by Joseph Flynn
The mayor gave the crowd his best cold-blooded killer stare to emphasize his next point.
“I will be very unhappy with anyone who sensationalizes this story or causes undue public fear with scare mongering approaches to it.”
Of course, not even Clay Steadman could completely inhibit the media from its love of the prurient, and he knew it. He just wanted to put them on notice, maybe give them pause before they went off the deep end entirely.
“I’ll take your questions now,” the mayor said.
There were the usual several seconds of competing babble until Annie Stratton pointed to a reporter and loudly called out his name.
“Mr. Mayor, will you tell us the name of the family that was attacked so we can interview them?”
“No. Their privacy is to be respected. If they wish to contact you, that’s their call.”
From their grumbling, this clearly was not an attitude the press appreciated or would want to see encouraged. Annie called out another reporter’s name before the complaining could get too loud.
“Mr. Mayor, in your opinion, should the state have sent more than just one game warden to help hunt down this animal?”
“Warden Knox was joined by a colleague from the fish and game department this morning. I believe his name is …” The mayor turned to Annie Stratton for help.
“Tucker Marsden,” the press secretary supplied.
“Tucker Marsden. But the thing you have to keep in mind is that the government’s resources are as limited as the people’s tolerance for taxes. That’s the first lesson anyone who holds office learns. However, if it becomes clear to me that more help is needed, we’ll ask for it. Or we’ll find funds of our own to pay for it.”
Before Annie could call on the next questioner, a wise guy at the back of the room called out, “Are you going to put a hundred thousand dollars on the lion’s head, too, Mr. Mayor?”
There was no laughter. The room grew deathly still. With Clay Steadman, there was always the real possibility he might come down into the audience and punch out any loudmouth he didn’t like. When the mayor and his ex-wife had come out of the courthouse in Santa Monica after receiving their divorce decree, he’d done just that to a photographer who jumped into their path to get a last picture of the Steadmans together. But the mayor didn’t follow such a bare knuckle course at the moment.
“No,” he said. “What I might do, though, is tie you up and cover you with steak sauce. When the lion comes for you, we can either shoot it or let the poor bastard die of food poisoning.”
Now a ripple of laughter ran through the auditorium, but it was of the nervous variety. The media weren’t entirely sure the mayor was kidding. Annie called on Ben Dexter next.
“Frivolous questions aside, Mayor Steadman, do you think this situation with the mountain lion will neither distract your police department nor strain its resources in its efforts to find the killer of Isaac Cardwell?”
“No.”
“Then it’s still your position that the FBI shouldn’t be called in to assist with the case?”
“Chief Ketchum has been forwarding to the FBI any material he thinks they should have. He will continue to do so.”
“One final question, sir. Are you struck by the timing of the attacks by this mountain lion, coming as they do after Mrs. Mahalia Cardwell said God would punish this town until her grandson’s killer was caught?”
“Do you believe in curses, Mr. Dexter?”
“I’m just a reporter, sir. What matters is your opinion, and those of the townspeople.”
“In that case, you can have my opinion. Goldstrike has always been a lucky town. And anyone who lives here pretty much has to consider himself lucky, too. But right now our luck has turned a bit sour. That happens to everyone. Things will right themselves soon enough. And that’s my opinion. But the fact is, the first attack by the mountain lion happened before Mrs. Cardwell offered her opinion of what actions the Almighty might take.”
“Yes, sir,” Dexter conceded. “But you said the first attack happened this past Friday. Which, if I have my timeline right, was just after Isaac Cardwell was killed. Maybe that’s the more important fact.”
Deputy Chief Oliver Gosden didn’t like Colin Ring from the moment he set eyes on him. The man had a big square pink face with piggy little blue eyes, a snub nose, and a lipless mouth. He had dark brown hair, going gray, cut short in a Caesar fashion that was a little too precious for someone as big as him. On the other hand, he seemed at ease in the olive drab short sleeve shirt with epaulettes, and matching o.d. slacks. And the thin white scar that ran down his right cheek to the dimple in his chin looked just right.
If Oliver had seen him in a line-up, he’d have said the man was a stone-cold killer. Even coming across Ring for the first time in Teddy’s diner, plowing through a plate of grilled hot dogs and scrambled eggs, the whole mess covered with ketchup, gave the deputy chief no reason to change his opinion.
Ring looked up at Oliver while chewing a forkful of his revolting breakfast with an open mouth. He washed the food down with a slug of buttermilk. He punctuated his gross mastication with a self-satisfied belch and a contemptuous grin.
Putting on a broad cockney accent, Ring asked, “‘Aven’t come to nick me for me criminal table manners, ‘ave ye, guv?”
“Are you Colin Ring?” Oliver asked, unimpressed.
“At your bloody service,” the man replied, returning his attention to his food.
The chief had called Oliver at home last night to tell him about the mountain lion attack. He’d also told the deputy chief to find Ring this morning. Question him about his relationships with Isaac and Mahalia Cardwell. Then the chief had apologized to Oliver for having to disturb him at home.
But the call had turned out not to be a disturbance at all. Oliver and Lauren had already tucked Danny into bed in the afterglow of ice cream and bedtime stories. Hearing how a young boy had been endangered and delivered from danger, they’d felt that much more grateful for the security and wellbeing of their own family. They’d made the sweetest love since … since the first time after Oliver had almost died four years ago.
Both of the Gosdens had sworn that the conception of their next child would be planned, but Oliver dearly hoped a baby — a girl this time — had been conceived last night. Someone they would protect fiercely from mountain lions or any other menace the world might spawn. Afterwards, they’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms, and Oliver woke up feeling better than anytime he could remember.
The good feeling lasted only until he caught up with Colin Ring. The man hadn’t been hard to find. He was registered under his own name at the Gasthaus Heidi, a hotel with a Swiss alpine motif and a staff fluent in German, French, Italian and the queen’s English. It catered to European tourists but was owned by a Japanese conglomerate.
Ring hadn’t been in his room when Oliver arrived, but the hotel manager made inquiries and told the deputy chief that English writer had asked the concierge to recommend a “greasy spoon” with a distinctly local flavor for his morning meal. So chances were good he could be found at Teddy’s.
“Did Reverend Isaac Cardwell stay at the hotel with Mr. Ring?”
The hotel manager checked his computer. “Yes. That is, he checked in the same night as Mr. Ring. Of course, each gentleman had his own room.”
“Of course,” Oliver mimicked. “And you heard about Reverend Cardwell’s murder?”
The manager nodded. “Shocking.”
“But you didn’t think to mention the fact that the victim had been a guest at your hotel to the police department?”
Now, the man looked truly shocked. “But what would his stay with us have to do with what befell the poor man?” The manager looked at his computer again. “He was here only one night.”
The man’s German accent became thicker the more defensive he got. It reminded Oliver that the Swiss were tight with their secrets. Didn’t like to be embarrassed about little things like murdered ho
tel guests — or being bankers for the Nazis. The deputy chief was tempted to ask to see the concierge’s green card.
Instead, he inquired, “How much did the reverend’s room cost for that one night?”
The man was hesitant to reply, but he was astute enough to read the body language of the policeman standing in front of him. “Four hundred and twenty-four dollars and twelve cents.”
“Did the reverend pay the tab himself?”
This really challenged the manager’s native reticence, but finally he said, “No. Mr. Ring put both rooms on his credit card.”
“Did you speak to Reverend Cardwell at all yourself?”
“Yes. Just once. The gentleman asked if there was a church nearby. I told him he might find St. Mark’s Episcopal a congenial place.”
“That was it?”
The concierge nodded emphatically. “If you have any further questions, I’m most certain you can find Mr. Ring at Teddy’s.”
Most eating places in town had a view of the mountains, the lake, or both. Teddy’s was at the end of an alley off Fremont Street and looked out on the loading dock of a Michelin tire store. The diner had a hand painted sign that didn’t bother to include its name. Rather it showed a coffee cup with a lipstick stain on it, an accompanying saucer with a cigarette butt, and a pair of horn-rimmed sunglasses with a cracked right lens. The owner, Teddy Kapp, figured this iconography would clearly communicate the nature of his business to anyone he cared to see come through his door.
Apparently, it worked for Colin Ring.
Oliver sat down and asked the Brit, “How long did you know Isaac Cardwell?”
“All too briefly, I’m afraid.” He looked up at the deputy chief. “I feel with a bit more prompting he could have been a bloody marvelous source for my book.”
“How did you find him in the first place?”
“Indirectly. Didn’t even know the bugger existed a few weeks ago. It was his granny I went to see. Then up he popped. Bloody miracle, I thought at the time. Unknown son of the bugger I’m doing my book on. Thought he’d have it in for his bloody old man.”
“Did he?”
Oliver saw Ring’s piggy eyes become reflective. “Truly hard to say, mate. He was eager enough to help me or so it seemed. But he never actually said a harsh word about Jimmy Bloody Thunder in front of me.”
“What’s your interest in Reverend Thunder in the first place?”
Ring snorted. “He’s the subject of my bloody book, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, I understand that. What I want to know is why you picked him?”
Ring’s lipless smile was lupine. “I’m fascinated by the idea of redemption, mate. Mainly because I don’t believe it bloody exists. You look at your Jimmy Thunder, and what do you see? A poor fellow from a broken family, his mum beats him about his bloody head with the family Bible. He overcomes all that to become one of your gridiron football stars. Then after an unfortunate loss of composure in which an opponent accidentally dies, he’s packed off to prison. But our lad’s not done. After he comes out, he finds God and the telly. He ministers to millions and undoubtedly makes millions more for his own accounts. It’s bloody marvelous, isn’t it?”
Oliver chose not to offer an opinion.
“Except you know as well as me, mate, it’s all a bloody fraud! Jimmy Leverette was a brute who beat his wife, abandoned his son, and bloody murdered a poor sod named Roger Braddock who was doing nothing more than having a beer with his mates. Thunder goes to prison but not death row — and I was surprised about that, a black killing a white in Texas and not getting the death penalty. Shows what they think of their gridiron heroes down there, doesn’t it? Anyway, out he comes, not the least repentant, changes his name, says he’s nobody’s nigger, and he’s off to the bloody races, isn’t he?”
Ring brought his fork down on his plate hard enough to chip the rim. Not that the blemish would be enough to keep the plate from being used again at Teddy’s. The Brit momentarily regarded his breakfast. The grease from the hot dogs and the eggs had congealed with the ketchup.
“Now, look what you’ve made me do, mate. Distracting me and all, my bloody breakfast has gone cold.”
Oliver was notably lacking in sympathy. “So, the only regret you have about Isaac Cardwell’s death is that a potential source on Jimmy Thunder has been lost?”
Ring shrugged. “Well, I hardly knew the bloke well enough to play darts with. As for the source part, that’s true enough. But I’ll tell you what, that old granny, Mahalia, she’s a bloody brilliant source of bile when it comes to her son-in-law. I’ll make out right well with her.”
Oliver asked, “What were you doing last Thursday night and early Friday morning?”
Ring affected a look of wide-eyed surprise, as wide as his piggy little eyes would go. “You think I’d kill my own source? That wouldn’t make me a very bright chap, would it?”
“What were you doing?” Oliver repeated.
“Working on my manuscript in my hotel room. Writers have bloody deadlines, you know.”
“You were alone?”
“It’s solitary labor, writing is. But as I like to work at night, I need a little help at one A.M. or so keeping my energy up. I called room service for a plate of bangers ‘n’ mash and a pint of whatever was cold. So check with the bloody hotel, if you don’t believe me.”
“I will,” Oliver said. “You have any research notes on Thunder or the Cardwells, something that might help our investigation?”
“I’ve got notes, all right,” Ring said. “But the only way you or any other bleedin’ peeler will see them is with a court order.”
Oliver stood and looked down on the Brit. “Man, the fucking people we let in this country.”
Ring only laughed.
“Tell you what, mate,” he said with a grin, “I’ll give you this much. I couldn’t have imagined a better ending for my book, if it turns out Thunder killed his own son. Be bloody Shakespearean, wouldn’t it?”
Chapter 23
Ben Dexter was used to doing formal, sit-down interviews with heads of state, royalty and the elites of the entertainment and sports worlds. But when he had to, he could feign the common touch and revisit the long gone days when he’d had to pay his dues. He could go right down to sidewalk level and interview the man on the street.
That was just what he and his crew were doing after Mayor Steadman declined to speak for his constituents.
Dexter’s questions were simple and direct: Given the recent mountain lion attacks, following the death of Isaac Cardwell, do you believe an actual curse has been placed upon your town? And if so, how do you feel about that?
“It’s a bunch of malarkey, and you must be a horse’s ass for even asking,” asserted a robust gray haired man coming out of a health club.
The response jolted Dexter, not that he let it show. He was rustier at this journalistic stop-and-frisk than he’d thought. He certainly wasn’t going to use that guy’s sound bite. He tried to remember how he used to do it.
He seemed to recall that young mothers with small kids tended to give the answers they thought you wanted to hear. The Social Security set could usually be counted on, as well, to spout enough crap that you could edit out something useful. And if he could get lucky enough to find some yahoo actually showing signs he was a serious churchgoer, that’d be a slam dunk.
On the other hand, people coming out of a health club, they were likely to be pumped up and thinking they were world-beaters. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d forgotten that using this line of inquiry was just like selling real estate: Everything was location, location, location.
“Let’s go,” Dexter told his crew. “We’re looking for a shopping mall near a church.”
They found it, too. The Crossroads Center at Aspen and Glen Brae. Just two blocks up the street from St. Andrew’s R.C.
“I don’t know if the town’s cursed,” answered their first mom with kids. “Not anymore than the rest of the world, anyway. Bu
t I am keeping a close eye on my girls. No playing outside unless we go to the beach. Mountain lions don’t swim, do they?”
An old gent out shopping with his wife offered, “I don’t know about curses, but I have lived long enough to see some things strange enough that I couldn’t explain them. So, I suppose. Maybe. But what I think that lady, Mrs. Cardwell, was doing was just showing how angry she was about her grandson being killed.”
By now, a crowd was gathering. People shopping and others going to the mall’s restaurants for lunch were curious to see what was going on. They were forming a semi-circle around Dexter. Without exception, they were white and polite. Very understanding about a difficult situation. That wasn’t at all what Dexter wanted.
But off to one side, sitting on a planter, watching the whole show was a good-looking black woman with a very serious expression on her face. She was well dressed in a light summer suit, and she had some kind of button on her lapel. Dexter couldn’t read it from where he stood, but he headed over her way. Maybe she’d have something interesting to say.
The woman stood as the news crew approached. Now Dexter could read the button. 2-4-6-8, I don’t want to hyphenate. Just call me an American. Uh-oh. The winner of two Emmies and a Peabody Award, Dexter just could not believe his luck in this town. Still, he couldn’t simply back away from this woman, not with the crowd that had followed him watching. What was he going to say? Sorry, lady, you’re not my kind of black woman.
So, Ben Dexter introduced himself and asked his questions.
“No, I don’t believe in curses,” Lauren Gosden replied. “Not the kind you mean. The kind I believe in is people who stir up trouble for their own gain. There’s far too much of that kind of curse.”
Dexter politely thanked her, and turned around. The woman’s response had made all the others gathered nearby look at the reporter and crew in a new light. Dexter would later tell friends in New York and L.A. that just for a moment there he knew exactly how Custer felt at the Little Big Horn.