‘Why couldn’t we do it here? Why involve the Bureau?’
‘Because they do it quicker. And better. And because our guys have other things on their mind.’
‘How much else did you tell O’Flaherty?’
‘Enough to let his people do the job.’ Gómez shrugged. ‘Where it happened. Likely range. Not much else.’
‘He wants more.’
‘There is no more. It’s a stand-up job. Did the slug come from that gun? Yes or no. This isn’t quantum physics, sir. We’re talking first grade.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Did he have an answer, by any chance?’
‘He did.’
‘And?’
‘They got a positive match. That bullet came from Fiedler’s gun. Like you say, black and white. Case closed.’
Gómez held his gaze. He’d been half expecting this.
‘Fiedler hated guns,’ he said. ‘He wouldn’t have a gun in the house. Neither would his wife. So what’s he suddenly doing with a Browning automatic?’
‘God knows, Gómez. But that’s not the point. The point is, we move on.’
‘You gave me until the end of the week, sir. Last time I checked, it’s only Thursday.’
‘You’re telling me this investigation is ongoing?’
‘I’m telling you we’re doing our job.’
‘Like how? Like where is this thing taking you?’
Gómez wondered how long he wanted to play this game. Should he tell Whyte about the tests Merricks was doing on typewriters in the Tech Area? On the ever-expanding trawl for areas of interest in Fiedler’s private life? On the interesting friendship Sol had struck up with a guy who shot coyotes for a living? The answer was obviously no. The head of G-2 had cracked the case already.
‘The guy’s tired,’ Whyte was saying. ‘He’s disturbed. He’s not even very well. There are pressures in that Tech Area like you wouldn’t believe. So one day, for whatever reason, he decides to call it quits.’
‘And kills himself.’
‘Exactly. We call that suicide, Lieutenant Gómez. I’ll even spell it for you if I have to.’
Gómez let the insult fizzle out.
‘You used the word disturbed, sir,’ he said softly. ‘What exactly did you mean?’
‘Emotionally unbalanced.’
‘How? In what respect?’
Whyte stared at him. He wasn’t used to questions like these.
‘Are you serious?’ he said at last.
‘Always.’
‘Fine.’ He stood up. ‘Then I suggest you talk to my wife.’
Gómez had met Whyte’s wife on a number of occasions. Her name was Thelma. She was a tall woman, handsome, fit, with a mane of blonde hair and a raw, undisguised ambition on her husband’s behalf. This was a second marriage for both of them. They had no children and to fill her spare time Thelma did shifts in the Hill’s library. Along with a bunch of other amateur thespians, she also turned out for the Hill’s drama group. Only a couple of months back she’d played Daisy Fay Buchanan in an adaptation of The Great Gatsby, a role – according to some – for which she needed few rehearsals. According to Merricks, who was doing his best to lay the eager young divorcee who looked after the library’s sci-fi section, Thelma had her sights set on Arthur grabbing a big staff job in DC. She wanted a brownstone in Georgetown, a decent car out in the street, and – above all – a nicer class of acquaintance.
Gómez had phoned ahead. Thelma had been expecting the call. This time of the morning the library was busy so she’d commandeered a small, airless office behind the issuing desk. Among the cardboard boxes and stacks of books, there was barely room for a couple of chairs.
Thelma looked pleased with herself. The arrival of Gómez had triggered a ripple of excitement among the women who served as volunteers.
‘You want to talk about Sol Fiedler? That’s fine by me. One condition, though. You happy this goes no further?’
Gómez shook his head. It was a ludicrous question.
‘I’m G-2,’ he said. ‘You know everything’s on the record.’
‘You mean that?’
‘I do.’
She nodded, evidently surprised. She was wearing a thin cotton dress, cut low, and she had a habit of leaning forward in the chair to confirm the contents. It was the kind of dumb body language that Gómez would never have associated with a colonel’s wife but he guessed that marrying a man like Arthur Whyte was equally revealing. There had to be better ways of getting to Washington.
‘This isn’t easy,’ she said.
‘You want me to go?’
‘Not at all.’
‘And this is about Fiedler?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then tell me what happened.’
She frowned, said nothing. Her eyes strayed briefly to the door. Gómez didn’t move.
‘You know Frijoles Canyon?’ she asked.
‘Everyone knows Frijoles Canyon.’
‘We were out there a couple of weekends back, a bunch of us, including Sol.’
Gómez nodded. Frijoles Canyon was part of the Bandelier National Monument, an area barely four miles out beyond the main east gate. Way back in time the creek had cut a deep cleft in the rocks, exposing volcanic air pockets that the local Indians had converted into cliff dwellings. A path climbed up to the canyon rim before looping back down to the watercourse below. The circular walk, for someone as fit-looking as this woman, would have been a breeze.
‘You walked the path?’
‘We all did.’
‘And?’
‘I was at the back.’
‘With Sol?’
‘Yes.’
‘You knew him already?’
‘A little, yes. Recently he’d started coming here to the library. He was crazy about American history. I could help him with that.’
‘You recommended stuff? Specific titles?’
‘Sure. And I got in other books for him. Material he’d come up with himself.’
She mentioned a couple of books about Ulysses S. Grant. Gómez hadn’t heard of either of them.
‘So you’re out in the canyon,’ Gómez said. ‘What then?’
‘Sol isn’t young any more. That day was real hot. He was suffering.’
‘You fell behind?’
‘We did.’
‘And?’
‘He kept wanting to stop. He said it was too hot. He wanted me to find shade, just to rest up a while.’
‘In one of the caves?’
‘Yep.’
‘And?’
She frowned again, biting her lip. Gómez couldn’t decide whether her hesitation was genuine or just a tease. Either way, he was certain that Fiedler wasn’t going to come out well from the next couple of minutes.
‘The cave was bigger than I expected,’ she said at last. ‘And really cool.’
‘You had water?’
‘Gone. He’d drunk the lot.’
She said they’d found a perch among the rocks inside. She remembered the dust leaving an ochre stain on her new shorts. Back of the cave, in the darkness, she thought there might have been bats. Tiny squealing noises, high-pitched. To her surprise, Sol had gone to investigate, picking his way among the rocks. After a while, worried in case he’d fallen, she’d followed. Then she realised she must have passed him in the dark.
‘He called my name,’ she said. ‘He was very close.’
She’d turned round, felt her way towards him. Then he was there. Naked below the waist.
‘He told me he loved me,’ she said. ‘He told me he was crazy about me. He said he’d been watching me for months, working out when I went to the library, fixing for little meets, telling me all this hoopla about the books he wanted me to find. Then he got hold of my hand. He wanted me to stroke it. He wanted me to make him hard. Can you believe that? Sol Fiedler? A man as bright as that? A man as old as that?’
Gómez was aware that Thelma was beginning to sweat. He wanted to know what happened next.
‘I to
ld him to put his pants back on.’
‘And?’
‘He started crying. He said he just wanted to kiss me, to hug me. He said that would be enough. Then he said something else.’
‘What?’
‘He said we could do it later. Back on the Hill. He said he knew a place we could go where no one would find us.’
‘You mean have sex?’
‘Sure.’
‘So what did you say?’
‘Nothing. I was too shocked. I just wanted to have us out of there, back in the sunshine, back with other people. Tell you the truth, it was beyond spooky. Until then I thought he was quite a sweet old guy. Turned out I was wrong.’
Gómez wanted to know about the rest of the day. She said they’d made it back to the path. At her insistence, he’d gone ahead. She didn’t want him behind her, ogling her fanny. When they finally caught up with the rest of the group it was late and time to go back to the Hill.
‘After that, it was easy. I just made sure we were never alone. I think he was ashamed of himself. He wouldn’t look at me. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.’
‘And did you ever talk to him afterwards? Before he died?’
‘Once. He never came to the library again, not when I was there, but there was a time I was walking along Trinity Avenue and he passed me in his car. He was going real slow and then he stopped completely, pulled in, waited for me.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. He reached across and opened the door. He wanted me to get in. He said we had to talk. I said no way, not after what had happened. Then he said something else. He wanted me to make a promise.’
‘About what?’
‘About his wife. I wasn’t to tell her. He said if that happened there’d be nothing left for him.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘Yes.’
‘I said he should have thought of that in the first place.’
‘You said that?’
‘I did. I was angry. And you know what? I meant it. You take care of someone out there in the sun. You try and make things better for them, easier for them, and look what happens. The guy jumped me. No one does that. Not without consequences.’
‘So you told her? Mrs Fiedler?’
‘Of course I didn’t. It was just a way of getting my own back I guess, of punishing him. If I’d thought … you know … the guy had a gun …’ She looked down, knotting her hands, then she began to cry. Gómez didn’t move. At length her head came up. Her face was shiny with tears. ‘You think I killed him? You think that was my doing? My fault? Be honest.’
Gómez studied her. He had another question in mind but now wasn’t the time to put it. Instead he asked about her husband.
‘You told him what happened?’
‘Of course.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He said he’d sleep on it.’
‘Meaning?’
‘He’d figure out what to do, I guess.’
‘Like confront Fiedler?’
‘Sure. Except it turned out he couldn’t. Because it was too late.’
‘So maybe he’d have a word with Marta?’
‘I doubt it. Arthur’s a kind man, believe it or not. There’d be no point.’
‘Sure.’ Gómez nodded. ‘So what else could he do?’
Thelma had found a tissue from somewhere. She dabbed at her eyes, then tried to raise a smile.
‘Nothing, I guess, but you know what? This has been real helpful.’ She gestured at the space between them. ‘Don’t you think so?’
6
Gómez had always liked Albuquerque. He liked the whiteness of the newer government buildings, the way the craze for art nouveau had wrapped the mouldings around some of the fancier gas stations, the pretty little Catholic churches promising shelter from the broiling sun, plus the feeling that something new and exciting had arrived in this corner of the remote Southwest. He even found it in his heart to purchase the odd trinket from the bands of wandering Indian street people. This particular afternoon he bought a piece of stone carving the size of his hand to give to Marta. He wasn’t sure which animal it represented but that wasn’t the point. The Indian who pocketed his three bucks promised Gómez the carving would bring good fortune. With luck like hers, Marta deserved a break.
Frank Donovan lived in one of the new developments out towards the city’s airport. It was a frame house, single-storey, with insect screens on both windows and a tall, oblong panel of the same stuff covering the front door. The door was open and Gómez could hear a baby crying inside. He knocked twice. No reply. He knocked again and then called Donovan’s name. At length a woman appeared. She was young, early twenties max. Mexican blood showed in the flatness of her features and after a good night’s sleep she would have turned any head. Nice legs. And hints of a superb body under the loose cotton shift.
‘Frank Donovan live here?’
The woman looked Gómez up and down. The sight of an Army uniform didn’t appear to alarm her.
‘Why you asking?’
‘Because he and I need to talk.’ Gómez jerked a thumb over his shoulder. He’d already checked out Donovan’s registered vehicle details. ‘That’s his pick-up out front? The red one? Am I right?’
He sensed the woman was about to deny all knowledge of Frank Donovan but there was a movement in the shadows behind her and a man stepped into the tiny hall. He looked like he’d just woken up. Tousled hair and sleepy eyes. At least a decade older than his companion.
‘That’s me you’re talking about.’ He was mopping his face with a towel. ‘What do you want?’
The woman stepped aside. Donovan didn’t bother with introductions but limped down the hall and led Gómez into a room at the back of the house. Two more kids, both older. Donovan shooed them into the garden and swept the litter of toys into a corner with the side of his foot. The door to the kitchen was open and whoever did the cooking needed to invest in a fresh bottle of oil.
Gómez looked round. Marta had been right about the guy being a sports nut. The photos on the wall hung above the chaos of the rest of the room. There were three of them, all close-ups, all carefully framed, all featuring the same footballer. He was huge, bulked out by padding, but there was something in the forward lean of his body and the thrust of his chin that promised serious violence. His eyes were tiny, no more than slits. Framed by the helmet, they glittered with something that spoke of both determination and rage.
‘Spud Murphy?’
‘Sure.’ The grin transformed Donovan’s face. ‘You follow the guy?’
‘No, but Fiedler does.’
‘This is about Sol?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know him?’
‘Not really.’
‘But you work out on the Hill there?’
‘I do.’
‘Then give him my best, yeah? Next time you see him tell him Tuesday, for sure.’
There was something in Donovan’s delivery that sounded a tiny alarm deep in Gómez’s brain. Too easy, he thought. Like he’d been expecting a visit like this. Like he’d been practising.
‘You saw him this last Tuesday? Day before yesterday?’
‘Yeah. Poor guy wasn’t too well. Normally I stay on in the evenings but he said there was no point. The way he was feeling I’m guessing he went to bed.’
‘So how was he?’
‘I just told you. The guy was sick, said he’d been throwing up half the night. I told him to take it easy. His time of life, you need to be careful. Sweet man, though. A joy to talk to. Never bad-mouthed anyone. Never complained. Some of those guys off the boat might have brains the size of the planet but they can be a pain in the ass. Not Sol. Never. A real gentleman. Pleasure to make his acquaintance.’
Gómez eyed the tiny space available on the two-seat sofa, decided to stay on his feet.
‘Anything else you’d care to tell me?’
‘About what?’
>
‘About the way Sol was when you saw him last.’
‘I’m not hearing you, buddy. I don’t understand. Like I say, the guy was in bad shape. That’s allowed. That happens. What else do you want to know?’
‘Did he strike you as unhappy? Depressed?’
‘Like he was tired of feeling bad? Sure. Who wouldn’t be?’
Gómez held his gaze, then changed tack. The draft put most men of Donovan’s age in uniform. How come he wasn’t in Europe? Or island-hopping across the Pacific?
‘I done my time,’ he said at once. ‘Took a bunch of shrapnel at Midway. Worst day of my life, if you’re asking.’
‘You were a Navy man?’
‘Sure, and proud of it. I guess there are two kinds of wounds, one up here, one down there.’ He tapped his head and then his right thigh. ‘Some guys survive intact except they go crazy. Me? I’m too dumb for stuff like that but those Zeros make a hole you wouldn’t believe. Honourable discharge. July the 28th 1942.’
‘And now?’
‘Now I shoot smaller animals. Mainly coyotes. Ask Sol.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘Is he OK? Or are you trying to tell me different?’
‘He’s dead, Mr Donovan.’
‘Dead?’ He looked blank. ‘Sol?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘How come? Like he was really sick?’
‘Like he shot himself to death.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘Shit.’ Donovan sat down. For a long moment he stared down at his hands. Then he looked up at Gómez. ‘I gave him a gun Tuesday. Lent it to him.’
‘What sort of gun?’
‘A Browning automatic. You’re not telling me …?’
‘He asked you for that gun?’
‘Sure. Last week. Said he wanted to trying nailing them coyotes himself. One had been bothering him some. He’d never mentioned it to Marta but the dog came calling late at night, looking for scraps I guess.’
‘So he wanted to shoot it?’
‘That’s what he told me.’
‘A man who hated guns?’
‘He never told me that.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah. Matter of fact we never discussed guns. He was interested about what I was doing up on the Hill there, that’s the way we got to meet, but pretty quickly it was other stuff, sports mainly, especially football.’
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