by Joseph Flynn
“No!” the old lady said so fiercely she surprised all three men. “You can take Charmaine and Japhet out back, but I want to talk to those people. I have something to say. And I want the whole world to hear it.”
“As you like,” Clay conceded.
Ron took Mahalia Cardwell out the front door of police headquarters. They were hit by TV lights immediately. The old woman squinted in their glare, but her step did not falter.
Whatever it was she had to say, Ron Ketchum wanted to hear it.
Addressing the press, now packed five deep, Mahalia Cardwell said, “I want all you people to know what a good man my grandson, Isaac, was. I want you to know he was kind and gentle. He never had a mean thought or word for anybody. He loved crackheads and whores just like he loved his own wife and baby, because he believed we are all Jesus’ children.” For just a moment, the old woman’s fierce eyes softened, allowing her own deep sorrow to be revealed. “And that’s the only reason I can think the Lord took him so soon: He could no longer bear not having Isaac at his side in heaven.”
Then her rage returned, more fierce than ever.
“But the last thing I want you all to know is … God will curse this town, this place where my grandson was killed … He will curse it until Isaac’s killer is delivered to justice.”
Having spoken her piece, Mahalia Cardwell did not deign to take any of the questions shouted at her. Ron escorted her to a waiting police car. He opened the front passenger door for her and got her seated.
“This officer will take you to your hotel, Mrs. Cardwell. If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk with you at your convenience in the morning.”
She looked at Ron with a penetrating stare.
“Walter Nance told me all about you,” she said, mentioning the Oakland police captain Ron had called that morning. “I remember reading about you in the newspaper, too. What you did down there in Los Angeles. Shooting those colored boys.”
She nodded to herself. “You might be just the man I need.”
A considerably younger woman stepped out from behind the media crowd to approach Ron as he headed back to his office. The chief saw one of his men intercept her, but she said something to the officer, who nodded and let her pass. Ron kept walking, but he watched her as she drew near.
She was tall, about five nine, he thought, sizing her up instinctively. Medium build but she had broad shoulders, and the little bounce in her step indicated good muscle tone. So he put her weight at one forty, maybe one forty-five. Her hair was light brown with blonde highlights, and cut short. The practical appearance of her hairstyle made him think her color was natural rather than a salon’s attempt at being artful.
She was wearing some kind of uniform: a khaki shirt with a badge over the left breast pocket. The nametag over the right pocket said KNOX. There was a patch on her left shoulder that featured a grizzly bear. Her pants were green, and her belt and shoes were black.
“Chief Ketchum,” she said, falling into step with Ron, “I’m Cordelia Knox, California Department of Fish and Game.” She had a faint New England accent.
Ron reached the front door of police headquarters and held it open for her. Standing close to her now, he thought Cordelia Knox looked young enough to be a kid going to a costume party. She seemed to recognize his appraisal, but didn’t let it bother her.
“I’m a game warden and a wildlife biologist,” she said in a matter of fact tone, entering the building. Once inside, out of range of the media’s pointed ears and microphones, she added. “I’m also a tracker and a hunter. And I was told you had a mountain lion attack on a female jogger yesterday morning.”
Ron led the way to his office and offered her a guest chair. He took his own seat and considered her briefly again. He didn’t doubt that she’d told him the truth about her credentials, but she still looked like a kid to him. He knew he’d better not let any criticism of her youth carry in his voice or show in manner. People might accuse him of being ageist as well as racist.
“Thank you for coming, Warden Knox. I’m glad you’re here.” Ron opened a desk drawer, took out a file, and handed it to his visitor. “Here’s our report on the Mary Kaye Mallory attack. You can read it here or I can have a copy made for you to take with you.”
“I’ll do both, if you don’t mind,” she said with a smile.
Okay, he thought, she’s a good looking kid, and he was starting to feel like a dirty old man. In the light of his office, he could see that her hair color was definitely natural and she had matching amber-brown eyes.
When she looked up from her reading there was a measure of concern in those eyes that made him think for the first time Cordelia Knox was a real grown-up, and a serious one at that.
“Chief, I think I have some bad news for you.”
“What’s that?” he asked evenly.
“When I heard of the attack on Ms. Mallory, it made me think of a cat I’ve been tracking for a month now.”
“You’ve been after a mountain lion for a month, and haven’t been able to catch it? Isn’t that unusual?”
She shrugged, taking no offense.
“It can happen. A mountain lion has a pretty big range, up to a hundred square miles. But most times, when we want a big cat badly enough, we’ll contract with a houndsman and, with the help of his dogs, run down our prey pretty quickly. But this animal … this one’s different.”
Ron frowned. “How’s that?”
“Well,” she said, “when we went after it with the hounds, it crippled two of them and killed a third. Damn near got the houndsman, too. It did all that damage, and still managed to get away before I could shoot it. And I’m a crack shot. But the really bad news is, this cat, in my opinion, is already responsible for the death of another person.”
Ron didn’t have any trouble reading between the lines. “Are you saying the mountain lion you’ve been tracking is the same one that attacked Mary Kaye Mallory?”
“Well, that’s the puzzle. Because the location of the attack near Goldstrike would put it outside the normal range of the animal I’ve been hunting.”
“But?” Ron asked.
“But your Ms. Mallory, who must be one tough woman, noticed this distinguishing mark.” Cordelia Knox turned the report around for Ron and pointed out a particular notation. “This scar above the cat’s left eye. The cat I want has the same feature.”
“I have an occupational contempt for coincidence, Warden Knox,” Ron said, “but could it be just a coincidence?”
“Could be,” she conceded. “Mountain lions feed mainly on deer. Lots of cats get gored and gouged by antlers. It’s a possibility we could have two of them with similar scars.”
“But you don’t think so.”
Cordelia Knox shook her head.
“In my own way, I’m a cop, too. I hate coincidences as much as you do. But there may be something I can find that will pin it down for us.”
“Like what?” Ron wanted to know.
“If I can find the tracks of the animal that attacked Ms. Mallory, I can compare them to those on record for the animal I want.”
Ron had to laugh. “You’re going to run a mountain lion for fingerprints?”
She smiled again, once more tapping into a wellspring of lechery whose existence Ron had heretofore never suspected. He forced a cough before he blushed for the first time since … well, he couldn’t remember the last time.
“Not quite fingerprints,” she said, “but it’s the same idea. You find the animal’s tracks, then you look for distinguishing features: a short toe; a missing toe; one foot turned in. You measure the size of the tracks. Maybe you even work out a ratio of the width of the front footpads to the width of the rear footpads. Things like that.”
Ron found the calm, off-hand expertise of her explanation reassuring.
“So, you find out it’s the same animal, the way we both think now, and then you send for some more dogs?”
His reassurance disappeared when she shook her head.
“You’re kidding.” Ron couldn’t imagine a scarcity of anything in consumption obsessed California, except rain in drought years and prison space perennially.
She shook her head. “Sorry. Your basic houndsman come in two varieties these days. Traditional and commercial. The traditional guy is usually Southern or has his roots down south. His kind is getting fewer and farther between. The commercial guy will charge some two thousand to five thousand dollars to tree a lion or corner a bear for you.”
“If it’s a matter of money, don’t worry,” Ron said. “The town will make up any shortfall in your budget.”
This time the game warden’s smile was wry.
“Working for rich folks has its advantages, huh?”
“Some,” Ron allowed.
“Well, money’s not the only problem here. I don’t like the commercial outfitters on principle, and even swallowing my pride for a situation like this, there’s only a handful of them I’d trust. This being August, though, all those fine fellows are on vacation. They’re off in Hawaii hunting wild boar or in Africa looking for really big game or just taking it easy on a beach somewhere. Believe me, Chief, I’ve been looking for a houndsman. The man I used last time says it’ll take him six months to train new dogs.”
“So, what’ll you do?”
“I’ll track the cat. My partner will be here on Monday. We’ll get this animal.”
“If there’s any help my department can offer just let me know.”
“Thanks,” Cordelia Knox said. “The one problem I do have at the moment is I can’t find a place to stay. I tried three hotels and each one told me every room in town has been taken.”
Goddamn media invasion, Ron thought.
He took out his house keys, pulled one of the ring and extended it to her. “Use my place. I’m working a murder investigation —”
“The black guy nailed to the tree?”
“Yeah. So, I’ll pretty much be living out of this office anyway.”
“Your place has a spare bedroom?” Cordelia Knox asked, taking the key.
“Yeah.”
“Then don’t worry about me. I’m clean and quiet. You won’t even know I’m around.”
Ron doubted that seriously. He started to give her directions, wondering just how selfless this act of generosity was, and then he decided he’d better show her the way.
Ron had intended to stay only for a minute, just to show his guest where everything was, when the phone rang. Much to his surprise, it was his wife — ex-wife, he reminded himself — Leilani.
Divorced or not, he still smiled every time she called unexpectedly. Having her voice catch him by surprise always took him right back to the days when he was a young MP and she was the local girl on Sandy Beach, Oahu, watching all the pale haoles trying to body surf without breaking their necks on the sandbar none of the tourist guides mentioned. Ron had been the one she’d called out to, warning him about the hazard. She said he had too cute an okole to park it in a wheel chair where no wahine would ever get to see it again.
A week or two of remarks like that had led to Ron and Leilani’s romance and eventual marriage — as well as Ron’s fistfight with Leilani’s former local boyfriend.
“Hey, Lei. It’s good to hear from you.”
“Aloha, kane. Those news bastards starting in on you again?”
The former Mrs. Ketchum shared a dismal view of the media with her ex, and apparently had seen coverage of events in Goldstrike.
“It’s a dirty job, but there are always dirty people willing to do it,” Ron said.
“I’d send my publicist to help you out, but I know you wouldn’t want that. Clay Steadman has people way better than mine anyway.”
Just then, Cordelia Knox stepped out of the guest bedroom. She had her socks and shoes off. Ron had never had a thing for women’s feet, but looking at hers he thought this might be yet another area where he wasn’t being sufficiently open minded. He asked Leilani to hold on a minute, and gestured to Cordelia to say what was on her mind.
“Is it all right if I take a shower?” she wanted to know. The cabin had only one bathroom.
“Go right ahead. Towels are in the cabinet.”
“Thanks.”
His guest went into the bathroom, and Ron took the phone into his bedroom and closed the door.
“Okay, I’m back,” he told Leilani.
“Ronald Ketchum,” his former mate teased, “do you have a woman with you?”
“Yeah. Her name is Warden Knox.”
“Is she good looking?”
“She’s with the state department of fish and game.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“She’s here to shoot a mountain lion that’s misbehaving.”
Leilani chuckled.
“So she is good looking. Is she young?”
“Impossibly young.”
Leilani whispered a soft string of Hawaiian through the phone and into his ear. The first time she did that — the first time they’d made love — he asked her what it meant. She refused to tell him, and after that he decided it was sexier not knowing. He didn’t want to know now, either.
“And how’s your love life?” he asked.
Now, her laughter had a rueful tone.
“You know better than anyone how badly I wanted to break into show biz. Well, bro, mo’ bettah you be careful what you wish for. Now, I’ve got all the work I didn’t get those first twenty years. I don’t have time for a love life. I’ve got a five o’clock call tomorrow, and I should be sleeping right now.”
The mere mention of sleep sent a wave of fatigue crashing over Ron. He’d been up for the past forty hours dealing with all sorts of unpleasant reality. Sitting on his bed, listening to Leilani’s soft, musical voice, he felt his grip on consciousness failing rapidly.
“Yeah, me too,” he replied.
“You stay well, kane. Anybody mess with you, I get my kahuna make their peckers fall off wiki-wiki.”
“I bet you would.”
“Oh, and in case you forgot, we’re not married anymore. You want to give your Warden Knox wahine a romp, it’s okay with me.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You want to give her a romp and think of me while you’re doing it, that’s okay, too.”
“Aloha, Leilani.”
Chapter 13
Sunday
Ron was pleased that he awoke at sunrise, refreshed. Okay, he conceded maybe he didn’t look or smell too good, having slept in his clothes, shoes and all. But he felt good after not a lot of sleep, and that brightened his spirits considerably.
He’d been worried that maybe he was turning into some kind of nasty old creep, thinking the way he had about that young girl. But now in the day’s first light he realized that he’d simply neglected a very basic need for a very long time. Christ, talking to Leilani last night made him realize that she was the last woman he’d made love to. And that farewell hula, just before their divorce, had been well over three years ago.
Hell, he was still vital. His body was telling him to find someone.
Someone his own age.
Or at least in the neighborhood.
He shucked his clothes and dropped them in the laundry hamper. He was on his way to the bathroom when he stopped short. It occurred to him that for the time being he could no longer walk around his house naked. He didn’t think his guest would be awake yet, but he couldn’t take any chances. What if she’d gotten up to pee or something and he blithely walked in wearing his birthday suit. Wouldn’t look good at all.
Not that his body was anything to be ashamed of.
Ron slipped on a pair of gym shorts and knocked softly on the bathroom door. No response. He slipped inside and locked the door. The room was immaculate. No hair in the tub or sink or on the floor. No damp towels left around. No soap puddles or shampoo trickles anywhere. Warde
n Knox hadn’t been kidding. She was very clean. And quiet. He couldn’t hear a sound anywhere in the house.
He took his shower, shaved and for the first time in months weighed himself. Hadn’t gained a pound. Looking in the mirror, he was pleased that his hairline was still firmly anchored in place, his teeth were still white, and his gums didn’t seem to be receding. He wasn’t so old, after all.
He got dressed and went quietly to the kitchen.
He needn’t have worried about disturbing his guest. She was already up and out. She’d left a note for him on the kitchen table.
Chief —
Mountain lions are crepuscular, they hunt at sunrise and twilight. So I had to get an early start. I knocked on your door a couple times to see if you wanted to come with, but you didn’t wake up. Wish me luck. Maybe I can bag the sucker this morning and get out of your hair.
Corrie Knox.
There was nothing in her note that was impolite or incorrect. In fact, it was considerate of her — professional, really — to advise him of her actions. And she’d offered him her implicit friendship by signing her name in a familiar manner.
But seeing that she’d gotten the jump on him ticked him off.
She’d knocked on his door and he’d been so dead to the world he hadn’t heard it. Damnit, it wasn’t that long ago he could have worked seventy-two hours straight and then gone out to play pickup basketball for several more. And he certainly wouldn’t have let any schoolboy infatuation distract him from a murder case. Especially not one this big.
Surly and feeling a great deal older than he had only moments ago, he skipped his usual morning coffee for orange juice. The English muffin was replaced with oat bran, a banana, and skim milk. He brushed his teeth with extra vigor. Then he strode briskly out his front door telling himself that he hadn’t been one-upped.
He was the one hunting the biggest game of all.