Cold Quarry

by Andy Straka

  “Not everything. Jake lives pretty modestly. I’m not worried about him being into anyone for money, if that’s what you’re driving at.”

  “No, no.” He waved off the thought. “I wasn’t talking about money.”

  “What are you talking about then?”

  “You know, it’s not that important. If you trust this man, that’s good enough for me. I just want you to help bring Betty Carew some peace of mind over this whole business without …”

  “Without what?”

  “I don’t know … alienating a lot of people. This is a decent valley, filled with a lot of decent, hardworking people.”

  “I’m sure it is, but somebody was indecent enough to have shot my client’s husband from behind in cold blood. You act like you have your ear to the ground. Any theories on who did it?”

  He leaned back in the chair and folded his arms across his chest. A vein grew into prominence in his thick neck. Then he shook his head. “No theories. But I will tell you this. You must’ve discovered, like me, that there are mysteries about any place, truths and half-truths people don’t always speak about.

  “Well, around here those truths run deep as a mine-shaft, dark as the blackest night. You start stirring around in there, you’re liable to be surprised at what might come out.”

  “Sorry, Warnock. I can’t guarantee you anything when it comes to looking into something like this,” I said. “If it turns out to be simple, like finding a local poacher or something, then I shouldn’t think there’d be any problem. In fact, the police will probably beat us to it, in which case you’ll be right and Betty will have wasted her money.”

  “Exactly. But you should know something, Frank.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t waste money,” he said matter-of-factly, reaching across with his free hand and closing the checkbook. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a few letters to finish dictating and some phone calls to make before the end of the day. If you don’t mind, please keep me appraised of your progress.”

  I said I would and shook the man’s hand. I took his check and walked down the hall past the pretty receptionist and through the front door. Outside, the temperature had dropped a few degrees. I wasn’t sure, but I could’ve sworn I felt the money burning a hole in my pocket.

  7

  I drove to a cell phone outlet in South Charleston and picked out a new phone. They were running a special. Thirty-day free trial—only pay the first month’s rent and base charge, unlimited minutes and long distance. Perfect, since I’d have to get a new phone when I got back home anyway and I didn’t think I’d need this one any longer than thirty days.

  After that, I drove to one of those big box stores that sold electronics and showed the salesman the handheld GPS receiver I’d picked up in the woods.

  “That’s a nice model,” he said. “You looking for another one?” He was barely five feet tall, dressed in khaki pants and a clean pressed blue shirt, and had an air of specific, laser-focused knowledge about him.

  “No. I was hoping you could show me how to work this one.”

  “What, you steal it from somebody? Just kidding.”

  “It belongs to a friend of mine,” I lied.

  “Sure.” He took the unit from my hands. “It’s easy.”

  He showed me how the display and various buttons worked. There were coordinates, called way points, as well as a map on the screen.

  “Does it have memory? I mean, does it keep past sets of way points?”

  “Of course.” He helped me bring up another display that allowed me to scroll through the coordinates. “Looks like your friend already has a few stored in here.”

  Hot dog. A virtual roadmap to some of the places my attacker in the woods might have been.

  “You can use it anywhere on the planet,” the salesman was saying. “Except underground or down under the water. It has to be able to get the signals from the satellites.”

  “Great. Thanks very much for your help.”

  “Hey. You sure you’re not looking for a new one of your own? If you like it after you’re through using this one and give it back, you come on by and see me. I’ll make you a deal.”

  “Deal,” I said.

  Back at the Carews’ in Nitro there was a message waiting for me. The driveway had long since cleared out so that only my truck, Chester’s Suburban, and Betty’s Buick remained.

  “Cops called looking for you,” Toronto said as I came in through the back door.

  “Deputy Nolestar?”

  “That’s the one. Betty took the message.”

  “Wonder what took him so long?”

  “Maybe they get so many shotgun attacks in the woods around here yours wasn’t a priority,” he said.

  “Right. I’m just glad Betty answered the phone and not you.”

  “She and Jason are upstairs sleeping. I was just about to take her car and go pick up a pizza.”

  “With all this food sitting around here?” I indicated the stacked loaves of fresh-baked bread and brownies and pies and the containers of fruit salad and other goodies I was sure were now crowding the refrigerator.

  “All this Tupperware makes me nervous,” he said. “I need some grease.”

  I shook my head.

  “How was the lawyer?” he asked.

  “Very smooth and very professional. Maybe has something to hide. He’s also a cigar smoker.”

  “At least he’s got one redeeming characteristic. That didn’t stop you from taking his money though, did it?”

  “No. And it’s Betty’s money anyway, at least eventually.”

  “What’s in the bag?” He indicated the plastic shopping bag under my arm.

  “New cell phone to replace the one the guy took from me earlier. Plus that GPS unit of his I picked up. I went by a store and they showed me how to pull up coordinates this turkey has stored in the memory. Tomorrow I want to go check them out.”

  “You bet. I could’ve showed you how to do that.”

  “Yeah, but you know me. Mr. Tech-savvy. Sometimes I like to figure these things out for myself.”

  He shrugged.

  “I also want to go pay a visit to this used-car dealer you were telling me about.”

  “No problemo. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see us. Anything else?”

  “All I can think of for now.”

  He twirled Betty’s keys in his meaty hand. “My stomach’s growling. Let me know how you make out with the lawman.”

  I used the wall phone in the kitchen to dial the number Deputy Nolestar had given Betty. It turned out to be a pager so I punched in the Carews’ number and hung up. I went to the refrigerator, found a nice piece of untouched pumpkin pie, poured myself a glass of milk and sat down at the kitchen table to wait.

  I’d only taken a couple of bites when the phone rang. I went to the wall and snatched the phone off the hook so it wouldn’t disturb Betty or Jason any further.

  “Frank Pavlicek speaking.”

  “Pavlicek, I see you got my message.”

  “You Deputy Nolestar?”

  “That’s me.”

  I could hear the hollow sound of the inside of a moving car. He was obviously on a cell phone. His voice was a tenor with a slight wheezing quality that made him sound too young to be an investigator, but who was I to argue.

  “I figured you’d call me after what happened,” I said.

  “Yes, sir. I talked with the other two deputies who took your report. I’d like to sit down and have a talk with you.”

  “Okay, when and where?”

  “How about right now?”

  “Right now, tonight?”

  “No better time than the present. In fact, I’m headed out your way now. Just across the river in St. Albans.”

  “All right. But Betty Carew and her son are asleep upstairs. They’ve had a long day with the funeral and all. Is there someplace else we can meet?”

  “How about the McDonald’s down on First Avenu
e? I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “Give me half an hour,” I said.

  Deputy Nolestar turned out to be a tall, wholesome-looking (in a Clark Kent sort of way) young man with a dark crew cut and dark hair on his arms. His eyes darted back and forth nervously. They were the color of cobalt; not cobalt blue, which is actually the dark color belonging to a mixture of cobalt and aluminum, but the color of cobalt itself—steel gray. I judged his age at late twenties, give or take.

  “You got a good chop on you,” Nolestar said, pointing toward my mouth with his thumb after we’d sat down over our coffees in a quiet booth in the back. A huge family of eight or ten—a baby, two toddlers, and multiple other kids running everywhere around a weary-looking mom and dad—sat devouring their Mcfood up at the front, but their three tables were around the corner from ours and mostly out of earshot.

  “It’ll heal,” I said.

  He nodded. “So you disarmed this guy, huh? Took his gun and everything? Pretty slick move.”

  “I thought it was better than trusting to his good graces.”

  “Heard you were up there looking for information about the Chester Carew shooting.”

  “I was. Carew was a personal friend. The widow’s naturally concerned that whoever shot him is still running around loose.”

  Nolestar’s eyes flicked down toward the table. “Right. I’m aware of Mrs. Carew’s concerns, naturally. We’re doing all we can to find whoever shot her husband. Other than being a friend, what’s your interest level?”

  “Well, I’m not really at liberty to say, but I’d sure appreciate any information you can share. Who knows? Maybe we can help one another.”

  “Maybe. I’m happy to try to bring you up to speed … a little. But I hope you don’t plan on involving yourself in this investigation, Mr. Pavlicek, without the knowledge or cooperation of the sheriff’s department or other authorities.”

  Nabbed. Time to redirect.

  “Other authorities? Now who else might be interested in a supposedly accidental shooting?” I asked.

  “Afraid I’m not at liberty to say,” he said with a straight face.

  I smiled. “Okay. Okay.” I blew on my coffee and took a small sip. It hurt my mouth at first, but then felt good as it burned down my throat. “But you said you would bring me up to speed, as you put it?”

  “To a point,” he said. “I’ve done some checking into your background, and your friend there … Toronto, is it? Your record’s not exactly clean, but you are ex-homicide and Detective Ferrier in Charlottesville vouches for you. That goes a long way with me, but you got to make sure you understand, Mr. Pavlicek, we’re dealing with a different world these days.”

  “Different world? Sure, I suppose, but you’re talking about the accidental killing of a falconer like it’s a matter of national security.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments as we both sipped our coffees.

  “How about an autopsy. Can we start there? Carew was shot in the back, I know that.”

  “That’s correct,” Nolestar said.

  “Close range? Long range?”

  He looked away. “The M.E. thinks twenty to thirty yards.”

  “Pretty close range then.”

  He nodded.

  “Still think it was a hunter?”

  He said nothing.

  “So the shot is what killed him.”

  “Carew died from massive bleeding and shock related to the gunshot. Looks like the slug tore into a piece of his heart. No surprise there, I guess.”

  “What about the gun? What type of load was used?”

  “Well, ah, the bullet was recovered, I can tell you that.”

  “And? What type was it?”

  “I’m afraid that’s, um, classified information, Mr. Pavlicek.”

  “Classified? How about shell casings?”

  He shook his head. Different world indeed. For the first time I found myself wishing Bill Ferrier’s mug were around. At least I could deal with the detective from Charlottesville. Then again, all this guy knew about me was information he’d read from a database and Bill’s good word.

  “How about the shotgun I turned over to you guys this afternoon? You get any prints off of that?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, sir. Nothing we could use. And without a further description of the guy, he’s going to be hard to find.”

  “Stonewall Rangers,” I said.

  Nolestar cleared his throat. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “You know who they are.”

  “Okay. … What about ‘em?”

  “Chester had been to some of their meetings.”

  “We know that.”

  “Did you also know they were after him to use his land?”

  He said nothing.

  “Are they suspects in Chester’s killing?” I asked.

  “Pavlicek,” he said, “look. Don’t involve yourself in stuff where you’re not needed. I know this guy was a friend of yours and all, but—”

  “But what?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer. We leveled even stares at one another.

  “Can you at least tell me what you think happened to Elo?”

  “Elo?”

  “Carew’s falcon. A gyr-peregrine. The one he was hunting with that day.”

  “Oh, right. No, sir. I guess the bird is still missing. That’s all I know.”

  “Did anyone talk to Dr. Winston?”

  “Dr. Winston? I don’t think so, why? Who is he?”

  “Veterinarian. He treated that bird for some kind of strange illness—paralysis, that sort of thing—just a couple of weeks ago. But the bird recovered.”

  “I didn’t know that. Maybe the conservation officer—”

  “Who’s running this investigation, Deputy Nolestar? Are you?”

  The deputy shifted in his seat. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that either,” the deputy said.

  “ ‘Cause I’ve got to tell you, this is sounding more and more like a federal operation with you just acting as a gofer.”

  “Sir, I’m going to have to respectfully request that you and your friend stand down on all this.”

  “And if I decide not to?” All this sir stuff was starting to make me nervous.

  “I’m sorry, but this conversation is over,” he said, pushing himself away from the table. “Please tell Mrs. Carew we’ll be in touch with her just as soon as we know anything definite about who shot her husband.”

  “The only thing definite I can see is you stonewalling me about what you’re doing to investigate the Stonewallers.”

  He snickered. “That’s good … I like that.”

  He left the table and threw the rest of his coffee in the trash. I finished mine as I watched him drive his unmarked cruiser from the lot.

  8

  “Time to wake up, amigo.”

  It was Toronto, rapping on the door of the bedroom Betty Carew used to store her sewing machine and dozens of wintering garments. I looked at my watch—5:45 A.M.

  “Planning to shake the car dealer out of bed?” I asked.

  “Nope. But I hear he’s an early riser and I thought you wanted to check out those coordinates first.”

  “What time does the sun come up?”

  “About the time you drag your sorry butt out of the sack, we eat some grub, and get to wherever we’re going.”

  “Right. Bound to endear us to someone.” My mouth tasted like dry paste. I stretched and yawned, shaking the cobwebs from my head.

  “Your purloined GPS unit has a nifty little mapping feature. I’ve already localized the three way points this character stored in the memory. And guess what? One of them is up there on Chester’s land and another is smack dab in the middle of the used-car lot belonging to our Mr. Higgins.”

  “Sounds suspiciously like a clue. This Higgins guy going to be armed?”

  “That’s Lieutenant Colonel Bo Higgins, commander of the Stonewall Rangers Brigade, to you. But I doub
t he’ll be hefting an M-16 around his lot. Tends to scare off the customers.”

  “Have you been there before?”

  “Not exactly, but Chester drove me by there before we went to the second meeting.”

  “Be interesting to see what’s at the third way point.”

  “I’ve got the address.”

  Two cups of coffee and Betty Carew’s sausage, biscuits, and honey had me awake enough to be following Toronto’s directions back down I-64 crossing the Kanawha into South Charleston, then along the north side of downtown Charleston to an exit within sight of the gold-domed state capitol. The sky had begun to brighten considerably as the new day dawned.

  “Where are we headed exactly?”

  “Other side of the interstate. Up the bill.”

  We climbed a ramp that curved back over the eight-lane highway up toward the steep heights that rose over downtown.

  “Turn left here. Then another left.”

  I gunned the engine and we drove up along a ridge toward an apartment complex of four or five high-rise buildings. What may have once been brick luxury apartments overlooking the city, balconies off the sides, now sported dusty glass windows, decaying trim and railings. A couple pieces of trash from an overflowing Dumpster blew across the parking lot. A sign read Roseberry Circle. We were waved through a guardhouse entrance by a droopy-eyed attendant.

  “It’s a HUD project.”

  “Well, what do you know?” Toronto said, surveying the landscape. “I’ve heard of this place.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Buildings are mostly controlled by rival gang bangers from Detroit and Philadelphia, other cities up north. Lot of dealing going on in here.”

  Right now the place looked asleep.

  “Where is the coordinate exactly?” We were passing over a speed bump, curving uphill between the buildings.

  “Hold on a second. Pull over here.”

  Toronto punched a few buttons on the unit and waited for a response as I pulled to the curb.

  “Looks like you’re just about right on top of it,” he said.

  “Okay. So my friend from the woods visited here. A user maybe?”

  “Nah. White boy’d be more likely to get his fix over on the West End.”