Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “People hear what they want to hear. People thought Gates said, ‘Saul T . . .,’ then collapsed. But if you listen carefully to Stevie’s testimony, Gates paused after he said the word. It was one word, one complete idea. ‘Salty.’”

  “Salty,” she repeated with a laugh that caught in her throat.

  “Just like Belle’s grandfather Salty Gardner, who salted a stream with gold nuggets and sold it to Gates’s grandfather. Belle told me how her husband never forgot that story. He said it was the last time anyone in his family was ever swindled. That’s why he was so angry at Will. Wasn’t he, Pearl?”

  She picked up her drink, taking the time to think if it was worth lying. Then she shrugged. “He didn’t mean to kill Gates. It’s just that Albert got so crazy. He was threatening Will with prison—Will’d been in trouble with the law before. I guess you knew that. You seem to know everything.”

  “Not everything. Not how you got your husband to cover for him. Don’t tell me you’re in love with Will.”

  This time the laugh came hard and brittle. “In love with that breed?”

  “You slept with him.”

  “We were using each other, that’s all. He got to bed down the red-headed cheerleader of his high school dreams.”

  “And you?”

  “We got . . . were going to get something much more important. That’s right, we, Cal and me. After his divorce, between his ex-wife and their kids, Cal didn’t get much more than this house.”

  “I’m sure he personally hunted down those minks hanging in your closet.”

  “Cal likes giving me presents, and I’ve got as much right to live a decent life as anybody else. Certainly as much as Eleanor.”

  “It had something to do with bringing gambling into Tin Town, didn’t it?”

  She nodded. “Cal and I used all he had left buying up property here in town. It’s almost worthless now, but wait till the poker chips start tumbling.”

  “Will promised to change his father’s mind.”

  “Uh-huh. Even if he didn’t, no way Saul’s preventing us from getting Tin Town. I don’t care what that fool O’Hara did at the condemnation hearing. His decision will be reversed. Nobody’s going to let that old Indian stop progress. If something did happen to the old man, Will and Grace would own the land. Will promised me a share of the settlement, if I persuaded the town council to up its ante for the land.”

  “So you’d make money both ways.”

  Pearl smiled, crossing her legs and leaning back in the chair. “When Will called me the night he killed Gates, half out of his mind, I knew there’d be even more. All Cal had to do was give him an alibi. Nobody’d dare challenge Cal—even you didn’t.”

  “No, I didn’t.” He looked at Whistler and shook his head. He didn’t care about Pearl, but the judge . . . the judge was the law, and when he was corrupted, it cheapened what Rosen most believed in.

  Pearl said, “You don’t think . . . No, you don’t understand about Cal. He’d never take part in a murder cover-up, even for me. After Will called, I told Cal about our affair. I made up some story about our having been together the whole evening and how I’d have to admit it to show that Will couldn’t’ve killed Gates. Cal was real understanding—said he’d provide Will with an alibi. But he thought it was just our affair he was hiding.”

  As if waking from a deep sleep, Whistler looked from the portrait to his wife.

  Rosen asked Pearl, “You’ll testify that Will admitted murdering Gates?”

  “I suppose so . . . I won’t have to go to jail? I couldn’t stand it.”

  Whistler said, “I couldn’t stand it either.”

  Rosen shook his head in disgust. “I wouldn’t worry, Pearl. I’m sure the district attorney will grant you immunity for helping him fry Will. I can just see you on the witness stand crying into your hankie and blushing—we men find that so endearing. Which lie are you going to use, that Will threatened you, or that you were blinded by your love for him?”

  “Stop it,” Whistler said.

  “Then there’ll be the story in People magazine and talk shows like ‘Geraldo’—‘older men who share their wives with murderers.’ And the sleeze reporters hanging . . .”

  “I said, stop it!” Whistler threw his glass into the fireplace. His jaw muscles tightened, then slowly relaxed. “We did that on our wedding night—threw our champagne glasses into the fire. Remember, Pearl?”

  Her face was bone-white. “Yes, Cal, I remember.”

  He stood and walked past them to the end of the bookshelf. There was a small cabinet, waist-high, which the judge unlocked. He turned to face them with a pistol in his hand.

  “I can’t lose you. I’ve given up too much already.”

  “No, Cal! You’re not going to . . . kill me?”

  “Shut up,” Rosen said. “Don’t you understand?” To Whistler, “You haven’t broken any law. That alibi for Will wasn’t made under oath. Both you and Pearl are safe.”

  The judge shook his head. “Once this comes out, I’ll have to step down from the bench. I haven’t much money, and without my position, what do I have to offer a woman like her? How long before another Will True Sky, only this time she’ll go with him.” He looked up to her portrait. “Too bad such creatures are made of flesh and blood.”

  Whistler took a few steps back, then turned and walked to the end of the room. Opening the sliding glass door, he stepped into the darkness. The door remained ajar; snowflakes drifted into the room, glistening for an instant before melting on the wooden floor.

  Rosen grabbed Pearl. He pulled her halfway across the room while she struggled against him.

  “N . . . no, for God’s sake, he’s got a gun!”

  When her nails raked his cheek, Rosen stopped and slapped her hard across the face.

  Her eyes popped wide in surprise. “You can’t . . .”

  He shook her hard. “Don’t you understand? Your husband’s going to kill himself, because he doesn’t think you’ll stand by him. Never mind that he’s right, you’re going to convince him to put down the gun.”

  “But . . .”

  “But nothing.” Twisting her arm, he dragged her the rest of the way and pushed her through the doorway. She stumbled onto a wooden deck.

  “Cal!”

  Rosen blinked away snowflakes sharp as pinpricks in the frigid air. He watched Pearl struggle to her feet, then slip again, when suddenly a hand steadied her. Whistler stepped beside her. In his other hand the gun pointed, like an accusing finger, against his temple. Arms around his neck, she whispered frantically in his ear, while he watched her with the same gentle look he’d viewed her portrait with.

  The gun moved slightly. Rosen was about to lunge for it, when Whistler slowly lowered the weapon.

  Whistler kissed his wife on the forehead. “Go inside, you’ll catch your death of cold. And you’d better change. We’ll be expecting more company. Tom Cross Dog, I imagine.”

  Her lips moving, as if rehearsing what to tell the police, Pearl hurried inside.

  Rosen took the gun from the judge. It felt warm in his hand, and he clutched it tightly, needing that warmth to stop him from trembling.

  Whistler said, “I couldn’t do it.”

  “I’m glad you changed your mind.”

  “I mean, not now, in front of Pearl. Think what that might do to her.”

  Chapter Nineteen – TUESDAY EVENING

  Cross Dog’s Blazer lumbered through the swirling snow on the road leading from Bear Coat. The town seemed deserted, except for the few cars huddling like puppies near the tired lights of a tavern. Occasionally the tires slid on a patch of ice, but the policeman didn’t slow down. Rosen gripped the briefcase on his knees as if it were a second seat belt.

  “Are you sure he’s home?”

  Cross Dog nodded. “I called the house from Judge Whistler’s, and Will answered. I pretended to be calling for Grace.” After a moment, he added, “She’s out with that lady psychiatrist and . . . Keeshin. Just
as well. I don’t want her seeing any of this.”

  “It’ll be rough on her, just the same. Her father’s accused of murder, all along she half-suspects her son committed the crime, and now it turns out that her brother’s guilty. Poor woman.”

  The policeman looked hard at the road. “Can’t be helped. Besides, she got a shoulder to cry on now, don’t she? One covered with a nice silk shirt.”

  Cross Dog wasn’t the type to accept a kind word easily, but he needed one now.

  Rosen said, “That was decent of you—leaving a patrolman at the Whistlers, instead of taking Pearl in.”

  “She ain’t going anywhere in this weather. Tomorrow I’ll take her over to the D.A. and let him decide what to do with her.” He glanced at Rosen. “You really think the judge’d kill himself if he was left alone?”

  “If you’d seen his face there in the darkness . . . Yes, I think he would have.”

  Cross Dog grimaced, then fell into his usual silence. Was he thinking about Judge Whistler’s attachment to Pearl, or his own feelings toward Grace? The great cold void that surrounded Whistler on his deck was the same that surrounded the policeman now, deepening both men’s loneliness and leading to forbidden thoughts.

  Within this same dark void, Rosen remembered his own loss the moment Bess told him she wanted a divorce. An unbearably hot August day, the sun so intense it might have been the light of God himself. He nodded at her words, grimacing in silence, as Cross Dog had just done, then walked to the window, rubbing his eyes against the radiant light. His anger had sustained him through the day. Only in the darkness of that night, sleeping alone in the third bedroom, did he feel the emptiness and the whispers that questioned his own existence.

  Rosen stared into the black night. “Some say that evil is only the absence of God’s light.”

  At first Cross Dog didn’t reply. A minute later, he half-whispered, “I let her get away.”

  That was all, but it was enough. A simple confidence made the two men no longer strangers and, on this coldest of nights, sent a rush of warmth through Rosen’s body.

  It had stopped snowing by the time they left the last building on the edge of town. Another vehicle, four-wheel-drive like theirs, passed them on its way into Bear Coat, and once again they were alone. Their headlights revealed a smooth, white sheet, like a freshly made bed, with only a slight rumple from the other vehicle’s tires. Clicking off the wipers, Cross Dog depressed the accelerator.

  Rosen asked, “Aren’t you going a little fast?”

  “I want to get there before she does.”

  Rosen felt the land slowly rise long before he saw the ridge. A handful of stars shone dimly, reflecting off the snow into the gray sky. He looked for the moon, which hid behind a black cloud shaped like the head of an animal. He remembered the buffalo-skull altar at the inipi ceremony. No, the shape was more delicate.

  “The cloud looks like a deer,” Rosen said.

  Cross Dog shook his head. “Elk.”

  “What Saul claims is his brother. You know, I have that courting flute here in my briefcase.”

  They drove up to Saul’s house, where three vehicles were parked. Snow covered Will’s service-station truck, Ike’s van, and Grace’s Toyota.

  “Don’t see Keeshin’s car,” Cross Dog said. “Good. Maybe we beat her here.”

  As the policeman checked the revolver on his hip, Rosen glanced at his watch—nearly eight. Pulling up the hoods of their parkas, both men stepped from the Blazer.

  Rosen had never been so cold, and the clearing sky only further dropped the temperature. The snow crunched like glass under his boot heels. He burrowed his head deep inside the hood and rubbed his arms while Cross Dog knocked on the door. Each knock sounded like a gunshot in the frozen air. When Stevie answered the door, they didn’t wait to be invited inside.

  Rosen stood very stiffly for a minute, slowly shedding the cold like the skin of a snake.

  Cross Dog spoke quietly to the boy. “Where’s your Uncle Will?”

  “Upstairs in his room, taking a nap.”

  “A nap?”

  “Uncle Will calls it his beauty sleep. He’s got a date tonight with Wendy.”

  The entranceway led past a staircase to the kitchen. Stevie took their coats, then Rosen followed Cross Dog into a large, L-shaped room.

  The room was paneled in dark, knotted wood, with white curtains brightening the windows. In the corner to Rosen’s left stood an old sewing machine and, beside it, a handsome glass case filled with trophies, most topped with brass horses. Above the case, championship ribbons of green, red, and gold lined the wall. A large stone fireplace hissed and crackled with burning logs. Past the fireplace the room elbowed left to a handsome old dining table and chairs, not very different from Judge Whistler’s.

  Across from the fireplace Ike sat in a rocking chair, and Saul rested in the corner of a sofa, his feet on a low table that looked almost Japanese. They were watching a video, something starring a young Marlon Brando with a thick, black mustache.

  “Is it almost ready?” Ike asked loudly.

  Grace walked from the kitchen with a large bowl of popcorn. She stopped suddenly, almost spilling the bowl.

  “Tom?”

  The policeman looked as surprised as she. “Hello, Gracie. I thought you was out in Deadwood.”

  She stared at Rosen. “We got home about a half hour ago. Jack and Dr. Hartrey stayed for a little while. They just left. What’re you both doing here? It’s about Gates’s murder, isn’t it?”

  Cross Dog nodded. He turned to her son. “Stevie . . .”

  “No,” she moaned, pulling the boy to her. “Mr. Rosen said Stevie had nothing to do with the killing. He promised . . .”

  “You don’t understand. Stevie, go tell your uncle I need to talk to him.”

  While Stevie climbed the stairs, Grace and the two men walked into the living room. She set the popcorn on the coffee table.

  “Thanks,” Ike said, taking a handful. “Sit down and join us. This is one of my favorites. Recognize it?”

  “An old Brando movie,” Rosen replied.

  “Viva Zapata, about the Mexican revolutionary. You know, Zapata was an Indian. Maybe that’s how Brando got into all that Indian-rights stuff in the sixties.”

  Cross Dog shook his head. “Another white man playing an Indian. They make us look good in the movies, then spit on us in the street.”

  “Maybe so. Personally, I like the Anthony Quinn part—Zapata’s older brother. I could’ve played that part real well. See there how he’s drunk and carrying on with that woman.”

  They watched the scene play out. Afterward, Ike blew his nose hard.

  “That scene always gets to me—how Zapata lets his brother be gunned down for betraying the revolution. I guess that’s what makes us men—doing what we have to do.”

  Ike was looking past them. Will ambled, barefoot, into the room, with Stevie trailing a few steps behind. He wore a red flannel shirt, torn jeans, and sneakers. He stretched broadly, stifling a yawn, then smiled.

  “Whadda we got here, a party? Hi, Tom.”

  “I just come from talking to Judge Whistler and his wife. Pearl told us everything. I’m gonna have to take you in.”

  The smile stayed pasted on Will’s face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “About you murdering Albert Gates.”

  “C’mon, Tom. Stop kidding around.”

  “She told us everything. It’s all down on paper, and tomorrow she tells it to the D.A.”

  Will shook his head. “That’s crazy. Sure, I been sneakin’ out with her. Now maybe she gets mad ’cause I threw her over for Wendy. Just a jealous bitch. You know how that is.” When the other man didn’t reply, Will added, “It’s her word against mine.”

  Cross Dog took a folded paper from his shirt pocket. “I had one of the boys get this search warrant from Judge O’Hara. Actually, there’re two. The gas station’s being searched right now. You and I are gonna have a look-
see in your bedroom. We’ll check the hamper in the basement as well.”

  “For what?”

  “Evidence. Especially the uniforms you wear over at the gas station. I expect we’ll find traces of Albert Gates’s blood on one of them. He bled a helluva lot before he died.”

  Will ran a hand through his hair. “That was . . . hell, that was last summer. Them clothes been washed dozens of times.”

  Rosen said, “If a bloodstain’s been in a fabric, a good lab can bring it out.”

  Cross Dog took Will’s arm. “Let’s take a look.”

  Will struggled in vain against the policeman’s grip.

  “Don’t make me cuff you in front of your family.”

  Grace shook her head. “I don’t understand. This don’t make no sense at all. What Stevie said in court about Gates naming Father—what does Will have to do with all that?”

  “Mr. Rosen will explain it all.”

  Taking a tattered card from his wallet, Cross Dog read Will his rights, then the two men walked upstairs.

  Grace touched her forehead. “I need a drink of water.”

  Rosen wondered if he should follow her into the kitchen; perhaps she was going downstairs to hide Will’s laundry. A moment later he heard her talking quietly on the phone. No need to ask whom she was calling.

  Grace returned to sit on the sofa, her father moving beside her, while Rosen pulled up a rocking chair. Legs crossed, Stevie sat on the floor near Ike, who continued to watch the movie. Rosen closed his eyes for a moment, putting the events in their proper order, then began.

  He told her what had really happened on the ridge the night of the murder. How Will had found the Indian remains on Gates’s property, moved them to the ridge, and sold the wotawe to Gates. How he’d gone with Gates to the ridge at night to get the medicine bag, when Gates discovered the Indian remains had been brought there and “salted” to trick him, just as Belle’s grandfather tricked Cap Gates years before. How, in anger, Gates had threatened Will with jail and then been murdered by the young man. How Will had arranged for Pearl’s husband to give him an alibi, in exchange for helping to bring gambling into Tin Town. And how, to be sure no one would make the connection between the rusted nail in Gates’s hand and Will’s reburying the remains, he’d first stolen the evidence from the police station, then burglarized Andi’s house for the photos of the nail.