“Just a smokescreen.”
There was a silence and he realized, with irritation, that Raskovich was still waiting for an answer. He pushed the irritation aside with an effort. He needed to keep KSU on his side, and Raskovich was the key to that.
“The Lavenders started as ranchers, then made a lot of money in the twenties from bootlegging,” he explained. “They controlled all the moonshine production in the county, buying the stuff from the moonshiners and distributing it. My grandfather was the sheriff of Medicine Creek back then, and one night he and a couple of revenuers caught King Lavender down near the Kraus place, loading a jack mule with clearwater moonshine—old man Kraus had a still in the back of his tourist cave in those days. There was a scuffle and my grandfather took a bullet. They put King Lavender on trial, but he fixed the jury and went scot free.”
“Do you really think Lavender’s behind the killings?”
“Mr. Raskovich, in policework you look for motive, means, and opportunity. Lavender’s got the motive, and he’s a goddamned son of a bitch who’d do anything for a buck. What we need to find out now is the means and opportunity.”
“Frankly, I can’t see him committing murder.”
This Raskovich was a real moron. Hazen chose his words carefully. “I meant what I said in his office. I don’t think hedid the killings himself: that’s not the Lavender style. He would’ve hired some hitman to do his scut work.” He thought for a moment. “I’d like to have a chat with Lewis McFelty. A sick mother in Kansas City, my ass.”
“Where’re we going now?”
“We’re going to find out just howhurting Norris Lavender is. First, we’re going to take a look at his tax records down at the town hall. Then we’re going to talk to some of his creditors and enemies. We’re going to learn just how deep in the shit he was with this experimental field business. This was his last chance, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he bet the farm on this field coming through.”
He paused. A little public relations never hurt. “What do you think, Chester? I value your opinion.”
“It’s a viable theory.”
Hazen smiled and aimed the car in the direction of the Deeper town hall. It sure as hell was a viable theory.
Forty-Three
At two-thirty that afternoon, Corrie lounged restlessly on her bed, listening to Tool on her CD player. It had to be at least a hundred degrees in her room, but after the events of the other night she didn’t have the guts to open her window. It still seemed impossible to believe that guy from Kansas State had been killed just down the street. But then, the entire last week was beyond belief.
Her eyes strayed to the window. Outside, huge thunderheads were spreading their anvil-shaped tops across the sky and a premature darkness was falling. But the approaching storm only seemed to make everything muggier.
She heard her mother’s voice through the bedroom wall and cranked up the volume in response. There were a few muffled thumps as her mother tried to get her attention by knocking on the wall. Jesus. Of all days for her mother to call in sick, when Pendergast no longer needed her and she was stuck at home with nothing to do and too freaked out for her usual retreat on the powerline road. She almost longed for Labor Day and the start of school.
The door to her room opened and there was her mother, standing in her nightgown, too-skinny arms draped over a too-fat stomach. Smoking a cigarette.
Corrie slipped off her earphones.
“Corrie, I’ve been yelling myself hoarse. One of these days I’m going to take away those earphones.”
“Youtold me to wear them.”
“Not when I’m trying to talk to you.”
Corrie stared at her mother, at her smudged mascara and the remains of last night’s lipstick still staining the cracks of her lip. She’d been drinking, but not, it seemed, enough to keep her in bed. How could this alien be her mother?
“Why aren’t you outworking? Did that man get tired of you?”
Corrie didn’t answer. It really didn’t matter. Her mother was going to have her say regardless.
“As I figure it, you got paid for two weeks. That’s fifteen hundred dollars. Is that right?”
Corrie stared.
“As long as you’re living here, you’re going to contribute. I’ve told you this before. I’ve had expenses up the wazoo lately. Taxes, food, car payments, you name it. And now I’m losing a day’s tips because of this nasty cold.”
Nasty hangover, you mean.Corrie waited.
“A fifty-fifty split is theleast I can expect.”
“It’s my money.”
“And whose money do you think’s been supporting you these past ten years? Certainly not that shitbag father of yours. Me. I’ve been the one working my fingers to the bone supporting you, and by God, young lady, you’re going to give something back.”
Corrie had taped the money to the bottom of her dresser drawer and she wasn’t about to let her mother see where it was. Why, oh why, had she ever told her mother how much she was making? She was going to need that money to pay for a fucking lawyer when her trial came up. Otherwise she was going to end up with some crappy public defender and find herself going to jail. That would make a terrific impression, mailing her college applications from jail.
“I told you I’ll leave some money on the kitchen table.”
“You’ll leave seven hundred and fifty dollars on the kitchen table.”
“That’s way too much.”
“For supporting you all these years, it’s hardly enough.”
“If you didn’t want to support me you shouldn’t have gotten pregnant.”
“Accidents happen, unfortunately.”
Corrie could smell the acrid scent of burning filter as the cigarette was inhaled right down to the butt. Her mother looked around, stubbed it out in Corrie’s incense burner. “If you don’t want to contribute, you can go find yourself another place to live.”
Corrie turned roughly away and replaced her earphones, cranking up the music so loud her ears hurt. She faced the smudged wall, stone-faced. She could just barely hear her mother shouting at her.If she so much as touches me, Corrie thought,I’ll scream. But she knew her mother wouldn’t. She’d hit her once and Corrie had screamed so loud the sheriff came. Of course, the little bulldog did nothing—he actually threatenedher with disturbing the peace—but it had the effect of keeping her mother’s hands off her for good.
There was nothing her mother could do. She just had to wait her out.
Long after her mother had gone back to her room in a fury, Corrie continued lying there, thinking. She forced her mind away from her mother, from the trailer, from the depressing empty meaningless hell that was her life. She found her thoughts drifting toward Pendergast. She thought about his cool black suit, his pale eyes, his tall narrow frame. She wondered if Pendergast was married or had children. It wasn’t fair, the way he’d just dumped her like that and driven off in his fancy car. But maybe, like everybody else, he was disappointed in her. Maybe in the end she just hadn’t done a good enough job for him. She burned with resentment at the way the sheriff had come in and just laid those papers on Pendergast. But he wasn’t the kind to roll over and play dead. And hadn’t he hinted he was going to continue working on the case? Hehad to take her off the case, she told herself. It wasn’t anything she’d done. He’d said it himself:I cannot have you defying the sheriff on my account.
Her mind drifted toward the case itself. It was still so weird to think of someone in Medicine Creek doing those killings. If it really was someone local, it meant it was someone she knew. But she knew everyone in Shit Creek, and she couldn’t imagine any of them being a serial killer. She shuddered, thinking back over the crime scenes she’d witnessed firsthand: the dog, its tail hacked off . . . Chauncy, sewn up like some overdone turkey . . .
The weirdest of all was Stott, boiled like that. Why had the killer done that? And how did you boil someone whole, anyway? He’d have to have lit a fire, put on a big pot . . .
It seemed impossible. Where could you get a pot like that? Maisie’s? No, of course not: the biggest pot she had was the one she used for Wednesday night chili, and you couldn’t even fit an arm in that. The Castle Club also had a kitchen—could it have happened there?
Corrie snorted to herself. The idea was nuts. Even the Castle Club couldn’t have a pot big enough to boil an entire person; for that you’d need an industrial kitchen. Or maybe he’d used a bathtub? Could someone have winched a bathtub onto a stove, cooked the body that way? Or set up a bathtub in some cornfield? But the spotter planes would have seen it. And the smoke from the fire would have been visible from all over. Someone would’ve smelled it cooking; smelled thesmoke, at least.
No, there was nowhere in Medicine Creek the body could’ve been cooked . . .
Abruptly, she sat up.
Kraus’s Kaverns.
It was crazy. But then again, maybe it wasn’t. Everyone knew that, during Prohibition, old man Kraus had run a moonshine operation in the back of that cave of his.
She felt a crawling sensation along her back: a mixture of excitement, curiosity, fear. Maybe the old still was still in there. Stills had big pots, didn’t they? And would that pot be big enough to boil a person? Maybe, just maybe.
She lay back in bed, her heart beating fast. As she did so, the ridiculousness of it came over her again. Prohibition had ended seventy years ago and the old still would be long gone. You just didn’t leave something that valuable rotting in a cave. And how would the killer sneak in and out of the cave? That prying old woman, Winifred Kraus, kept it locked up tight and watched over it like a hawk.
She tossed restlessly. Locks could be picked. She herself had downloadedThe MIT Guide to Lock Picking while surfing the Web on the school computers, and she’d even made a small pick of her own and experimented on the padlocks of school lockers.
If the killer was local he’d know about old man Kraus’s moonshine operation and the still. The killer might have brought the body in some night, boiled it, and been gone by morning. Old Winifred would never have been the wiser. Fact is, she hardly ever gave tours anymore.
Corrie wondered if she should call Pendergast. Did he know about the still? She doubted it—the bootlegging was just some ancient bit of Medicine Creek lore nobody would have thought to tell him about. That was why he’d hired her, to tell him just this kind of stuff. She should call him now and let him know. She felt in her pocket for the cell phone he’d given her, pulled it out, started dialing.
Then she stopped. The whole idea was absurd. Stupid. It was just a wild guess. Pendergast would laugh at her. He might even be angry. She wasn’t supposed to be on the case at all.
She dropped the phone and turned toward the wall again. Maybe she should check it out first—just in case. Just to see if the still was there. If it was, then she’d tell Pendergast. If it wasn’t, she wouldn’t make a fool of herself.
She sat up, put her feet on the floor. Everybody knew the cave only had one or two small caverns beyond the tourist area. The still would be in one of those. It wouldn’t be hard to find. She would duck in there, check it out, leave. And it would get her out of the house.Anything to get out of this hellhole.
She turned down the music and listened. Her mother had fallen silent.
She slipped off the earphones, paused to listen again. Then, ever so carefully, she got out of bed, pulled on some clothes, and slowly opened the door. All remained quiet. Shoes in hand, she began sneaking down the corridor. Just as she reached its end, she heard her mother’s door bang open and her voice ring out.
“Corrie! Where in hell do you think you’re going?”
She hopped through the kitchen and ran out the door, letting it bang behind her. She jumped into her car, threw her shoes onto the seat next to her, and turned the key, praying the thing would start. It thumped, choked, died.
“Corrie!” Her mother was coming out the door now, moving awfully fast for someone with a nasty cold.
Corrie cranked the key again, pumping the pedal desperately.
“Corrie—!!”
This time the engine caught and she screeched down the gravel lane of Wyndham Parke Estates, laying a spume of smoke, dust, and dancing pebbles in her wake.
Forty-Four
Marjorie Lane, executive receptionist for the ABX Corporation, was becoming increasingly agitated by the man in the black suit sitting in her waiting room.
He had been there ninety minutes. That in itself wasn’t unusual, but during that time he had not picked up any of the magazines conveniently laid about; he had not used his cell phone; he had not opened a laptop or done any of the things people usually did while waiting to see Kenneth Boot, the company CEO. In fact, it seemed as if he hadn’t moved at all. His eyes, so strange and silvery, always seemed to be looking out the glass wall of the waiting room across downtown Topeka, toward the green geometry of farms beyond the city’s edge.
Marjorie had been with the company through a host of recent changes. First, it had jettisoned its old name, the Anadarko Basin Exploratory Company, in favor of the sleek new acronym and logo. Then it had begun buying new businesses that went far beyond oil exploration: energy trading, fiber optics, broadband (whatever that was), and a million other things she didn’t understand and, when she asked around, nobody else seemed to, either. Mr. Boot was a very busy man, but even when he was not busy he liked to keep people waiting. Sometimes he kept people waiting all day, as he had done recently with some mutual fund managers who had come to ask questions about something or other.
She longed for the old days: when she understood what the company did, when people weren’t kept waiting. It was unpleasant for her when people had to wait. They complained, they talked loudly on their cell phones, they banged away on their laptops, and they paced about furiously. Sometimes they used profane language and she had to call security.
But this—this was worse. This man gave her the creeps. She had no idea if Mr. Boot would see him soon, or in fact see him at all. She knew he was an FBI agent—he had shown her his shield—but Mr. Boot had kept important people waiting before.
Marjorie Lane busied herself with work, answering phones, typing, responding to e-mails, but always out of the corner of her eye she could see the black figure, as immobile as a Civil War statue. He didn’t even seem to blink.
Finally, when she couldn’t stand it any longer, Marjorie did something she knew she wasn’t supposed to do: she buzzed Mr. Boot’s personal secretary.
“Kathy,” she said in an undertone, “this FBI agent’s been here almost two hours and I really think Mr. Boot should see him.”
“Mr. Boot is very busy.”
“Iknow, Kathy, but I really think he shouldsee this man. I’m getting a bad feeling here. Do me a favor, please.”
“Just a moment.”
Marjorie was put on hold. A moment later the secretary came back. “Mr. Boot has five minutes.”
Marjorie hung up. “Agent Pendergast?”
His pale eyes slowly connected with her own.
“Mr. Boot will see you now.”
Pendergast rose, bowed slightly, and without a word passed through the inner door.
Marjorie heaved a sigh of relief.
Kenneth Boot stood over the drafting table that served as his desk—he worked standing up—and only gradually became aware that the FBI agent had entered his office and seated himself. He finished typing a memo on his laptop, transmitted it to his secretary, and turned to face the man.
He was startled. This FBI agent didn’t look at all like Efrem Zimbalist Jr., one of his boyhood heroes. In fact, he couldn’t have been more different. Beautifully cut black suit, handmade English shoes, custom shirt—not to mention the white skin and slender hands. Five, six thousand dollars’ worth of clothes on the man, not counting his underwear. Kenneth Boot knew good clothes when he saw them, just as he made it a point to know fine wine, cigars, and women—as every male CEO in America had to do if he wanted to get ahead in bus
iness. Boot didn’t like the way the agent had made himself so very comfortable. The man’s eyes were roaming around in a way that offended Boot—it was almost as if he were undressing the office.
“Mr. Pendergast?”
The man did not look at him or answer. His eyes continued to roam, examine, scrutinize. Who was he to act so casual around the chief executive officer of ABX, seventeenth largest corporation listed on the New York Stock Exchange?
“You’ve got five minutes and one has passed,” said Boot quietly, going back to his drawing table and rapping out another memo on his computer. He waited for the man to speak, but no words were forthcoming. Boot finished the document, checked his watch. Three minutes left.
Really, this was quite annoying: this man sitting in his office, more comfortable than ever, looking at the paneling on the far wall. Staring, in fact, at the far wall. What was he looking at?
“Mr. Pendergast, you’ve got two minutes left,” he murmured.
The man waved his hand and spoke at last. “Don’t mind me. When you’ve finished your work and can offer me yourundivided attention, we’ll chat.”
Boot glanced over his shoulder. “You’d better say what you have to say, Agent Pendergast,” he said as unconcernedly as possible. “Because you’ve got exactly one minute left.”
Suddenly the man looked at him, and the look was so intense Boot almost jumped.
“The vault lies behind that wall, correct?” Pendergast said.
With a huge effort of will, Boot remained motionless. The man knew where the corporate vault was—something only three officers and the chairman of the board knew. Was there some sign of it on the paneling? But in ten years no one had ever suspected. Was he under FBI surveillance? This was outrageous. All these thoughts occurred deep within Boot’s mind and did not surface on his face.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Pendergast smiled, but it was a faintly supercilious smile, that of an adult humoring a child. “You’re in a business, Mr. Boot, in which certain documents must be kept highly confidential. These documents would be the crown jewels of your company. I am referring, of course, to your seismic survey maps of the Anadarko formation. These maps show the location of oil and gas deposits, compiled by you at great cost. Therefore, your having a vault is a given. Since you are a person who trusts nobody, it makes sense the vault would be in your office, where you could keep an eye on it. Now, on three walls of your office you have expensive Old Master paintings. On that portion of the fourth wall, there, you have inexpensive prints. Prints that can be moved, taken down, without fear of a ding or scratch. It is therefore behind the paneling of that wall that your vault lies.”
Still Life with Crows Page 28