward, studying the picture. It had obviously been taken at some sort of rally or demonstration, and up close he noticed details he hadn’t seen from a distance: red war paint on Lynk’s face, the fury in her expression, and a second sign, on the ground at her feet, that read, Cis = Hate, Hetero = Death. She looked, if he were honest, like a woman capable of killing—she had a fanatic’s expression. The same expression, in Hazard’s mind, as the one that Naomi Malsho wore.
“Looks kind of small to be killing a big man like Armistead,” Somers muttered.
“Obviously she had help,” Naomi said, whirling the computer to face her. “And she didn’t need to be big to kill Chuckie. All she needed was a gun—which, trust me, she has plenty of.”
Hazard was thinking back to the bones. The ME had been passed out, and the report hadn’t listed a cause of death. With only the bones remaining after the carefully controlled burn of the arson—an intentional effort to hide the victim’s identity—it would be very difficult to identify a cause of death. Only incidental damage to the bones would offer any clue. If the victim had been shot, there would likely be some sort of indication. But it wasn’t a guarantee.
“Why do you think Ms. Fukuma would want to harm Mr. Armistead?” Hazard asked.
“Because she’s part of the militarized, gay-friendly establishment. And she’s backed by Wahredua’s queerer than hell police department. She’s part of the powers that are trying to wipe out the traditional family. She wants to destroy the values that made America great. And Chuckie wasn’t going to let that pass. He stood up to her. He faced her down. And after that, after they went head to head, everyone saw Fukuma for what she was: a power-hungry tyrant, looking for a way to oppress decent people. She couldn’t let that go. She couldn’t let Chuckie live after that. If she has her way, the police and the National Guard and the Army will be out here in a few weeks, hunting the Volunteers down like dogs, swinging our babies around by the feet and shattering their skulls against the walls. That’s what Lynn Fukuma wants for the Volunteers, and she’s already gotten away with it once.”
By the end of this speech, Naomi was shouting, and two red circles had burned through the perfect tan of her cheeks. Drawing in a long breath, Naomi dropped back into her seat and waved a hand at them. “But I don’t expect you two to care. If Upchurch were still around, he might do something. You two?” Her eyes slid to Hazard before snapping back to Somers. “You’re part of the machine. You’ll do your part, just like happy little machines, and in a few weeks or a few months or a few years, you’ll come for the Volunteers, just like Fukuma wants, and it’ll be outright war.”
The air in the study tasted stale to Hazard; everything had the dry, recirculated flavor of industrial air conditioning. It was, he realized, the flavor of Naomi’s particular form of craziness, and all of the sudden Hazard wanted to be outside. Needed to be outside, breathing in fresh air, away from all this crazy.
“We’ll look into it, Naomi,” Somers said. He glanced at Hazard, and Hazard nodded and got to his feet.
They made their way towards the front door, and when they stepped outside, the warmth and the humidity rushed over Hazard, full of the smell of golden corn and red dirt, full of the hum of a transformer and the high-tension lines. Hazard started for the car, but Somers caught his sleeve, and the wool rasped against Hazard’s arm.
“You think of anything else we need to know,” Somers said, passing a card to Naomi, “give us a call.”
Naomi, her bare arms a reddish-copper color in the setting sun, leaned against the doorframe. Her hair brushed perfectly sculpted shoulders as she slowly turned her head. “If you want anything from the Volunteers, John-Henry, you need to talk to me. I’m your only safe road. I have the feeling, though, that we might not see each other again until you come to burn us out, take our land, and put us to death.”
“We can always hope,” Hazard said, tugging free of Somers’s grip and moving to the Impala.
Somers lingered by the doorway, though. “Who was the other guy? The other Volunteer, I mean. Do you think he got killed too? Or maybe he’s your killer.”
Namoi shook her head.
“Why? Why couldn’t your killer be in the Volunteers?”
“Because we would already have found him and taken care of him.”
> Hazard lowered himself into the passenger seat and listened as Somers asked, “Then who was he?”
“He was the killer masquerading as a Volunteer.”
Against his own wishes, Hazard called out, “Wouldn’t Armistead have recognized him? Wouldn’t he have known that he wasn’t really a Volunteer?”
Naomi didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to: Hazard could read the answer in her face. Armistead would have known. So why had he gone along with the deception?
Somers sighed, hesitated, seemingly torn between the Impala and continuing his conversation with Naomi. Hazard watched the blond man. Did Somers have fond memories of Naomi? Did he still enjoy her company, in spite of all the insane things she had said? Or was he drawn to her simply because she looked so much like his wife? Hazard wasn’t sure, but he didn’t like the way Somers looked at her, he didn’t like the way Somers leaned towards her when he spoke, he didn’t like the look in Somers’s eyes, like Somers was seeing something from a hundred miles off and wanted to get there fast.
Finally, Somers sighed again and moved towards the Impala. As Somers pulled himself into the car, Naomi called to them from the front door. Her white shift dress fluttered at her knees; it stood out in stark contrast to the house’s darkness, and it reminded Hazard of everything else about this place: the careful stage of contrasts, the museum-like precision, and the nagging feeling that he was watching something carefully staged.
“John-Henry, I don’t know if you heard, but Kaylee’s going to be in town this weekend. I’d love to—”
Whatever else she was going to say was cut off by the sound of Somers slamming his door. Somers sat there for a moment, his fine-boned hands gripping the steering wheel, face pale like he’d been shot. Then he shifted the car into gear and pulled away in a spray of gravel and dust that swallowed the house behind them.
Hazard wasn’t sure why, but that made him feel better. He reached over, gripped Somers’s shoulder, and squeezed once.
“Fucking hell,” Somers said, and that was the only thing they said the whole drive back to town.
Hazard nodded, though. That pretty much summed it up.
SOMERS DROVE STRAIGHT TO Saint Taffy’s, the bar where he and Hazard had gone the night before. They parked at the station and walked the few blocks to Market Street, where the rush hour traffic had slowed to a steady pulse. Again, Hazard was struck by how much Warhedua had changed: the trendy waterfront, the brick warehouses transformed into lofts, the dive-bars changed into the kind of nightlife that would attract young professionals and the wealthier breed of college student. The river smell was the same, muddy and fishy, but now it mixed with exhaust from the increased traffic and with the yeast and hot oil smells for the pubs lining the street.
By the time they’d reached Saint Taffy’s, sweat prickled along Hazard’s neck, and he was grateful for the rush of air-conditioned cool as they stepped into the dark bar. The yeasty beer smell was stronger here, as well as the odor of fried fish. Lots of fried fish. Hazard’s stomach rumbled; he was sure he’d eaten lunch, but he wasn’t sure when. Or, for that matter, what. A headache formed a dot between his eyes, a sign that the long day—which had started with the midnight call to the arson scene—was taking its toll. Somers waved at the bartender, obviously a usual, and led Hazard to the same spot at the back behind the pool table.
Their waitress, when she arrived, looked barely old enough to drive, let alone to take an order for drinks. Hazard noticed that this didn’t stop Somers from staring down her shirt. Or, for that matter, from typical straight guy banter that made the girl smile and laugh and, at the end, blush a little. Hazard didn’t blame her; he was, after all, John-Henry Somerset.
Somers started with a Bud Lite and ordered a burger. Hazard ordered a Guinness and that night’s special: fish and chips. When the drinks arrived, Somers pounded his down so fast that the waitress didn’t have time to leave the table. Somers just raised a finger, and the girl trotted off to fetch another. Hazard fixed his partner with a look.
“Just the two,” Somers said, coloring slightly. “That was one hell of an interview.”
“You’d better fill me in.”
“I already told you. I screwed up. Big time.”
“Not that. She brought that up to get you off balance. She didn’t want you thinking about the last question.”
“What?”
“About Armistead and why he would have gone along with somebody pretending to be a Volunteer. She was playing mind games.”
Somers blinked beerily. “Damn.”
“So you’d better fill me in on her and on your wife and anything else I need to know.”
“Like what.”
“Timeline first. Everything that went down with your wife and where you’re at right now. And don’t look at me like that; I told you my shit with Billy.” Or enough of it, Hazard thought. “Whether you want it or not, your sister-in-law is deep in this, and that means I need to know what’s going on so she doesn’t use it to string us both up.”
“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?” Somers asked, his mouth twisting sourly. He raised his hand for another a drink, and when Hazard glared at him, Somers changed his order to a Coke.
“It’s not dramatic,” Hazard said as soon as the waitress had left, “considering those photographs she had. That was a hell of a lot of pictures of you and me.”
“You think that has something to with the case?”
“You think it doesn’t?”
Somers sipped at his Coke. “It’s not—I mean, it’s got to be personal, right? She’s mad at me because of what I did, so she’s been watching me, looking for any more cheating, relationships, that kind of stuff.”
“And where do I fit in? Your relationships?”
Somers flushed. “You’re my partner. She’s curious. Besides, you’re a—”
“Freak?”
“A stranger. Or not really a stranger, but you’re new, relatively speaking. A lot of people want to know about you. You wouldn’t believe how many people have asked me—” Somers cut off, his flush deepening, and said, “Naomi’s probably just satisfying her curiosity.”
“With an expensive private investigator?” Hazard shook his head. “And anyway, that can’t be what’s going on.”
“Why?”
“Because she had a picture of Swinney in that stack. In fact, I’m willing to bet she had a whole folder on Swinney. And one on Lender too. All the Wahredua detectives.”
Somers screwed up his perfect features in thought. “What she said about Fukuma, about her being backed by Wahredua’s queer police department—I thought she was just taking a jab at you.”
“But?”
“What about Swinney?”
Hazard laughed in spite of himself and took a pull of Guinness. “You think Swinney’s gay?”
“I’m not trying to play into stereotypes,” Somers said with a shrug, “but there’s a stereotype for a reason. Single female cop, tough as balls.” He shrugged again.
“Swinney’s not gay.”
“You don’t—”
Hazard laughed again. “She’s not.”
With another sour look, Somers said, “How are you so sure? You’re not really an expert on straight women, are you?”
“I’m an expert on how people look at hot guys, men and women.” Hazard fixed Somers with a look to communicate the rest of his message.
For a moment, Somers didn’t seem to understand. Then he said, “No way. She and I—we never—”
“Whether you did or didn’t, she looks at you like you’re hanging in a butcher’s window.” Hazard took another drink of Guinness, fighting another laugh. “Trust me, she’s not gay.”
At that moment, their waitress returned, bubbling over with good spirits and tossing her hair and doing everything short of climbing out of her skirt to get Somers to notice her. She brought their food, and when Hazard took his first bite of fish, Somers said something to the waitress in a low voice. As she w
ent off to get him a beer, Somers took a furious bite of his burger and met Hazard’s glare.
“If I’m going to talk about Cora, I need something stronger than a Coke.”
Hazard didn’t say anything; he worked on his fish and chips while Somers ate his burger. The Bud Lite came back, and then another, and then a third. By the time Hazard and Somers had finished eating, the empties took up most of the table, and neither man had spoken a word.
“All right,” Somers said, his voice now fuzzy with beer and his eyes dull as he pushed away his empty plate. “You want to know about Naomi.”
“No,” Hazard said. “I need to know what the hell we just stepped into. But I’d like to hear it from my partner when he’s not trying to float his ass with cheap domestic beer.”
“Yeah, I get it. I’m a fuck up. Everybody knows I’m a fuck up.”
“I’d also prefer the version that has all the self-pity edited out.”
Somers bridled, his head going back, his nostrils flaring, but he didn’t say anything and he didn’t leave. After a moment, he sagged in his seat. He waved at the waitress.
“Give it a freaking break,” Hazard said through gritted teeth, but Somers ignored him.
“Look, it’s my life we’re ripping apart,” Somers said. “I’ll have a drink if I want to.”
“You had a drink,” Hazard said. “And about five more.”
Again they lapsed into furious silence. Five more minutes of this wallowing, Hazard thought, and he’d go back to the hotel. The headache between his eyes had dilated into a neutron star, and he wanted to pop a few Tylenol and drop into bed for ten hours and try to forget he was in Wahredua. He might not even try to call Billy, not after the way their phone call had gone that afternoon. Just go to sleep and not have to deal with everything until he woke up. But instead of leaving, Hazard flagged down the waitress and ordered another Guinness.