by Frank Hughes
“Why her?”
“She took over for the Simmons woman. Boyd was having a serious affair with Simmons, and the boy, Ken, seemed to think he’d found a new mom. My hunch is someone doing business with Boyd wanted to get an operative close enough to Boyd to keep an eye on him and Ms. Simmons had to go so they could get Ricasso in.”
“Pretty cold.”
“It’s shaping up to be a pretty cold bunch. They should check with Immigration; from her accent I don’t think she’s from around here.”
“Someone with an accent in New York? Stop the presses.”
“Go fuck yourself. She might be Swiss or from the north of Italy.”
“Okay,” said Carl. “The brass hats were never pleased with the terrorist angle. They’d be happier if Raviv is just a plain vanilla murder.”
“Can you do me a favor?”
“Another one?”
“Come on, you love it, getting back in the game. Can you find out what the story is on Boyd?”
“Way ahead of you. Well-connected, big charity guy, as you know, but he has some shady family ties. Nothing specific. Rumors of mob connections, odd golf partners, suspicion he might have laundered money through a hedge fund he used to run, but so far, if he’s dirty, he hasn’t slipped up. By the way, I have to register that truck soon.”
“Go ahead. I’ll be okay.”
“You sure about that?”
“No, but you be careful,” I said. “Don’t push too hard.”
There was silence for a moment at the other end. “What’s the current score?”
“Ten that I’m sure of, including the two that are mine.”
“Nick. From what I hear, you didn’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
I broke the connection, put the phone on the ground and stomped on it. When I looked up, an older couple was staring at me from the sidewalk, shock and confusion on their faces. I picked up the pieces and carried them to a nearby trash can.
“This phone just sucked,” I said.
The woman nodded. “Mister, I know how you feel.”
23.
I slept like a rock that night and was up by five-thirty. I drove into Purchas and parked at the outdoor skating rink. It was early yet, so I found a Starbucks. Even at that hour, the line was long, so I didn’t get back to the rink until after eight-thirty. I sat in the first row of bleachers pretending my four dollar cup of coffee was a campfire.
There were only two people on the ice. The man looked to be in his early forties. Athletic, handsome, with well-tended dark hair, he stood dead center, watching the woman skate a dance pattern. She was blonde, rather tall, dressed entirely in black. I guessed mid-thirties, probably very pretty, but right now her face was set in stern concentration. She held herself like a ballerina and skated with regal grace, but she was not an Olympic competitor. There was too much tension, resulting in movements that lacked the requisite fluidity and confidence. At the start of a turn, she suddenly broke off the pattern. Head down, hands on her hips, she skated back to the man.
“You must do the turn.” He sounded Canadian. I’d know for sure if he said, “Aboot”.
She shook her head. “I told you. I’m not doing it alone.”
“Catherine, you do the Mohawk by yourself with no problem. That’s far more difficult than a Three Turn. You can do this.”
She shook her head again. “It’s different.”
“I am not teaching you anything new until you do the turn by yourself.”
“I’m sorry, Claude. If that’s the deal, we’ll have to stop.”
He sighed and looked at her in silence for a moment. Then he looked at his watch. “We’re done for today, anyway.”
“Next week?”
He shook his head ruefully. “Sure.”
She pulled a folded piece of paper from her glove and handed it to him. A check, I guessed. They shook hands before she turned and skated towards the edge of the rink. He watched her for a moment, and then began practicing some moves of his own. He clearly was Olympic material, moving with a dancer's poise and the power of a halfback.
I was positioned near the door to the locker room. The woman skated up to the boards and stepped through the gate. I got up and she glanced over warily.
“Chief Masterson?” I asked.
“Yes. How may I help you?”
“Your office said I might find you here this morning. I missed you yesterday evening.”
“I find it hard to believe they told you to approach me here.”
“Let’s say I inferred it from something I overheard.”
She looked at me for a moment. “You must be the PI.”
“That’s right. Nick Craig.” I did the thing with my wallet again. I was getting good at it.
“I know. Come on.” She motioned me to follow her along the thick rubber mats that covered the walkway.
The locker room was unisex and sparsely furnished, with a cold concrete floor covered with more of the interlocking rubber mats. Despite its name, there were no actual lockers. A single wooden shelf ran around the room at head height. Beneath it were wooden coat pegs spaced about two feet apart above the low benches that lined the walls. Hanging from one of the pegs was a well-pressed peace officer’s uniform and a blue evening dress, both still in dry cleaner bags.
Chief Masterson sat down and fished a black gym bag from under the bench. While she unlaced her skates, I gave her a closer look that confirmed my first impression. She was very pretty, with bright green eyes, clean features, and wide, full mouth. She had smooth even skin, now nicely flushed from the cold. From the graceful, athletic way she moved I assumed the figure beneath the bulky fleece top complimented the parts that showed.
She glanced up. “Have a seat.”
I sat down across from her. She finished with one skate, and started on the other. They looked old, slightly yellowed, and well used. I recognized the little notch below the first few eyelets.
“Klingbeils,” I said.
She paused in her endeavors for the briefest of moments. “You a skater?” she asked, without looking up.
“More of a faller. My wife was the skater. Ice dancing. I went with her to Queens once and watched the old man measure her feet for a new pair.”
She looked up at me. “Was?”
“Was what?” I said.
“You said your wife ‘was’ a skater.”
“She died.”
“I’m sorry.” She turned back to her skates. “How can I help you?”
“As you know, I’m a PI, from New York. I’m working on a case that might have a connection to your town.”
She finished with the second skate and held it in her left hand while she fished a well-used chamois rag out of her bag.
“In what way?”
“I’m interested in the fire at The Retreat.”
She wiped down the blade of the skate with the rag. “That fire was an accident.”
“So I am told.”
“But you think otherwise.”
“Always.”
She smiled, briefly, and I liked the way it looked. She finished wiping the blade, slipped a soaker over it and put the skate in the bag. She bent over and picked the other one off the floor.
“Alright,” she said, as she worked the rag on the second blade, “why don’t we meet at my office in about an hour? I need to shower and get dressed.”
“I thought I might buy you breakfast. Surely you haven’t eaten yet?”
She gave me a knowing smile. “Do you offer to buy meals for all the cops you encounter, Mr. Craig?”
“Only the pretty ones. Are you hungry?”
She looked me over for a moment. “I could eat.” She slipped the soaker over the blade and deposited the skate next to its sister. “I have to shower and dress.” She pointed towards a door marked ‘Ladies’. “I’ll meet you at a place called Hannigan’s, over on Third Street, in half an hour.”
“Third Street,” I repeated.<
br />
“Think you can find it alright?”
“Is it the one just after Second, but before you cross Fourth?”
She picked up her bag and retrieved the uniform from the peg.
“You’ll need that sense of humor. And a fat wallet. This town is very expensive.”
“I’m on an expense account.”
24.
Hannigan's was right on the corner of 2nd and Main, so it was busy. The crowd of would be diners spilled out onto the sidewalk. Most were sipping lattes to pass the time and clutching big square pagers.
I squeezed inside the packed and noisy lobby and threaded my way to the podium. The perky hostess handed me one of the pagers and told me the wait was at least twenty minutes for a ‘short booth’ and forty for a long. I told her short was okay. Fifteen minutes later the pager shuddered and beeped, but that was near record time compared to everyone else. Apparently there weren’t many groups small enough for the short booth, which was right by the entrance to the kitchen.
The place was a little too cute for my taste. Framed and matted posters of past Winter Olympics were separated by sets of antique skis, snowshoes, and ice skates. Low walls topped with brass rails and frilly curtains divided the room into three aisles of booths with high backs. The food was served on real china by bright, fresh-looking young women who filled their slightly archaic uniforms with charm and silicone. A Harvey House re-imagined by Hefner.
As first to arrive, I took the gunfighter seat and ordered a cup of black coffee from the hostess. One glance at the menu proved Masterson right. I could have gotten two Grand Slams at Denny’s for the same price as a bowl of cornflakes. After five minutes a waitress approached me.
“Hi, I’m Cheryl. I’ll be your server.” Cheryl was only about seventeen, yet already a prime candidate for the Girls of Spanish Mountain pictorial. She put a paper coaster in front of me and set a big mug of steaming coffee on it. “Black coffee, right?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“You ready to order?”
“Not yet, I’m expecting a guest.”
“Okay, just let me know.”
As she left, two men entered the waiting area. Something about them made my antenna go up. One was five-ten, mid-sixties, wearing a charcoal gray overcoat with a velvet collar. Beneath that he was dressed for Wall Street: Navy blue business suit, snow white shirt, and a dark red tie with tiny polka dots that weren’t trying all that hard. The fur ushanka perched squarely on his head made him look like a KGB colonel. His companion was well over six feet, very fit, and stuffed into black stretch ski pants. An orange parka with black stripes down the sleeves strained to contain what looked like a full set of shoulder pads, but was just him. He looked permanently pissed off.
The older man removed his ushanka when greeted by the hostess, revealing a full head of well-tended silver hair. He smiled a mouthful of long yellow teeth and spoke to her. While he chatted, he also scanned the room. His eyes met mine and stopped. He tapped his companion and spoke to him briefly. The big man nodded and assumed a modified parade rest, his eyes locked on me, while the first man came directly to my table.
I returned to examining the menu. There was a creak of leather as he slid into the empty seat. I ignored him.
“Mr. Craig.” A statement, I noticed, not a question.
I lowered the menu. “In polite society, we ask before we sit at someone’s table.”
“Forgive me,” he said, without moving a muscle. “Where are my manners?”
“Perhaps you left them in your other suit. I’ll wait while you go get them.”
My initial impression of his age was wrong. Close up I could see he was on the far side of seventy. Skin the color of fresh pie crust stretched taut across the angular bones of his face, leaving deep hollows in the cheeks and at the temples. It was a death's mask rendered even more unnerving by the overly large eyes, whose pale blue irises were completely surrounded by the whites. If he missed a meal he’d look like the Crypt Keeper.
“Allow me to introduce myself.” His speech was formal, with the hint of an accent. German or Polish, I guessed. “I am Arnold Kohl.”
“Sorry, they don’t serve miners here.”
The wintry, pasted on smile was replaced with puzzlement. “Minors? I don’t -. oh, yes, I see.” The smile was back. “My name. That was a joke.”
“Apparently not.”
“It is not spelled like the mineral. Kohl. K-O-H-L.”
“Austrian.” I said, returning to the menu.
He showed surprise. “Yes, quite so.”
“I’m a man of many talents,” I closed the menu and put it down. “Why are we dancing, Mr. Kohl?”
“I want to know what you are doing here.”
“Thinking about ordering the breakfast special. With orange juice.”
Again the mirthless, cold smile and nothing else.
“Okay,” I said, “why should I tell you?”
He leaned forward and folded his hands.
“This place. I refer to the town and the resort, of course. This place, we are so very proud of it. It is a good town, a quiet town. Our guests, most of them very important people, they come here to escape the troubles of the world.”
“And?”
“And you, Mr. Craig.” He opened his hands and gave a little shrug. “You appear to be both worldly and troublesome.”
“I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted. I'm leaning towards flattered, by the way.”
“Neither, I assure you.” He leaned forward in what I’m sure he thought was a chummy way. “You are a private investigator. You are here in our town, apparently in a professional capacity, yes?”
“I'm curious how you know so much about me,” I said.
“But, Mr. Craig, you are making inquiries to the local police and some of our local merchants.”
“Do you have an official status here, Herr Kohl?”
“Please. Mr. Kohl. And, to answer your question, not official. I am the general manager of the resort. The private resort. The Retreat.”
“Nice to know you have such a good relationship with the police.”
He widened his eyes and shrugged. “We all cooperate. Share information. It is good for the public safety.”
“Yeah, there's nothing like a police state to make you sleep soundly at night.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. I'd touched a nerve, but what? A grim smile scurried across his thin, bloodless lips.
“You must understand our concern. We are anxious to prevent any scandals.”
I looked down at my coffee. “Scandals? Scandals in Happy Valley?”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You understand that many important people come here, often unaccompanied by their spouses, but not without, how shall I say it?”
“Special friends?”
He sat back, his face registering approval. “You are indeed a man of the world. And they expect their privacy to be respected and those of us who serve them to employ a certain modicum of discretion.”
I gave an airy wave of my hand to show I appreciated his admiration for my gutter sense, not to mention his assumption I knew what ‘modicum’ meant.
“When it comes to matters of the heart, I am very French, Herr Kohl.”
He bridled slightly at the 'Herr' this time. “And so I ask again, Mr. Craig,” his tone hardened, “why are you here?”
“It’s possible I’m just here on vacation.” I took a leisurely sip of my coffee.
“This, of course, is a possibility,” he said. “However, one wonders about your inquiries to the police and so many others.”
“Perhaps I’m thinking of investing locally. Looks like a boom town.”
Again the smile. “It is indeed. However, imagine my surprise when no Mr. Craig is registered at any hotel within thirty miles.”
“Really? I hope they didn’t give my room away while I was snowshoeing this morning.”
“Mr. Craig, we both know you are here in your
professional capacity. So again I ask, in a friendly way, why are you here?”
I sipped some coffee before answering.
“As a man of the world yourself, Herr Kohl, I am sure you understand my reluctance to discuss specifics.” He leaned in slightly as I continued. “I doubt the object of my inquiries is among your A-class clientele, but the canons of my profession, such as they are, prevent my saying anything more.” I sipped some more coffee. “You understand, of course. As you said. Discretion.”
He continued to sit absolutely still for several moments. Finally, his mouth moved.
“I suppose that assurance will have to suffice. For the moment.”
“It will indeed,” I said, rising from my seat, “because my guest is here.”
Kohl turned to look. Chief Masterson had entered the restaurant and was speaking with Kohl's companion. Her police headgear had a checkerboard band like the Chicago PD. She saw us, said her good-byes, and came over to the table.
“Mr. Kohl,” she said, “what a pleasure.”
“Chief Masterson. The pleasure is all mine.”
He actually took her hand and kissed it, old movie style. I couldn’t help it, I rolled my eyes. She saw me and giggled slightly, which seemed to please him.
“I shall leave you in Mr. Craig’s capable hands. Enjoy your meal.” He turned to me and nodded curtly. “Mr. Craig.”
“Herr Kohl,” I replied, punctuated by a click of my heels.
Anger flickered across his face, quickly replaced by the wintry smile. He turned and walked back past the big guy in the parka and out the door. He never looked back, but Lurch gave me a long parting stare I assumed was designed to freeze my blood. Then he too turned and left. The door slammed hard, briefly lowering the buzz of conversation.
“That must have gone well,” Masterson said, watching them go. She turned to me. “You always this diplomatic?”
“Oh, hell,” I said, gesturing for her to sit down, “the State Department people have extended me an open invitation.”
“I’m certain.”
We took our seats.
“What's the story on his lapdog?” I said.
“What? Oh, Günter? Chief instructor at the resort. Austrian. Does well with the tourist girls.”