Clauson had stuck through thirty years of autopsies, forensics investigations, and courtrooms. He was good with bodies, but he had recently been getting his ass chewed by the local defense lawyers. He was getting sloppy, or the defense lawyers were getting better, Collier didn’t know which, but he was fond of the old guy and he still respected him.
‘‘Now look here,’’ Clauson went on. ‘‘If my report gets tossed, there’s going to be a criminal walking around free. Patterns on the kid’s skin. Stomped to death. I’m sure of it. Everybody see these pictures?’’
‘‘Nasty. The ones of the liver are the worst,’’ said Sean.
‘‘But Doc,’’ Collier said. ‘‘You thought at first—’’
‘‘Missed it. I did. I admit it. So many contusions, broken bones, hemorrhaging, obvious accidental circumstances. Anybody could have missed it the first time around. I asked for all police reports so I could be aware of the surrounding circumstances. I don’t just look at the body. If I’d had the goddamn witness statement—’’
‘‘Don’t look at me,’’ said Officer Drummond. ‘‘I turned it in. I went through channels like I was supposed to. The world is full of flakes. Heidi Strong was flaky too. But I took the statement—’’
‘‘How is it that it took three days for the statement to get to the coroner, Officer?’’ Barbara asked in a sharp voice.
‘‘Well, ma’am, the lieutenant was out sick. There’s a flu going around. It’s the change of seasons. The secretary types it up, she passes it back, the girl signs it, I put it in the lieutenant’s in-box. The sergeant’s supposed to check it, but he calls in next morning and he’s sick too. The rest of us are dealing with that bomb threat at Harrah’s last week—’’
‘‘And meantime, the family’s hassling us at the morgue,’’ said Clauson. ‘‘They want the body. It’s now four days since the kid died. I give it up and he’s ashes about eight hours later.’’
‘‘So now no second opinion is possible with regard to the markings you saw on the body,’’ Collier said.
‘‘Well, I saw ’em. And we have the pictures.’’
‘‘The pictures suck,’’ Barbara said. ‘‘I think Mr. Hallowell and I are in agreement on that. There are marks, sure, but the man went over a fifteen-foot drop and landed on rocks. A jury would look at the pictures and feel that there was doubt.’’
‘‘I’ll testify,’’ Clauson said. He straightened up and firmed his jaw.
‘‘Big deal,’’ Barbara said, tapping an eraser impatiently on a yellow pad. She flipped it, picked it up, flipped it again. ‘‘You’re compromised.’’
‘‘Collier? You tell that woman I know what I’m talking about,’’ Clauson said, clamping his lips together into a thin line.
‘‘Let’s all calm down,’’ Collier said. ‘‘Let’s look at what else we do have. Clothes of the victim that show the bigger picture. We’ve got Strong’s wife telling us about a threat, though the statement doesn’t really specify a motive—’’
‘‘Sorry to rain on your parade,’’ Sean interjected, ‘‘but we ain’t got Strong’s wife anymore. I went to the motel where she was staying on North Shore yesterday and the manager said she blew.’’
The room erupted.
Collier put up a hand to quiet the noise. ‘‘I thought you said she was cooperative and reliable, Sean,’’ Collier said.
‘‘She was. We were getting to be friendly. Guess she had second thoughts. At least we got her statement.’’
‘‘Her statement’s not admissible, you turkey,’’ Barbara said. ‘‘And you didn’t even get it to the coroner in time. Now you’ve lost her. Even if she can’t testify directly, she can lead us to crucial admissible evidence. Jesus!’’
‘‘She’ll be back,’’ Sean said. ‘‘She lives here.’’
‘‘What’s the father say? Philip Strong?’’ asked Collier.
‘‘He says we better remember he’s one of the big employers up here, or words to that effect,’’ Sean said.
‘‘How about the widder?’’ Clauson asked.
‘‘The widow,’’ Collier said, for the benefit of those who might need an interpretation. ‘‘That would be Marianne Strong.’’
Sean said, ‘‘Sexy girl. Frenchie. You know.’’
‘‘No, why don’t you explain that, Sean,’’ said Barbara, shifting her attention from the eraser in front of her back to the investigator. ‘‘I’d be interested to hear your views on the sexiness of French people. Since we seem not to have any actual facts to discuss.’’
Sean took up his notes, detouring quickly away from another lashing. ‘‘She’s a competitive athlete, a snow-boarder. Took a first and third in state competitions last year. Very full of herself. Hard to imagine her married, in fact, because she’s not the type that has room in her boudoir mirror for more than one face,’’ Sean said, pronouncing the French word with careful, satirical correctness. ‘‘In my opinion.’’
‘‘Go on,’’ Collier said. He liked Sean, knew he was smart and good at his job, and hated to see Barbara humiliate the boy, but he, too, felt frustrated by the lack of sound physical evidence.
‘‘Said she thought his wife, Heidi, was having an affair. Said she hinted about it to him.’’
‘‘Ha! There’s your motive! Jim Strong killed his brother ’cause young Alex was playing around with his wife,’’ Officer Drummond said. ‘‘Case closed.’’
‘‘She seems positive it wasn’t Alex that Heidi was sleeping with,’’ Sean went stolidly on, ‘‘although it’s a possibility, considering her attitude toward her husband, which seemed pretty cool, if you ask me.’’
‘‘She could be lying.’’
‘‘In fact, I get the idea she’s carrying a torch for Jim.’’
‘‘Then she could be lying to protect him,’’ Collier said.
‘‘She could have done it herself,’’ Sean said. ‘‘She was on the mountain, alone.’’ Groans all around.
‘‘That’s all we need,’’ Drummond said. ‘‘Another suspect. Listen, you think Jim Strong wouldn’t have seen or heard somebody down there with his brother? He might have been out of sight, but he would have heard something. He’d have said something to clear himself.’’
‘‘What about tracks?’’ Collier asked.
‘‘Are you kidding? After the emergency people got done up there? Forget about it.’’
‘‘You don’t have to prove a motive to get a murder conviction,’’ Barbara said abruptly. ‘‘If we get more on an affair between Jim Strong’s wife and the victim, dynamite. But what do we have in the way of direct evidence?’’
‘‘All right. One more time,’’ said the Doc. ‘‘Contusions and lacerations all over his back, back of the head, legs. Get it? He landed on his back, one leg under him, the one that broke. Now. Damage to the front of the turtleneck just over the skin patterning and major contusion, which is just over broken ribs and transected liver. In front, get it? He was stomped in front.’’
Barbara said, ‘‘You said you don’t think the fall would have caused such an injury. How sure are you, exactly?’’
‘‘I looked at the cliff. I looked at the snow. I don’t think he hit anything else on his way down. He fell on a flat area. I don’t think he rolled. He would have had contusions all over, and he only had ’em on the back. The fronts of the parka and bibs weren’t damaged,’’ Clauson said. ‘‘I’ve been around a long time. And it doesn’t sit right.’’
‘‘The fact remains that your original opinion was quite different.’’ Barbara gave him a look that said things about the twenty-five-year age difference between them. She obviously didn’t trust Clauson, and Clauson didn’t like her either.
She went on, ‘‘As to the rest of it, the defense will raise holy hell at you for releasing the body for cremation. There’s no opportunity for an independent examination, not to mention you missing the markings the first time around.’’
‘‘Just get me the boots,’’ Clauson
said, turning to Collier. ‘‘We’ll bury him with his boots.’’
‘‘I’ll get them,’’ Collier said. ‘‘Floyd, you’re assigned to this matter for a couple of days. Go back up in the snow with a photographer and search the area again. Commandeer whatever equipment you need from Paradise. I’ll call Philip Strong about it. Sean, you know what you have to do. Find Heidi Strong. And go talk to Kelly Strong in Incline Village. Maybe she can help with the motive question. See if she knows whether there was an affair between the victim and Heidi Strong. And ask her this: Was Jim Strong capable of doing this kind of violence to his brother?’’
‘‘Okay, let’s go.’’ They all filed out, except for Doc Clauson and Collier.
Clauson was drooping. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. Collier thought, he doesn’t look good.
‘‘Hey,’’ Clauson said. ‘‘Just have to say one more thing. Always thought you were good, Collier. Solid. Smart. I ever let you down?’’
‘‘You’ve always done your best, Doc,’’ Collier said.
‘‘Well, listen to me now. This is a vicious crime. Have to be depraved to do it when the vic’s lying there moaning for help. Can’t let him get away with it. Trust me. This is a homicide. Can’t understand how I missed it the first time around. Sorry about that.’’
‘‘I’ll get you the boots,’’ Collier said again. ‘‘You blow up those photos, show me they match the soles of the boots. And I’ll put him away for you.’’
‘‘That a boy. That’s right. See you.’’
‘‘Doc?’’
‘‘Yeah?’’
‘‘Take care of yourself.’’
‘‘It’s just a cold or something.’’
Back in the office, Barbara was waiting, posed to maximum advantage on the edge of Collier’s desk. She was allowing herself to look slightly disturbed. ‘‘Could I have just a minute?’’ she said.
‘‘Sure.’’ She really was a good-looking girl, with her smooth dark pageboy and the remote Catherine Deneuve face. That kind of girl was too cold for him, though.
‘‘I thought you might like to hear my considered opinion regarding whether we should file some sort of charge against Jim Strong.’’
‘‘Yeah, of course, Barb. What is it?’’ He sat down at his desk, wishing she had given him more time to digest the meeting.
‘‘Dump this piece of shit.’’
He smiled. ‘‘I know. Keystone Kops,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s too weak to go forward at this point, I agree. But I’ve worked with Clauson a long time. I want to keep it open until we see what happens with the boots.’’
Barbara didn’t like hearing this. She came around the desk, began massaging his back. ‘‘God, you’re stiff,’’ she said. ‘‘Collier. I’m speaking as a friend. The word around the office is that you’ve lost the edge since you got back. You’re acting like a wuss. Clauson fucked up. Dump it.’’
Collier gently reached back and patted her hand. ‘‘What is it?’’
‘‘I used to look up to you. Last year, before you left. I came up to Tahoe after a few years of sitting in a private firm’s law library. I didn’t know a thing, you taught me, you watched over me. I thought you were— I thought you were—interested—’’
‘‘I’m not.’’
‘‘No. You’re not. Anymore.’’
‘‘I’m sorry.’’
‘‘I don’t want you to be sorry!’’
‘‘Is it Nina?’’ Collier asked. It was Nina, and he was tired of dancing around it.
Barbara froze. Slowly, she removed her hands from his shoulders. ‘‘You know, if you go forward on the Strong case, you’re going to have a conflict of interest with her representing the defendant. Have you thought about that?’’
‘‘I’ll deal with that if and when I have to.’’
‘‘If you don’t go ahead, it’ll look like you caved in to her.’’
‘‘Barb, it’s late.’’
‘‘I can’t believe you’d prefer her to me. Well. Your loss.’’
‘‘I’m sorry. I really am.’’
‘‘They’re all dirtbags, you know it. Defending the guilty. How could you?’’
‘‘Good night, Barb.’’ He closed the door. The outer office had emptied fast. Six o’clock.
On the way home, Collier stopped at a florist shop near the Swiss Chalet Restaurant, not far from Nina’s office, and bought ten plants to set around his place. That ought to wow Nina. He expected them to stay alive for at least a week. When they went he would buy some more. She loved plants.
Turning off the highway at the Smart ’n Final, he came to Glenwood Way and the small green-trimmed apartment house he’d decided to call home.
The apartment looked much better when he had set the plants around. He undressed, tossing his dirty clothes into the pile in the closet, and let the water wash all the crap off him from the day. With his eyes closed against the spray, he sang an old tune from a musical, The Desert Song. My desert is waiting, dear, come there with me . . .
He plucked a thick clean towel from the rack and rubbed his chest. He was happy. He hadn’t been this happy in years. He had his job back, and the woman he had decided he wanted was coming to see him.
Dressed again, he turned his attention to the kitchenette. The house cleaner had washed the dishes and wiped the counters. Alles in Ordnung. He opened the fridge, got out the frozen shrimp, and set it under running water to defrost.
Music! There ought to be music.
In his closet he found an old boom box. The public radio station had a classical music concert going, Bruckner’s Third. It sounded like a movie from the forties and fit his mood. He made shrimp cocktails with a lot of horseradish, listening to the music and sipping from time to time on the shot glass of Jack Daniel’s he’d poured. He kept looking out the window for her, but she would be late. She was always rushing into court at the last minute.
He imagined her in court in her sober suit and foolish high heels, the long hair always a little wild, the fresh cheeks and full lips. To think he had let her go last year!
Now. What else? He basted the steaks with teriyaki and stuck them under the broiler. Salad. She’d like a salad. His luck held. He had remembered to buy a presorted bag of fresh spinach. He made a piece of toast, buttered and spiced it, chopped it into croutons, dumped it with spinach in a wooden bowl and poured dressing on the concoction, tossing it with a couple of forks. Done.
She was late. He wondered if she would like the place, see how he had changed. He walked around, making an inspection. Alles in— The sheets! The sheets hadn’t been changed since he’d moved in.
He ran to the closet and rummaged around, coming up with the spares. He began making the bed.
‘‘Hi,’’ Nina said in the doorway. ‘‘The door was open. I took the steaks out of the oven so they wouldn’t burn.’’
‘‘Hi,’’ Collier said, the sheet hanging conspicuously from his hand.
Glancing at it, then at the half-made bed, Nina came toward him. ‘‘I like your apartment,’’ she said. ‘‘So much more cheerful than the one you used to have. Here. Why don’t you let me help you with that chore?’’ Smelling like roses, completely at ease, she tucked in a couple of corners, nice and neat.
‘‘Let’s have a drink,’’ Collier said. In the kitchen he made her a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks while she exclaimed over the fern he had stuck on the counter.
‘‘What kind of day did you have?’’ she said.
‘‘It’s great, now.’’
‘‘I feel the same way.’’ She puttered around setting the table and he watched her. She looked luscious, but it wasn’t just that, she looked right. She looked right in his kitchen, just like she felt right in his arms. She walked around, talking and laughing, hot and cozy as a fire, and made the place home.
She was right. He knew it.
He watched her, thinking about all the grief and all the long days and lonely nights of his life in the past few years. S
he was hope to him, a chance for a second life. He tried to act casual so she wouldn’t be embarrassed at the intensity of his feelings.
‘‘Shrimp cocktails!’’ she said, when he took them out of the fridge. ‘‘I love them!’’ They sat at the table— he’d forgotten a candle but so what—and ate. Then he gave her the Delta Airlines ticket to Honolulu and watched her eyes light up.
‘‘So that’s what you meant with your note in the orchid,’’ she said.
‘‘It’s only a weekend. Three days, if you can get Friday off.’’
‘‘I will get Friday off.’’
‘‘Great.’’
Then Nina said, ‘‘I brought you a present too. Nothing much.’’ It was a CD of samba music.
They turned off the lights and danced, not really dancing, more swaying to the music, holding each other tight.
When there didn’t seem to be much point in standing up any more, they went to bed.
Her skin was unbelievably smooth, the curve of her hip maddening. He smoothed her hair, muttered things, kissed her everywhere. They made love, and talked until eleven about Bob and her dog and the early snow, and then she had to go.
He felt like he was fourteen years old, with that same sense of wonder and discovery. He watched her go from the kitchen window, the moon sending glints of snow all around her, smirking like a fool, thinking, she’s the right one, how could I get so lucky twice in one life. The music was still playing in the living room, and he went in and looked at the English translations on the liner notes.
Joy is green like a forest
It burns and turns to ash, then grows again
He knew that. He’d learned it all the hard way.
It burns and grows again. That was love, too. He was going to make every second of the rest of his life count.
He hadn’t asked her about Strong’s boots. Unwritten rules had already grown up between them, and the first one was: don’t talk about work except at work.
Acts of Malice Page 14