Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  Afterward, she smiled and, closing her eyes, fell into a deep sleep. He wanted to smile too, but something was wrong. Again he shivered.

  Leaning against the couch, Rosen watched the fire crackle. He added a log, which caught instantly; the flames oozed and puddled through the wood, poured over the side, then suddenly rose together like two hands in prayer. Without thinking, he whispered the evening prayers he’d said as a boy. His own hands smelled of onion, just as his mother’s had while tucking him into bed. The fire was warm as a blanket, and, lying beside Andi, he yawned once before closing his eyes.

  Chapter Fourteen – MONDAY AFTERNOON

  “You made no attempt to converse with your father, after shining the flashlight into his vision pit?” Rosen asked from his seat at the defense table.

  Will shook his head.

  “So as far as you could tell, your father didn’t know about Albert Gates’s death.”

  “Yes, sir,”

  “That would explain why he remained in the pit until the police arrived. I’m finished with the witness.”

  Judge Whistler asked, “Anything more from you, Mr. Benton?”

  The district attorney peered into his papers, like a chicken about to peck corn. Looking up, he ran a hand through his shock of white hair, curled a thumb around each red suspender, and smiled. “Just one question. Will . . . Mr. True Sky, couldn’t the defendant have just come from murdering Albert Gates?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do. Despite what Mr. Rosen wants you to say, you don’t know from Adam what your father was doing before you arrived at the murder scene. Isn’t that right?”

  “Uh . . . yes, sir.”

  “Thank you. I’d like to call Police Chief Tom Cross Dog.”

  Rosen felt a slight queasiness in his stomach. This wasn’t like the preliminary hearing last summer, with that young assistant D.A. who couldn’t handle himself, let alone a murder trial. Ted Benton was a “good old country lawyer”—cuddly as a teddy bear, but with razor-sharp claws. At least Rosen had waived the right to a jury trial. He’d rather trust the verdict to Judge Whistler, not the kind of man to be impressed by red suspenders.

  Benton guided Tom Cross Dog as if the witness were telling an old family story. The prosecutor asked a simple question in a soft, earnest voice; an occasional follow-up for clarification; an interruption, almost apologetic, to keep the witness on track—but never leading too far or putting words into the policeman’s mouth. Like Will, Cross Dog said nothing new.

  Standing at the defense table, Rosen asked a few questions clarifying the time the body was found and its location. The police chief seemed more relaxed than he had been during the preliminary hearing last summer.

  Rosen approached the witness box. “When you examined Albert Gates’s body, did you find anything clutched in his hand?”

  Without blinking an eye, Cross Dog said, “There was something in his left hand.”

  “‘Something.’ Could you be more specific?”

  “I’m not sure what it was. Maybe a clump of dirt.”

  “Or a piece of metal?”

  “Maybe. Can’t say for sure.”

  “Why not?”

  “As you know, my department misplaced the evidence before the preliminary hearing. We never found it.”

  “You’re not concerned that whatever was in Gates’s hand might be important evidence?”

  “No.”

  “Your Honor,” Benton said, scratching his head, “the prosecution regrets the loss of this dirt or piece of metal or whatever, but we’d hardly call it evidence. Dr. Ericson will testify that a blow to the back of the head killed Albert Gates and that a stone found nearby was the murder weapon.”

  Rosen replied, “The object might have belonged to the real murderer or could be a clue to his identity.”

  “Can the defense give any reason why it thinks the material in Gates’s hand was anything other than just something he grabbed blindly on the ground in the agony of his death?”

  Rosen had anticipated the question, just as he knew what his answer had to be. “It was the police’s job to secure the evidence, so that the defense would have the chance to pursue this line of investigation.”

  He could have told them the evidence was an old nail, but what of it? He still hadn’t been able to connect the nail in Gates’s hand to the murder.

  Judge Whistler said, “Technically, Mr. Rosen has a point, although I can’t see how the prosecution’s case is jeopardized by this missing object, in and of itself. Any other questions?”

  “Chief Cross Dog, you found the defendant in his vision pit, the exact same place his son Will has testified seeing him an hour earlier.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Isn’t it unusual for a murderer to remain at the scene of the crime, waiting for the police?”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  Glancing at Benton, who nodded slowly, the policeman said, “I remember back about twelve years ago, when we arrested Bobby Howard.”

  There were gasps and a loud murmuring in the courtroom, as Judge Whistler tapped his gavel.

  “Howard was a peculiar fella,” Cross Dog continued. “He lived by himself up in the hills and came to believe God was talking to him. Told him to stop this car and take a mother and daughter with him up to his cabin. We found him a few hours later just sitting there, the two women dead. They were . . . well, no need to go into all that. Point is, he was waiting there, in some kind of trance. Just like True Sky over there.”

  “Objection,” Rosen heard himself say, and though he was sustained, the damage had been done. Benton leaned back in his chair, stifling a smile, thumbs hooked around his suspenders.

  Looking down, Rosen noticed that his own hands, resting on the railing of the witness stand, were damp. He brushed them against his coat. “No further questions.”

  “It’s after four,” the judge said, “and I have an appointment. I understand that Dr. Gustafson is the next prosecution witness. We’ll resume at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Court is adjourned.”

  Looking across the room, Rosen didn’t recognize Grace at first; the charcoal-gray knit dress, high heels, and hair pinned up made her look much older. That and the way she moved, in small, deliberate steps with her hands clutching one another. She walked toward the prosecution table, passing Cross Dog, and spoke directly to Benton. The prosecutor replied while patting her shoulder. After a few minutes, she turned and quickly left the courtroom.

  “What was that all about?” Rosen asked True Sky.

  “I don’t know. She doesn’t talk to me much anymore.”

  “You don’t have any idea?”

  “You worry too much.”

  “I’m your lawyer.”

  “Be a man, not a lawyer. Every man has a straight path, but he needs clear eyes to see it.”

  Rosen shook his head. “My eyes weren’t too good today. Maybe I should’ve arrived in town last week and reviewed the case with you and Grace. Still, I don’t see how anything would’ve changed. Benton’s just very slick.”

  “It’s nothing to worry about. There are more important things in a man’s life.”

  “Like what?”

  From an old paper bag, Saul took out a long wooden flute, which he gave Rosen. One end of the instrument had been carved to resemble a bird with an open beak.

  “This is for helping me, and because you need it.”

  “It’s beautiful, thank you. Is this what you were whittling from the branch last summer?”

  The old Indian nodded. “A courting flute. We call it siyotanka—great prairie chicken. When you blow into it, the flute makes the same noise, siyo, as a prairie chicken. I put into it the power my brothers the elk have over women. You seem to be lonely. This will get you a woman.”

  Rosen couldn’t help but smile. “Does it really work?”

  “Learn to play, and you’ll see.”

  Putting on his parka, Rosen carefully laid
the flute diagonally inside his briefcase, then followed True Sky downstairs through the doorway. It was bitter cold, but Rosen enjoyed breathing the crisp air. Across the street, Ike sat in his van with the motor running. The van had snow tires and chains.

  “You need a ride back to Bear Coat?” True Sky asked.

  “No thanks. Andi’s meeting me here at five for dinner.” Just then, he caught sight of Jack Keeshin talking to the driver of a delivery truck. “Excuse me.”

  He ran a half block up Pine Street, as Keeshin waved goodbye to the truck. With the same motion, the editor shook his hand. Even though they both wore gloves, the other man’s grip was like iron. His face had the same California tan as it had the previous summer.

  “Afternoon, Nate. I saw you in court. Benton scored a few aces, but the match is far from over. Wish I could help.”

  “Maybe you can.”

  As if he hadn’t heard, Keeshin unfolded the newspaper that had been under his arm. “Special edition of the Bearcoat Chronicle.”

  The headline read: MOB RULE?

  “Not too literary, is it?” Keeshin asked. “You know—the pun on ‘mob.’”

  Below the headline, Andi’s photo, four columns wide, showed Cantrell and Baker together on a Deadwood street corner. The rest of the page was divided between two stories, both with Keeshin’s byline: ENGINEER SOUGHT BY POLICE and ELROY BAKER ARRESTED. Rosen skimmed both articles, which detailed what Andi had told him the previous evening.

  “Is Cantrell still at large?”

  Keeshin nodded. “He could be out of the country by now. Elroy Baker wasn’t so lucky. He was arrested at his home early this morning. I understand he was in his pajamas.”

  “This connection between Cantrell and Baker—”

  “It’s too cold to talk out here. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  They ducked into a small snack shop and sat at the counter. It was warm and, smelling of grease and grilled onions, reminded Rosen of the night before. Unzipping his coat, he ordered hot tea and lemon.

  Keeshin opened the newspaper as carefully as if it were a bolt of silk. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Congratulations. You must’ve spent a great deal of time and money putting this story together. Andi’s hoping for a Pulitzer Prize. I don’t think it’s out of the question.”

  “That’s not why I ran the story. Six months ago, when I arrived here, it would’ve been.” He stared into the steam rising from his coffee. “Coming to Bear Coat, I wondered if I could really give up the life I’d led back in L.A.—you know how fast it can be.”

  “Like a good tennis court.”

  “Exactly. You’re a pretty perceptive guy—maybe you know how I feel about Grace. She’s different from any woman I’ve ever met. We’ve driven to Sioux Falls several times with Stevie, to get the boy psychiatric help. Taking her out to places I once frequented, comparing her to the kind of women I was used to . . . Grace has a deep sense of values, like she’s anchored and no matter what her troubles, she can ride them out. Maybe it’s an Indian perspective she gets from her father, but I find it incredibly appealing. No, it’s more than that.” He shook his head. “Guess what I’m really saying is that I love her.”

  Rosen sipped his tea, not quite knowing what to say. Was it really so strange? Did Keeshin want anything more than Rosen—a family and a sense of roots? “I guess congratulations are in order a second time, but what does this have to do with the newspaper story?”

  Keeshin’s smile was so infectious, Rosen had to force himself not to smile back.

  “It was a kind of test . . . for me. At first, when Belle mentioned her suspicions concerning Chick Cantrell, I saw it the way most lawyers would. You know.”

  “Sure—another game.”

  “That’s right. A chance to uncover some dirt and add to your reputation. But I’ve changed, Nate. I want to clean out the garbage like Cantrell and Baker, because this is Grace’s town and decent like her.” He laughed. “It was such a simple concept, I had a difficult time understanding it. It felt good keeping this town clean for Grace and Stevie. So good that I’m going to ask Grace to marry me.”

  Rosen furrowed his brow but said nothing. Why was Keeshin telling him all this?

  As if in response, the other man continued, “There’s really no one else here I can talk to. Andi speaks about you often, and I get the sense that we’re alike in many ways—from big cities, traveled a lot, don’t really have the kind of roots found in Bear Coat. It’s presumptuous for me to think of us as friends, but I felt the need to talk to somebody. I hope you don’t mind.”

  When Rosen didn’t answer, Keeshin asked, “Something wrong?”

  “I find it hard to reconcile your newfound righteousness with the way the newspaper’s being promoted. A special edition, not only in Bear Coat, but also here in Deadwood.”

  “It’s not what it seems. Carrie Taggert, who runs one of the newspapers here, helped me set up today—gave me the use of her news boxes and so forth.”

  “I’ve met her. She’s a good friend of Andi’s.”

  “That’s the point. This is all for Andi. You know how much she wants to leave Bear Coat. If the story gets picked up by any of the news services, they’ll reprint her photos. It’ll be wonderful for her resume.” He hesitated, then added, “There is another reason. I’m thinking of selling the Chronicle, and this publicity can’t hurt the selling price. I’ve had enough fun being an editor, and how often does a story like this come along for a small-town paper—once in a lifetime? If Grace says yes, I’m buying her a ranch; we’ll settle down and raise horses, maybe even a kid or two.”

  “When are you going to ask her?”

  Keeshin lifted his hands. “I’ve never been this close to marriage before. I don’t know when’s the right moment—now or after the murder trial, or once the town council’s appeal has been heard on the condemnation. Then there’s Stevie . . .”

  “Wait a minute. You mean the town’s still going ahead with its plans to bring gambling into Bear Coat?”

  “Oh yes. Despite what Cantrell tried to do, Belle says the development’s as necessary as ever for the town’s economy.”

  Rosen poured a second cup of tea. “What about this connection between Cantrell and Baker?”

  “You want to know if Cantrell might be behind Albert Gates’s murder. I suppose it’s only natural for Saul’s lawyer to look for other suspects. Interesting scenario: Cantrell framed Saul for murder and, when Saul won his condemnation hearing, wanted a quicker way to get rid of the old man, paying Gil McCracken to kill him. Sort of like the JFK conspiracy theory—fascinating, but no proof. The private investigator I hired couldn’t find any evidence linking Cantrell to the two deaths.”

  “I’d like to talk to this investigator.”

  “Of course. His number’s in my office. I doubt if Tom Cross Dog or the F.B.I. have discovered anything either. Maybe once Cantrell is found, if that ever happens. My guess is that he’s lying on some Caribbean beach right now.”

  Rosen checked his watch. “I’d better get back to the courthouse. I’m meeting Andi for dinner. When we get to Bear Coat, I’ll visit Baker in jail. Maybe he can tell me something.”

  “Didn’t you know? Baker’s being held here in Deadwood; it’s the county seat. Jail’s in the courthouse basement.”

  “I still have a few minutes. I better get over there now. Thanks for the tea and conversation.”

  Both men stood, Keeshin taking out a gold money clip inlaid with a silver tennis racket. He dropped a five-dollar bill on the counter. “The pleasure was all mine. See you tomorrow at the trial. Remember”—he swung his hand in a wide arc—“the match is a long way from over.”

  The sky had darkened, as Rosen hurried down the street. He maneuvered past dozens of people who, hunched against the wind, were leaving the courthouse for the day. Inside, he reached the elevator just as Tom Cross Dog and an older policeman stepped through the open door into the corridor.

  “Going
down?” the older man asked.

  Rosen replied, “It looked that way in court today, didn’t it?”

  Cross Dog introduced Rosen to Sheriff Clarkson, who, with his round face and wire-rimmed glasses, looked more like a professor than a policeman.

  “I’d like to see Elroy Baker,” Rosen said.

  “What for?” Cross Dog asked.

  “I want to ask him a few questions concerning the Albert Gates murder.”

  “You really are in trouble, if you need Elroy’s help.”

  “Won’t he cooperate?”

  “He don’t know a damn thing about Gates. He may be a crooked cop, but he ain’t no murderer. At least . . .” He stopped suddenly.

  Sheriff Clarkson touched his arm. “Why don’t you take him downstairs? That unfinished business you have with Elroy—best get it off your chest. I’ll see you over at the restaurant. Nice meeting you, Mr. Rosen.”

  The two men stood at opposite corners in the elevator.

  “Glad I caught you,” Rosen said. “What made you call in the F.B.I.?”

  Cross Dog shrugged. “Something never was right about Cantrell, the way he was always sucking up to people and throwing his money around.”

  “You made a smart move.”

  “Cantrell wasn’t the only one I checked up on. He just was the only one we found dirty.”

  “Who else did you investigate?”

  “It don’t matter.”

  The way the policeman grimaced answered Rosen. It must’ve been Jack Keeshin. He wondered if Cross Dog knew how involved Keeshin and Grace really were.

  As the elevator door opened, Rosen said, “Too bad you didn’t get Cantrell. Think you will?”

  “The F.B.I. monitored his calls. He’s linked with organized crime out in L.A. They’ve picked up the man Cantrell’s been calling—maybe he’ll give us a lead, though I doubt it.”

  “So Elroy’s left holding the bag.”

  Cross Dog grunted and pushed past Rosen, who followed him into the jail’s processing area. The small room was painted a green that had faded to fish-belly gray. Behind a counter sat a policeman, leaning back against the wall and reading a wrestling magazine.