by Thomas King
“Came up to talk to Rockland about photography.” Thumps could see past the sheriff and into the room. It looked the same. “So, what’s all this?”
“What’s it look like?”
Thumps shrugged. “A crime scene?”
Andy Hopper came out of the room carrying a large box. “It’s not there, Duke.”
“You look everywhere?” The sheriff did not sound happy.
“Not many places you can hide a laptop.” Andy stood there holding the box, waiting for the sheriff to make up his mind. “You want me to keep looking?”
“No. Lock it down.”
Thumps tried not to appear too anxious. “You lost a laptop?”
“It’s the dead guy’s room,” said the sheriff. “But I’m guessing you already figured that out.”
“Takashi?” Thumps hoped that he sounded surprised.
Andy was back. “I put the box in your trunk. You sure the Jap had a computer?”
“Japanese,” said Hockney.
“Right,” said Andy.
Oh, he had a computer all right, thought Thumps. It was on the desk yesterday.
“You know what a laptop looks like, don’t you, Andy?”
“Sure thing, Duke. My nephew has one.” Andy grinned at Thumps.
“What do you think?” he said, his mouth a short, mean line, thin as a razor. “This the way city cops do it?”
Duke stopped Andy with a glance. “Talk to the maid again.”
Thumps watched the deputy lumber down the lawn. “Your tax dollars in action.”
“He’s a good cop,” said Hockney.
“No, he’s not,” said Thumps.
Duke smiled, but not in a particularly friendly way. “So, I suppose you want to know why I phoned you yesterday.”
“You mean it wasn’t a courtesy wake-up call?”
“We found a print.” The sheriff hitched his pants and waited.
“At the computer complex?”
Hockney nodded.
“Good work.”
“Don’t you want to know whose print we found?”
“We know that already, don’t we?”
“Indeed we do.” Duke fluffed his feathers. “Stanley Merchant.”
Thumps let the sheriff get the strutting out of his system. “So, where did you find the print?”
“On the mouse by the main monitor. Thumbprint on the left side. Good one, too.” Duke nodded and walked into the townhouse. “Come on. Maybe you can give us a hand.”
Thumps followed the sheriff inside. The townhouse seemed even more vacant than it had the day before.
“The townhouses get maid service once every two days.” Hockney stood in the living room with his hands on his hips. “Today’s the day.”
“Wonder how much one of these places costs.”
“Every morning, the resort leaves a newspaper on the porch.”
“Bet they’re more than we can afford.”
“Woman at the gift shop said Takashi bought a golf magazine and a couple of those computer magazines.”
Thumps looked around the room. He already knew where Duke was going.
“The maid who cleaned the room two days back said there was a laptop on the desk along with a printer.” Hockney sat down on the sofa and closed his eyes.
“And you’re wondering where it is.”
The sheriff kept his eyes closed, but he began to smile as if he was thinking of a good joke. “Hell, I wonder where everything is.” He pushed off the sofa. “Where are the newspapers? Where are the magazines? Where’s the laptop and the printer?”
“Anything in the trash?”
“Nothing.”
“The maid clean the place early?”
“Nope.”
“You figure someone has been through here?”
“That’s pretty good for a photographer.”
“Don’t think Stick did it.”
“Don’t much care if he did or didn’t. But I do want to talk to him. You know what I mean?”
“If I knew where he was, I’d tell you.”
Duke was chuckling as he left the townhouse. “Sure you would.”
Coming from the dark of the building back into the light was painful. The sun was blinding, and Thumps had to close his eyes and turn away. A small crowd of tourists had gathered around the pool to watch the performance. Several people had video cameras and were filming the entire boring drama of police officers walking into a townhouse and then walking out again. By now, all of them would know that there had been a killing, and even though the murder itself had happened miles away, being this close to a dead man’s room was probably more excitement than they had ever had on a vacation.
Thumps shielded his eyes from the sun. “One of these days you’re going to have to do something about Andy.”
“By tomorrow, a lot of people are going to be looking for Stanley.” Hockney pulled his hat over his eyes and glanced at the clutch of police cars. “Things could go south real quick. You know what I mean?”
Thumps didn’t say anything, but the warning was clear enough. He had been involved in manhunts before, and he knew about the kinds of enthusiasms that could overtake men turned loose to hunt other men. It didn’t matter whether you were a cop or some local with a gun along for the ride. Running with a pack was exhilarating.
* * *
The lobby of the Shadow Ranch Hotel was airy, decked out in light woods and bevelled glass. Thumps started there.
“Mr. Rockland is in the coffee shop.” The man at the front desk hung up the phone and pointed Thumps down the hallway. “He’d like you to join him.”
“Thanks.”
“Is DreadfulWater really your name?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Two words or one?”
“One, with a capital W.”
“What is it?”
“It’s Cherokee.”
“No kidding.”
Rockland was having coffee with Elliot Beaumont and George Chan. And Virginia Traynor.
“Thumps.” Rockland was all smiles. “Sit down. Join us. This is—”
“We’ve met,” interrupted Beaumont. “At the computer complex.”
Rockland cocked his head to one side and looked at Thumps questioningly.
“I was taking pictures for the sheriff,” said Thumps.
“Ah,” said Rockland. “That’s right. But Thumps is also a fine-art photographer. As a matter of fact, I’ve been meaning to call you about a show.”
“I assume you take pictures of things other than dead bodies?” Beaumont meant it as a joke, but his timing and intonation were off.
“I do landscapes and portraiture.”
“Mr. Chan dabbles in photography,” said Traynor.
“Digital.” Chan poured cream into his coffee until it turned beige.
“And are you a good photographer, Mr. DreadfulWater?” Traynor’s voice was smooth and controlled.
“Yeah,” said Thumps. “I’m good.”
“Elliot tells me you’re helping the sheriff with the murder of Daniel Takashi.”
“Nope. I just take pictures.”
“Somehow, you don’t look like someone who just takes pictures.”
“Thumps used to be a cop,” said Rockland. “Didn’t you?”
“In California,” said Traynor. “If I’m not mistaken.”
It was Thumps’ turn to be impressed.
“Weren’t you involved in the . . . Lava Murders?” Traynor picked up her coffee cup and looked at Thumps across the rim. “Isn’t that what the newspapers called them?”
“Obsidian.” Thumps didn’t like the direction the conversation had taken. “The press called them the Obsidian Murders.”
“Did the police ever solve them?” Traynor settled back in her seat.
Whoever was in charge of Genesis Data Systems’ security was good. Traynor already knew the answers to the questions she was asking
, and she was letting Thumps know that she knew.
“No.”
“As I recall,” said Rockland, who could probably feel the tension in the air, “you have a tee time coming up.”
“Maybe Mr. DreadfulWater would like to play with us,” said Traynor, and this time there was warmth at the edge of her voice.
“I don’t think Thumps plays golf,” said Rockland.
“Paradise Canyon Golf and Country Club,” said Traynor. “Or did you just buy the shirt?”
A business woman with a sense of humour. Thumps liked that. “I’d love to play,” he said.
“But?”
“No clubs.” Thumps shrugged. “No shoes.”
“Not a problem.” Traynor didn’t even turn to Beaumont. “Tell the people at the pro shop that Mr. DreadfulWater is going to play with us.” She glanced at her watch. “We’ll meet at the first tee in half an hour.”
Thumps watched her leave the room, Beaumont and Chan close on her heels like leashed dogs.
“Now there is one cold bitch,” said Rockland softly, almost to himself.
Thumps slid out of the chair. “I better get ready.”
“What about it?”
“What about what?”
“A show of your photographs.”
“Sure. Tell me when.” Thumps tried to make his voice sound as casual as possible.
“Just don’t make them too expensive,” said Rockland. “Tourists like to think they’re getting a bargain.”
Thumps left Rockland to his coffee and went straight back to the front desk.
“Mr. DreadfulWater,” said the man, smiling. “With a capital W.”
“That’s me.”
“How can I help you?”
Thumps wasn’t sure whether he liked the man or not. Not that it mattered. “A friend of mine is staying here. I was supposed to meet her, but I’ve forgotten her room number.”
“Is that Ms. Traynor?”
Thumps should have been surprised, but he wasn’t. “Yes.”
“She said you’d probably forget, and that if you asked, it was okay to give it you.” The man wrote the number on a piece of paper. “Have a nice day.”
Thumps slipped the piece of paper into his pocket and headed for the pro shop. He wasn’t sure how nice the day was going to be, but it had certainly turned out to be worth the trouble of getting out of bed.
ELEVEN
The pro shop at Shadow Ranch was one long room with golf clubs set up in display boxes along the walls and golf clothing dangling from chrome display racks. The selection of golf goodies wasn’t as large as you would find at one of the big-box golfing stores, but everything that Shadow Ranch offered was expensive.
The young man at the desk was bright-faced and cheery. “Hi. You must be Mr. Dreadful.”
“DreadfulWater.”
“Ms. Traynor asked us to take care of you.” He paused and looked at Thumps as if he were sizing him up for a suit of clothes. “She said she thought you were about a seven handicap.”
Traynor was guessing, but she was a good guesser. “Last time I looked, I was an eight.”
“Do you have any preference in clubs?”
“Whatever you have in rentals will do.”
“Rentals?” Jimmy looked pained.
What Traynor had meant by “take care of him,” Thumps discovered, was the purchase of a complete golf outfit.
“Where do you want to start?”
The sun was pouring in through the windows of the pro shop. All around him the racks of golf clubs gleamed in their polished wood stands, the shafts flashing in the light like drawn swords.
“Rentals will do just fine.”
“Have you seen the new Calloways?”
They were right—money does corrupt. And in spite of his best efforts, Thumps left the pro shop with a new pair of two-tone Pootloy shoes, a floral Tommy Bahama golf shirt that he was unable to resist, a stone-washed Titleist cap, and several sleeves of expensive balls that were guaranteed to fly farther and straighter. As he walked down to the first tee, he tried to imagine that he was a successful investment banker just up from the city for an afternoon on the links, not an unsuccessful photographer who had been rented for the day.
Virginia Traynor, Elliot Beaumont, and George Chan were waiting for him. Traynor looked at the clubs and nodded.
“A man of principles.”
Thumps strapped the bag to the back of the cart. “I don’t play much anymore.”
“Let’s play teams. Elliot is a ten handicap. George is a twelve.” Traynor turned to the two men. “Cowboys and Indians. I get the Indian. Is that all right?”
It wasn’t really a question, and everyone understood that it wasn’t.
“A hundred dollars a hole?”
The game was getting unpleasant and they hadn’t even teed off. Thumps glanced at the other men to see whether they were going to object. He had no reason to think that they would. And they didn’t.
“Too steep for me,” said Thumps.
“Then we’d better not lose,” said Traynor, and she took her driver out and walked to the tee box. “I’ll play from the blues,” she said, “just to even things out.”
For some reason, Thumps had thought that Traynor was simply an astute business woman with an attitude. But by the time they had reached the first green, he could see that he had been mistaken. Quite a few of the men he had played with in the past saw golf as a form of recreation. Others had approached the game as a competition. Traynor understood it as a blood sport.
Her drive was two hundred and thirty yards straight down the fairway. Her second shot, a three wood, was a laser to the hundred yard marker. Her third rolled to within four feet of the cup. Beaumont was much longer off the tee but in the sand with his second. Chan had a slice that sent him into the woods and a tendency to jump at the ball that made his shots erratic.
Thumps wasn’t exactly burning up the course. The clubs felt strange in his hands after all these years, the swing awkward and rushed.
Traynor birdied the hole. Beaumont put in a solid par, and Chan scrambled for a bogey. Thumps got lucky and parred the hole with a fifteen-foot putt.
“See?” said Traynor as they climbed into the cart. “That wasn’t hard.”
The game quickly settled into a pattern. Beaumont and Chan won the holes where distance counted, and Traynor and Thumps won the holes where accuracy was rewarded. Thumps had expected Traynor to be talkative, but by the time they got to the turn, the only conversation had been small talk and silence.
The tenth tee was backed up.
“You want something to eat?”
Traynor sent Beaumont and Chan up to the clubhouse with the order and settled back in the seat. “I didn’t ask you along just for the golf. I suppose you knew that.”
Thumps nodded.
“And I hope you didn’t mind my running a background check on you.”
“Not much to check.”
“On the contrary,” said Traynor. “I was impressed. So much so, I’d like to hire you.”
“As a photographer?” Thumps knew the answer to the question before he asked it.
“Genesis Data Systems is a small company.” Traynor slipped into her corporate voice. “We specialize in security and computer systems for casinos.”
“Good business?”
“Good enough,” she said. “But there’s a lot of competition. And it’s hard to break into the big time.”
“Vegas and Atlantic City?”
“Sure, but the real growth market is Internet gambling and Indian gaming. Do you know how many tribes in the States and Canada are planning casinos?”
“Lots?” said Thumps.
“In five years the number of Indian casinos will triple.”
“The Mashantucket Pequot casino?”
“That’s just one of them.”
Thumps had an idea where this conversation was headed. “Buffalo M
ountain isn’t exactly going to be a gold mine.”
“Buffalo Mountain is our in. We’ve got a casino computer system that is light-years ahead of anyone else’s. Which means we have about a nine-month headstart before the rest of the industry catches up with us. A year at the most. If we can get the system running at Buffalo Mountain, and if it works as well as we project, we’ll be able sell our system to every new casino that comes on-line.”
“It’s that good?”
“It’s better. But if this project falls through because of Daniel’s murder . . .”
“No more golf?”
Traynor’s eyes brightened, but Thumps could see she wasn’t happy. “Someone may be trying to sabotage the company. I don’t know why. And I don’t know who.”
“I’m not a cop anymore.”
“The sheriff tells me that he’s looking for a young man, an Indian.”
“Stanley Merchant.”
Traynor nodded. “If Daniel was killed by someone out to destroy my company, then I have to know who and I have to know right away. But if Daniel was killed as some sort of political protest over Indian gambling . . .”
“Then it’s not so serious.”
Traynor could see the trap. “It won’t kill the project.”
“Takashi’s still dead.”
“I can’t do anything about that.”
Thumps could see Beaumont and Chan as they came out of the clubhouse with the food. Beaumont had his cellphone out, and was walking and listening at the same time. Thumps wondered whether they taught those kinds of skills at corporate school.
“I’m a photographer.”
“You used to be a good cop.”
“I used to be a good golfer, too.”
Thumps liked women who knew what they wanted, but over the years, he had come to the slow realization that, like most men, he liked them better in theory than in practice.
“I don’t care who killed Daniel. But I do need to know why.” Traynor leaned forward and looked down the tenth fairway. “Do you know why I play golf?”
Thumps appreciated questions that might have a right answer. “Because you like the game?”
“I hate the game. It’s expensive. It’s boring. Country clubs are testosterone waste dumps.” She paused. “That must sound cranky and petulant.”
“Nope.”
“So, how can I see some of your photographs?”