Ice on the Grapevine

by R. E. Donald

  "Sit down, Ray," said Hunter, and waited for Ray to sit. "Listen to me. This isn't something to play around with. I can't give you legal advice, because I'm not a lawyer and the law's too complicated for ordinary guys like you and me to understand. You leave that to Jeff, here. But I can give you probably the most important advice you'll ever get." He paused until Ray looked him full in the eye. "You say you and Sharon are innocent. If that's true, then you deserve a life together, you and Sharon. You confess to something you didn't do, and you'll pull the rug out from under both of you, you understand? I've never figured you as the kind of man who'd give up without a fight, and I'm sure Sharon hasn't either. You and Sharon both deserve a chance, and Jeff is here to give you that chance. If you turn down his help and confess to something you didn't do out of some crazy idea that you'll be a hero to your wife, then you're too stupid to deserve her. Give Sharon some credit. You've both worked and waited a long time for what you've got. Don't throw away your marriage and your future by doing something stupid, Ray. You understand me?"

  Ray dropped his eyes and nodded, his jaw slack, like a scolded child.

  "So you'll tell Jeff everything you know so he can help you?"

  Ray didn't look up, but he closed his mouth and worked his jaw.

  "Think about it, Ray. This is no game. There's a lot at stake here." When Ray still said nothing, Hunter repeated, "Think about it. I'm heading back to Vancouver soon - tonight, I hope - but if there's anything I can do to help, anything you need me for, you talk to Jeff, okay?"

  "I'll be back tomorrow, Ray," said Jeff. "I'll help you all I can."

  A guard opened the door and Ray stood up, held his hands out for the cuffs. On his way out the door, he turned his hound dog face to Hunter and said, "El said she'd look after Sharon's dog. Could you...?"

  Hunter half smiled, nodded.

  "Thanks, Hunter." Ray came close to smiling for the first time since Hunter had arrived. "It would break Sharon's heart..." His voice trailed off, and the door closed behind him.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  Merv wandered into the darkened observation room while Russell was watching the suspect and his trucker buddy dance around the truth on the other side of the window.

  “I see you took my advice,” said Merv, taking off his hat and scratching his scalp.

  Russell didn’t know what the hell Merv was talking about, so he ignored him. He was watching intently, still trying to figure that Rayne guy out. Cool as a cucumber, the guy had invited Nillson to confess. Russell wondered if that had been a calculated risk on Rayne’s part, for Russell’s benefit. Like he was saying, See? My friend wants to confess but he can’t, because he didn’t do it. Why his interest in this case? And why had the suspect been so anxious to talk to him?

  “Where’s that guy from, anyway?” said Merv. “Outa state? The FeeBee’s?”

  “Huh?” Russell frowned. So that’s what Merv meant: he’d assumed that Russell had solicited help from another department. “That’s Feldman, the scumbag lawyer who wants to get some free advertising from being part of the Iceman story.”

  “Not him. The cop. Who’s the cop?” Merv said.

  “That’s no cop. He’s a trucker, some buddy of the perp’s.” Russell buzzed the guard, letting him know the interrogation was over, that he could take Nillson back to his cell. He watched the guard come in and put Nillson’s handcuffs back on. Nillson was talking about his dog.

  “If he’s not a cop, then what the fuck are you letting him talk to the suspect for?” Merv blubbered. “What on earth are you thinking, Cupcake? Maybe I should cancel my vacation. I leave you alone for a couple hours and come back to find you running amok.”

  “Don’t piss yourself, Merv. The guy’s an ex-cop. I talked to his old department and they said he’s straight. Besides, it was Feldman’s idea. I promised Feldman I wouldn’t take any of this down, but it gave me a chance to hear Nillson talk that I wouldn’t otherwise have had. You’d rather Feldman had his client zip his mouth up and leave us to work without any kind of statement from the suspect at all?” Russell paused with his hand on the doorknob.

  Merv shrugged. “Where’s his old department?”

  “Coincidentally …” and Russell wondered just how coincidental it was, “he’s from the same place the load came from. Town called Burnaby. It’s a suburb of Vancouver.”

  “Canada, eh? He a Mountie?”

  “Was a Mountie,” Russell said. “Looks like we’ll need the RCMP’s cooperation. If we don’t get a match on the Iceman’s prints here, I’ll send his prints and photo to Burnaby. Since that’s where the trailer was loaded, there’s a good chance that’s where the victim’s from.”

  “Good,” said Merv.

  Russell opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. Rayne and Feldman were already at the elevators, deep in conversation. “Good?”

  “It’s as plain as your nose, Cupcake,” said Merv, stabbing a pudgy finger toward Russell’s nose. Russell turned away and started toward the elevators. Merv, following at his coat tails, raised his voice. “We’ve got a case where the vic’s an import, the perps are imports, and there was interstate transportation … hell! international transportation involved. What more do you need? Hand it off to the Feds, or ship the whole damn lot back to Canada and save a few bucks for the L.A. County taxpayer.”

  Russell wheeled around so fast Merv’s pink forehead almost ran into Russell’s chin. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Merv? One more case handed off to another department, one more buck passed, one less job for Merv Campbell to do.” He shook his head in disgust. “Well, that’s one thing I refuse to let you teach me. I don’t work that way, Merv. I take pride in finishing what I start. I take pride in my job…” He looked down at Merv’s good suit, his courtroom suit, which needed cleaning and pressing, or better yet, incineration. “And in myself,” he added, again starting toward the elevator. Rayne and Feldman had disappeared.

  “No need to get personal, Cupcake,” said Merv with a scowl.

  Russell turned on him again, keeping his voice low but almost shaking with the effort of it. “Don’t you ever call me that again,” he said, his index finger so close to his partner’s nose that it made Merv’s eyes go crossed, “or I’ll fuckin’ make you eat that fuckin’ ugly hat.”

  “Shit. My hat,” said Merv, and rushed back down the corridor.

  Russell didn’t hold the elevator for him.

  Feldman was gone, but the trucker was waiting for Russell as he stepped off the elevator. “Well? Your pal’s honest, is he?” Russell said, making no effort to conceal a smirk.

  “I’ll grant you that he’s not telling what he knows,” said Rayne, rubbing his chin, “but I don’t think he did it.”

  Russell noticed that Rayne needed a shave, and that the stubble on his chin contained more gray than his hair. He figured the guy to be in his mid-forties, maybe older. “Then why won’t he talk?”

  “Isn’t that obvious?”

  “You think he’s protecting his wife,” said Russell. “Does that mean you also think she’s a killer?”

  “No,” said the trucker. “I ran into them at a diner in Oregon on their way down here, and I’m sure they had no idea there was anyone in their trailer. I’d put money on it. My guess is that they found the body, panicked, and now they’re afraid that if they admit to seeing it, they’ll incriminate themselves for something they didn’t do. He’s more afraid for her than for himself.”

  “You sound awfully sure about something you can’t prove. You couldn’t have been much of a cop.” That brought a look to the trucker’s face that was almost spooky. Russell couldn’t put his finger on the change, but it was in the eyes, gray-blue and intense. “Just kidding, of course,” he added, quickly. “Don’t get me wrong, Rayne. I respect hunches, but I need more than that to work with.”

  The look was gone as quickly as it came, but the temperature had dropped a couple of degrees. The trucker nodded. “Call me Hunter,” he
said. “You said I could pick up the load that was on the Nillsons’ trailer. When?”

  “I’ll find out if the lab is happy with the stuff we got off the trailer. If they don’t need the load any more, it’s all yours.”

  Alora Magee’s first instinct had been to refuse. I’m too busy, she could have said, although she wasn’t. I’m not qualified, she could have said, although she knew that she would probably do a better job than most. I’m scared, would have been the truth. She’d read about the case in the papers, heard about the arrest on the radio, and knew there’d be public interest in the trial, and that’s why she was scared. Over the last ten years, she’d gotten restraining orders and alarm systems, tried apartments with security guards and even bought a German Shepherd.

  She’d moved fifteen times. She’d changed her name twice and cut her long hair and taken to wearing mannish clothes. Although she’d heard nothing from her ex-husband for four long years, and she hoped he’d finally forgotten her, or at least lost interest in her, she still didn’t feel completely safe from him. She wanted to remain hard to find because she knew she would fear him as long as he was alive.

  It was the man on the phone who made her change her mind.

  “Jeff Feldman gave me your name,” he’d begun. “He’s representing a friend of mine and suggested you might be willing to represent my friend’s wife.” He’d gone on to describe the situation, and Alora recognized it immediately from the news reports. She’d hesitated, trying to figure out which excuse to use to turn him down.

  “I don’t know for sure that they didn’t do it,” he’d said then, “but what I do know is that they’re decent people and they deserve a chance.” His voice was sure and sincere, with a faint accent that Alora couldn’t identify.

  “Guilty or innocent,” she reminded him, “as a lawyer, it’s my job to represent them all.”

  “Yes, that’s the theory. Innocent until proven guilty. I always assume, until I find out otherwise, that other people feel the same way I do about murder, though,” he said. “If I were a lawyer and I knew a client to be guilty but he refused to plead guilty, I’d have to drop him. Otherwise I’d blow the case. I guess I wouldn’t make much of a lawyer.”

  “But you’d make a good judge,” she joked.

  “No. I make a good truck driver.”

  She was surprised at that, and surprisingly intrigued. From his voice, she’d pictured him in a business suit, maybe wearing glasses, definitely well educated and successful. She tried to match the voice to her image of a truck driver, hair a little unkempt, belly hanging over his belt buckle, maybe a tattoo on his forearm and cowboy boots. “Okay,” she agreed, curious to know more. Maybe she could keep her face out of the news. This wasn’t the O.J. trial, after all. “I’ll meet your friend,” she told the truck driver, but the one she really wanted to meet was him.

  The woman in front of her wasn’t exactly her idea of a truck driver either. She had nice features, although her skin had more lines than her age warranted. Alora guessed she was a smoker, or had been. “I guess my first question has to be, do you want me as your lawyer?” she said, smiling at Sharon Nillson.

  “You said on the phone that Hunter picked you,” Sharon said. “Then I guess you must be good.” Her voice was husky, like a smoker’s.

  “Mr. Rayne’s the one who called me.” Alora shrugged. “I don’t know if he picked me, exactly. He was given my name by your husband’s lawyer, if that means anything.”

  “Why can’t we have the same lawyer, me and Ray?” Sharon was fidgeting, rocking back and forth in her chair and moving her hands underneath the table. Alora could hear papery noises, as if her new client were rubbing skin against skin.

  “Conflict of interest,” she answered. “Would you like a cigarette?” Alora didn’t smoke herself, but usually had a pack in her briefcase for nervous clients.

  “Conflict of interest? What do you mean?” Sharon seemed to shudder. She swept her hair back off her face, then hugged her elbows, holding her breath.

  “Well, what may be in the best interest of one party – yourself, in this case – may not be in the best interest of the other party – your husband.” Alora slid a pack of Camels across the table and Sharon glanced at it but didn’t move to pick it up. “That means a single lawyer couldn’t do what was best for you without harming your husband, or vice versa, which would create an ethical dilemma, but if you each have your own…” She realized immediately that she should have put more emphasis on the word ‘may’, and she was about to correct herself.

  “That’s bullshit! We’re husband and wife. We’re a team. Ray loves me and he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. Ever! And I wouldn’t hurt him for the world! We’re not guilty, either of us. Why are you doing this?”

  Alora sucked her breath in through her teeth, trying to think of the best way to answer. She could feel the woman’s desperation. “It’s not that we think one of you is guilty, necessarily…”

  “Whatever you do has to be in both our interests. You have to get us both out of jail. This isn’t right!”

  “Mrs. Nillson. Sharon.” Alora made calming motions with open hands. “It’s not like that, it’s all right. Just … let me explain it to you further.”

  Sharon sat with her lips pinched together. She eyed the cigarettes, but didn’t reach for them. Instead, she hugged her elbows tighter, as if she were cold.

  “It’s a standard legal practice, that’s all. It doesn’t mean that you and your husband are adversaries in any way. It doesn’t mean that either Mr. Feldman or myself thinks one or both of you are guilty, it’s just a way to maximize your individual chances for a successful plea bargain or trial.”

  “Plea bargain? That would mean saying we’re guilty, right? Noooo…” Sharon shook her head. “No way. Ray didn’t do anything wrong, and you can’t make me say he did. No.” She kept shaking her head. “No. You can’t turn us against each other. It isn’t right.”

  Eventually Alora calmed her down, explained it again until she seemed to understand. She got her new client to accept a cigarette, although she admitted to not liking American cigarettes, but she couldn’t get her to talk about the case. “I need to think about it,” Sharon said. She begged to be allowed to talk to her husband, but all Alora could offer was to get a verbal message to him via his own lawyer.

  “Tell him we’re still the best damn team on the road,” she said, as silent tears ran down her cheeks and fell to the laminated table top. Each tear formed a tiny helpless puddle.

  Alora had to blink hard herself.

  The Nillsons’ tractor and trailer were being held at a secure compound not far from the county lock up. Russell Kupka, much to Hunter’s surprise, volunteered to lead the way, and make sure the load was released to Hunter without a problem.

  “What about the dog?” Hunter remembered to ask as they walked toward the parking lot.

  Russell snorted. “Wasn’t much of a dog.” When Hunter didn’t react, he continued, “Don’t worry. I’m sure the K-9 unit’s been taking good care of it. I’ll have them drop it off at the compound. Where’s your truck?”

  “The closest spot I could find was about five blocks away. Unfortunately, seventy foot parking spaces are hard to come by,” Hunter said drily. “I’d appreciate a lift.”

  Russell’s car was parked in full sun. The detective opened the windows and turned up the air conditioning before easing the car out of the parking lot. “What made you choose to become a truck driver?” he asked without looking at Hunter.

  “It’s a living,” replied Hunter, trying to direct the air conditioning vent directly at his face and neck. “You know whether the load’s been kept refrigerated?” He was aware that he hadn’t answered Russell’s question. He didn’t intend to.

  “Yeah, I know. There’s cheese in the sauce. Your boss said she’d come down here and break some heads if we didn’t keep it cool.” The detective shrugged. “We did our best. It’s an air conditioned warehouse.” He stopped at a
red light. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Yes. I did.” Hunter studied the woman in the car next to them. She was very, very blond, wore oversized dark glasses, and was chewing gum. When he realized she was staring back, he turned away. “It’s very important that I have the paperwork that came with the load,” he said to Russell. “For customs. You any idea where it is?”

  Turned out it was still in Ray and Sharon’s tractor. Hunter backed his own rig up to a loading door, and a young man on a forklift started ferrying skids loaded with cartons of nacho sauce from the warehouse floor into Hunter’s trailer. From the small window of the adjacent door, Hunter could see Ray Nillson’s rig parked along the fence. It was dusty, but otherwise the same proud, russet colored machine he’d seen in Yoncalla just three days ago. Russell showed up beside him waving a set of keys. “Let’s go see what we can find,” he said.

  The cab of the Kenworth was suffocatingly hot, so they left the door wide open. It was just as beautiful a rig on the inside as on the outside, but cluttered by the digging of the forensic team. The bunks were down, their blankets crumpled in one corner, untidy piles of clothing and personal effects littered the mattresses. Grey and black smudges marred the smooth surfaces where they had been dusted for prints, no doubt in the hope of placing the victim inside the vehicle. The sleeper had all the amenities of a well-equipped R.V., including microwave, television and a small fridge. On top of a mound of towels was a photograph of Ray and Sharon, smiling broadly, obviously on their wedding day. Hunter felt uncomfortable being there, as if he were violating the privacy of his friends. Russell stood back, and with a sweeping gesture invited Hunter to look for the paperwork, but watched him closely.

  Hunter started with the obvious places, and found a clipboard tucked between the driver’s seat and the console. On it was the bill of lading for the nacho sauce, plus an envelope with the name of a broker scrawled across it. “Here it is,” he said.