Ice on the Grapevine

by R. E. Donald

  "You're hauling the same stuff?"

  "As far as I know. I'm picking up a load of frozen meat at Hanratty, and heading for the same warehouse in Orange County."

  "You ever been inside a trailer with frozen meat?" asked Al.

  "Just to check the loading. Never with the door closed."

  "How cold is it?"

  "Damn cold."

  "How cold is that?"

  "It'll probably be specified on the bill of lading, but my guess is about zero degrees Fahrenheit."

  Al shuddered. "I wonder how long a man would last."

  "Three to five hours."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I asked my landlord about it last night."

  "Your landlord?"

  "He's a retired doctor."

  "You've been busy on this case." Al ran his hand through his hair, perhaps a little self consciously. "That means, technically, that he could've been locked in that trailer anywhere more than three or four hours north of where his body was found."

  "No..."

  "Oh, right. Of course. He was frozen solid. How long would that take?"

  "My landlord didn't know, for sure. An educated guess might be ten or twelve hours. That would mean the victim would have had to enter their trailer at the latest just south of the California - Oregon border, if they drove straight through. If they stopped somewhere for the night, it could just as easily have been south of Sacramento."

  Al rolled his eyes.

  "I know," said Hunter. "Technically it's possible, but if the victim lived here it doesn't make any sense."

  "Right," agreed Al, then winked. "Unless the victim's car turns up in San Francisco."

  The traffic to Annacis Island was slow enough that it gave Hunter time to think. He could ask El to have Greg Williams' amps and speakers picked up at Fraser's Dock, and to store them at her warehouse. Then when he got back from California, it would give him the excuse he needed to visit the studio on Still Creek. He winced. Getting caught up in this investigation was going to cost him money in lost working time, income that he could ill afford to lose. He wasn't looking forward to asking El for a loan, but there was no way he was going to let his daughter borrow money from Lance the lawyer. No way.

  He parked his Pontiac against the chain link fence in Watson Transportation's yard, and did a walk-around inspection of the Blue Knight before starting the engine, then left it idling as he went in to talk to El. She was on the phone, as usual. He paced the floor in front of the counter, once stooping to pick up a perforated strip of paper that was nesting in a dusty corner, depositing it in El's wastebasket. He hated asking for money.

  "Good thing this isn't a union outfit," said El as she put down the phone. "The Teamsters would have a fit, you doing janitorial work like that. So, what's the news? What did your RCMP buddy have to say?"

  Hunter brought her up to date. The phone rang, so she dealt with it quickly, then put all of her lines on hold to keep it from ringing again. When she heard about Sharon knowing the victim, she buried her face in her hands. "Shit."

  "There's still hope," he told her. "Maybe someone else with a motive will turn up."

  "I'm glad you said that," she said.

  "There's a possibility the victim and his cohorts were involved in drugs, maybe doing a little smuggling." He looked at her pointedly, and she understood his meaning.

  "Not a chance. Ray wouldn't have had anything to do with stuff like that. Ray hates drugs. He's very outspoken about that."

  "How about Sharon?"

  "Ray married her. That's got to tell you something." She shook her head glumly. "Shit," she said again. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

  "As a matter of fact, there is. A couple of things." He told her about Greg Williams' equipment at Fraser's Dock, then said, "The police don't have the time or money to pursue every lead, which means most of their focus will be gathering evidence that supports their case against Ray and Sharon. I'd like to spend more time on investigating this myself, because it may be their only hope, but I'm pretty tight already, financially. Any chance you could give me an advance?"

  "No problem," she said, unlocking a drawer beneath her desk. "How much?"

  When he told her, she went totally still for fifteen seconds, her eyes wide. Then she took a deep breath and wrote the check. "You realize, Hunter, that if it had been anybody else but you, he wouldn't have had a snowball's chance in hell."

  Before he left, she handed him a Wal-Mart bag with the top folded over. "What's this?" he asked.

  "A care package for Sharon," she said. "The lawyer said she'd make sure Sharon gets it. Can you deliver it to her, that Magee woman?"

  Before he tucked the bag under the bunk of his sleeper, he opened it and looked inside. There was a sealed manila envelope addressed to Sharon, plus about a dozen small paperback books, their spines wrinkled from use. Harlequins. Hunter smiled and shook his head.

  For a woman the other drivers called Big Mother Trucker, El Watson was turning out to be an incredibly soft touch.

  "For the record, Russell, I don't like this," said Jeff Feldman. The two of them were standing in front of the men's room door, waiting.

  "What you like doesn't matter a whole hell of a lot, does it?" said Russell. He smiled smugly, jingled the change in his pocket as he rocked on the balls of his feet. "The man phoned me and begged me to let him talk to Ray. He flew all the way from goddamn Minneapolis at haying time for this, so how could I say no?"

  "If you were doing this for compassionate reasons, you wouldn't insist on monitoring the visit," said Feldman, drily.

  Russell laughed aloud. "Compassionate reasons? Look who's talking about compassionate reasons. What exactly motivated you to represent Nillson? He doesn't have much in common with your usual clients. He drives a fuckin' truck, not a Maserati."

  Feldman looked at his watch, his jaw rigid. Russell was pleased. He must be right on target. Being able to rub Feldman's nose in it would make solving this case just that much sweeter.

  "So when are you planning to call the first press conference, Jeff? The public is dying for news about the Iceman's killer. Oh, I see. You want to be front page, top of the hour. You're waiting for a slow news day."

  A man in an ill-fitting polyester sports jacket came out of the men's room and nodded to Russell, and together the three of them headed for the elevator.

  "I'd like to caution you not to say anything that might be used against your brother," said Feldman in a low voice.

  "This man's not your client, Jeff. He can say whatever he damn well wants." Russell took the man by the elbow. "I know you're a law-abiding citizen, Mr. Nillson, a man who was raised in a God-fearing home and who believes in the American justice system. That's why I trust you to speak with your brother. Mr. Feldman, here, as your brother's lawyer, wants to win this case at any cost." He turned to Feldman. "Think of what it'll do for your reputation. Next time O.J. gets in trouble, you'll probably be the first one he'll call." Then back to Nillson. "I'm sure you'll use your own good judgement, Mr. Nillson." As they stepped onto the elevator, Russell happily returned Feldman's scowl.

  "What happened, Ray? You can tell me."

  "Yeah, tell him, Ray," Russell urged under his breath from the other side of the one way glass. Feldman cautioned them both for the tenth time. Russell snorted. "Don't listen to that prick of a lawyer, Ray. Tell your brother how it happened."

  Dan Nillson was leaner and more weathered looking than his brother Ray, but he had that same ruddy face, the same earnest blue eyes. He'd stood up when Ray was led into the room, took a few tentative steps forward as Ray's handcuffs were removed, seemed to want to reach out and touch him. But Ray had just nodded, barely looked at his brother before he sat down behind the table, so Dan had stood, looking helpless and bewildered for several long seconds, before he, too, sat down.

  "Nothing to tell," said Ray. He looked toward the glass, as if searching Russell out. "Nothing to tell," he repeated.

  Dan Ni
llson's shoulders drooped. "I know you couldn't kill a man, Ray. You got to tell them everything you know. You can't throw your life away for a... a..."

  Ray slammed the table with an open palm. "Don't you say it, Dan! Don't you say nothing against her! You never met her, and you don't know nothing about her!"

  "You met her in a bar, I know that. You told me yourself."

  "She was working there. I was the one that was drinking."

  "You were her ticket out of there. You were her opportunity, and she took it. She took you."

  "You don't know nothing about her!"

  "But I know you, Ray." Dan leaned forward, his face intense. "You're a pushover when it comes to a pretty face. You let Beth Watkins walk all over you."

  "Sharon isn't Beth Watkins, not by a long shot. Sharon's no spoiled brat. She appreciates me. She's had a hard life, doesn't take nothing for granted." He started tracing circles on the table with one sturdy finger. "Sharon's given me more than she's taken. You don't know nothing about her, Dan."

  Feldman looked tense. He rubbed his neck under the collar of his button-down Calvin Klein shirt.

  Dan was silent for a moment, his head bowed. Then in a quiet voice he said, "Think of Momma, Ray."

  "Momma's dead."

  "She'd be heartbroken to see you in jail."

  "Momma's dead," Ray repeated tonelessly.

  "I've come all this way," pleaded Dan. "Let me help you, Ray."

  "You shouldn't have come. There's nothing you can do. Go back to the farm. They got more use for you there."

  "But I did come." He put one hand over his eyes, then ran it down his face with a sigh, turned to Feldman. "You must be a good lawyer," he said. "Do you think he'll get out of here?"

  Before Feldman could answer, in a flat voice Ray said, "He says if I plead guilty to manslaughter, I could be out of jail in eight years."

  Dan Nillson jumped to his feet, knocking the chair over behind him. "Guilty! Sweet Jesus, Ray. I can't believe... I can't imagine... Sweet Jesus! Did you kill the man, Ray?"

  Ray looked up at his brother, then back down at his finger, still making loops on the surface of the table. "I'd never kill anybody, Dan, if I could help it."

  Dan stood there, open mouthed, watching his brother make loops.

  "I couldn't just kill a man," repeated Ray. "You know that."

  Hunter arrived at Hanratty Wholesale Meats at about two thirty. The frozen meat was in an insulated freezer, but the entire warehouse felt like the inside of a refrigerator. In spite of the warm July day, Hunter had brought a jacket with him and put it on. Al Kowalski had questioned the employees already, but Hunter watched them closely as his trailer was being loaded with packaged beef. The two men manning the forklifts were clean cut, wearing white uniforms like butchers, and looked to be in their early twenties. They worked without speaking. The shipper was barrel chested and had rosy cheeks. He strolled over and stood beside Hunter, rocking back and forth from heel to toe and jingling keys or change in his pockets.

  "Cold for you?" he asked with a grin, nodding at Hunter's jacket. He had a hearty voice with what Hunter took for a German accent, making his pronunciation halfway to "kalt". He wore a short-sleeved shirt, yellow, with a blue tie.

  Hunter grinned back, hugging himself and feigning a shiver. He didn't know the man, but judged him to be friendly and maybe talkative. He decided to play the role of a guileless, garrulous driver. "Well, chief, I heard a guy froze to death in your last meat shipment. Me, I don't intend to take any chances." He laughed, encouraging the shipper to join him, which he did.

  "First time a thing like that happens!" The shipper shook his head, and let air rush through his teeth, making a whishing sound. "Cops were here. Christ! Like they checking to see if we ship human meat as well as beef!" He guffawed.

  "You know the guy?" Hunter asked.

  The shipper pushed his lips out, shook his head again. "Never see him before. Poor bastard."

  "How'd he get in the trailer?"

  "I'd sure as hell like to know that answer myself. I almost fired your goddamn company because of it, you know? Big hassle. Sure doesn't make our American customer very happy, he's got cops looking over all his shipment." He jingled his coins some more, shook his head again with a little laugh. "That El, she won't let me go. You got a tough boss, man."

  Hunter grinned, steered the conversation back. "Here I thought the frozen guy was one of those animal rights fanatics, like the ones who go around setting laboratory rats free, and he was trying to liberate your cows."

  The shipper grinned back. "He wasn't such a smart guy then. Our cows arrive here already cut in half and skinned, hanging from big hooks. Pigs, too."

  "You ever get animal rights protestors bugging you?"

  "Not much."

  "Not much?"

  "We have once a little gravity."

  Hunter frowned. "Gravity?"

  "You know, on the walls. Sprayed on paint."

  "Really? You've had graffiti here? What'd it say?"

  "Graffiti. Graffiti,” he repeated, practicing the word. “Oh, something stupid. Stop the slaughter. Save the Earth. Something stupid." The red of his cheeks began to spread to his forehead and neck. "You and me, we're human beings, for God's sake. We're not cows. We're not rabbits. What? So they want all the cats and dogs to eat nothing but grass, too? They want lions and bears to eat nothing but goddamn carrots? To hell with them. If my wife wants to wear fur, Goddamn, they can't stop her wearing fur."

  "Does she?"

  "Does she what?"

  "Does your wife wear furs?"

  "Damn right she wears furs. She's got money. She's got style. Why wouldn't she wear furs?" The more worked up he got, the redder his face became. He looked like a good candidate for a stroke.

  "Did you ever find out who did it?" asked Hunter.

  The shipper shrugged, made a face. "How?" he asked. "You have to catch them when they do it."

  "Any signature? You know, these groups usually like you to know who they are."

  "Oh, sure. Some funny thing that looks like, oh, maybe like an anchor lying down. I look for it sometimes other places, you know, other graffiti, but I never see it."

  "An anchor lying down?"

  "Ya. Come. I show you." He led Hunter over to the corner of the warehouse that served as the shipper's office. Behind a counter there was a desk, some filing cabinets and shelves, and a computer workstation. Hunter noticed there was a small electric heater blowing hot air toward the desk.

  The shipper took a Polaroid photograph from under his blotter and held it out for Hunter to see. The signature seemed to be two initials in stylized block letters. It looked most like the initials EB, or perhaps EC, but the first letter could have been a T lying on its left side, which is why it looked like a sideways anchor, and the second letter could have been an E. The effect was like a twisted ribbon, almost creating an optical illusion. Hunter had seen it before.

  "You see this somewhere," said the shipper, "you come back and tell me. I'd like to catch these guys, make them pay."

  "Make them pay? How?"

  "You know, pay for the painting. We must paint over the whole damn side of the building before it looks right again." He shook his head disgustedly. "Eight hunnert bucks."

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Hunter called Al Kowalski from the warehouse phone at Hanratty Wholesale Meats and arranged to meet him on a quiet street in Lake City. When Al pulled up behind the trailer in an unmarked car, Hunter left the Blue Knight's engine running and walked back to meet him.

  "Well, Al. You want to do the yelling or the listening?" he asked with a smile.

  Al smiled sardonically. "I'll do the listening. You got a jacket or something?"

  "Yes, but I hope I don't need it." Hunter unlocked the padlock and threw open one of the trailer doors. "How long do you need to listen for, anyway?"

  Al shrugged, peering into the back of the trailer. "Not very full, is it?" he said. There were two ro
ws of skids, each skid roughly four feet cubed. That left about three and half feet of clearance between the top of the skids and the ceiling of the trailer.

  "Right," said Hunter. "But the load's already maxed out on weight. There's almost thirty four thousand pounds of frozen meat in there."

  "And there'll soon be thirty four thousand and... what?... a hundred and eighty?"

  "Whoa. How long do you intend to leave me in there?" asked Hunter.

  Al grinned. "Start pounding and hollering as soon as I close the doors. I'll listen from here, then I'll go climb in the cab for a bit, see what I can hear from there. Can you get up to the front of this box?"

  Hunter nodded, then hoisted himself up into the trailer, boosting himself onto the top of a skid chest first, scrambling to his knees, then tucking his feet under him in a squat. "I'll pound on the back doors for a full minute, so you'd better do up the latch. Then I'll go up and pound at the front."

  "And yell."

  "And yell," agreed Hunter.

  "Need a flashlight?" Al said, easing the door shut.

  "That would be cheating," Hunter said through the crack. Then the door closed and he was in darkness. It wasn't that cold. At first.

  He pounded on the back door, his fist landing with dull thumps. The sound didn't seem to go anywhere, as if it were being sucked up and swallowed by the insulated door. The experience reminded him of those dreams where you run and run and run for your life, but never seem to move. "Hey!" he yelled. "Let me out of here!" His voice hit the walls and crashed back into his eardrums. "Hey!" He pounded again on the door, then heard Al's muffled voice telling him to move up front. Hunter gave the door a hard shove, then a kick, and sucked in his breath. It wouldn't budge. He tried to imagine how he would feel if he didn't know Al was there to let him out, and a shiver coursed up and down his back. Goddamn. He was helpless.