Operation Indigo Sky

by Lawrence Ambrose

  She laughed. "Thank you. We were fairly young, but a little past teenagers. I'm just about to turn forty."

  "They say forty is the new thirty. I think you prove that point."

  "You're sweet. I'd guess you're twenty-eight, twenty-nine?"

  "Exactly my age, as it turns out."

  "Good for you. If you're looking seriously at these houses at that age, you're obviously doing well."

  I shrugged modestly and helped myself to cheese and crackers. She'd set out raw veggies and dip, to which I also availed myself.

  We drained our glasses at about the same time. Sonja refilled them. I was feeling a gentle buzz despite the mass of hamburger still gestating in my belly. Out on the river, a powerboat rumbled by, creasing the watery sunset.

  "I could get used to this view," I said.

  "Maybe you should?"

  I smiled and sipped my wine. Shit, who knew? I wasn't exactly thrilled with the Arizona desert, though I had gotten used to it. I might prefer oceanfront property, but being surrounded by lakes might not be a bad second option. Though being buried in a thousand feet of snow wasn't all that appealing.

  "You have something on your face," said Sonja.

  I gave a small start as Sonja leaned over in her chair and dabbed my cheek with a napkin. We were suddenly eyeball to eyeball. Her hazel eyes seemed all-consuming. Her sculpted lips were magnets.

  She leaned in a bit more, and those beautiful lips touched mine. Just a caress at first, but then we both moved closer, gaining more traction. An electric flickering of tongues. Hormones snapped through my body.

  Sonja pulled back with a rueful smile. "Sorry. I'm not usually that impulsive."

  I cleared my throat. "It's okay. I survived." I smiled. "Barely."

  She sat there watching at me. Her eyes laid it all out for me: some more wine and hors-d'oeuvres and cue the Barry White music. Looked like she did consider me sexy and charming after all. This could become a helluva nice ending to the day – except for the damn angel on my right shoulder babbling "But you're deceiving her!" in my ear. Especially annoying since I was an agnostic.

  "Sonja," I said.

  "Yes, Scott?" Seeing my expression, her smile slipped away. "Don't tell me. You have some deep, dark secret."

  "Why did you guess that?"

  "Maybe because I seem to attract men with dark secrets?"

  "I don't know if it's all that deep or dark." I steeled myself. "But I haven't been completely honest with you."

  "You're a tabloid reporter? Or a gigolo one of my friends hired because they think I'm too lonely?"

  "Ha, no," I said. "I really am a programmer who runs his own business. But I've, well, taken on a temporary sideline as a sort of, uh, private investigator."

  Sonja sat stiffly, fingers clenched around the stem of her wineglass, watching me with dark eyes.

  "Are you investigating me?" Her voice was sepulchral. "Is this to do with my husband's will?"

  "No, nothing to do with that. I've been hired to look into the St. Paul church shooting, among other things. Since you have a relationship to one of the shooters..." I shrugged.

  She stared at me for several long seconds. She lowered the wineglass and wiped her hands with her napkin, crumpling and tossing it into the nearby garbage in what I suspected was a symbolic gesture.

  "So you never had any interest in property here?" she asked.

  "Not at first. But funny thing, as time went on I actually began to develop an interest." I added with a lame smile, "I was impressed by the beauty of the area and the person showing it to me."

  Her face was like a marble statue's. A pissed off marble statue.

  "I know," I said, "I wasted most of your day. I'd like to compensate you for that and your gas."

  I reached into my wallet for more of Professor Markus's money. Surely she qualified as a business expense. I eased out five of the twenty one hundred dollar bills. Sonja's fine eyebrows arched upward as I fanned the five "Benjamins" out on the table in front of her.

  "What are you trying to accomplish here?" she asked in a low voice hoarse with suppressed emotion.

  "I'm trying to learn the truth about what happened in St. Paul."

  "Who hired you?"

  "An interested party with fairly deep pockets. I'm sorry, but I can't tell you who he is. He found me because of a blog I write that digs into unusual stuff."

  "One of those conspiracy sites?"

  "I guess you could say that." I still bridled at that label. "I really am merely a mild-mannered software engineer. This is just a temporary sideline. I don't really know what I'm doing. Anyway, I'm sorry I deceived you, Sonja."

  "How do I know you're not deceiving me now?"

  I spread my arms wide and gave her a lame smile. She didn't smile back.

  "I should take you to your car," she said. "Where did you park?"

  "Near your office."

  "I should've thought of that. You'll probably have a parking ticket waiting for you."

  "No problem."

  "I don't believe I'll be taking your money." She slid the cash across the table to me. "Are you ready to leave?"

  "Yes." I scooped up the money with an air of reluctance. "But you just had two glasses of wine. Downtown can't be more than a mile or two from here. I'll walk. After sitting on my butt all day I could use the exercise."

  "All right. Suit yourself."

  I stood up. "Again, I'm sorry, Sonja. I like to believe what I'm doing is for a good cause, but that's not an excuse for taking advantage of someone."

  I started away toward the backyard gate.

  "Do you think it's possible the police are lying about what happened?"

  I stopped, turning back to her. "All I'm sure of is that one of the main witnesses, the supposed gay lover who was getting married that day, is lying."

  "Why would you say that?"

  "I met him. If he's gay, so am I."

  "I'll admit he comes across a bit phony on television - the creepy way he's always carrying around that tablet showing photos of his dead love. But I can't believe you can tell from that or even talking to him if he's gay or not."

  "True, I can't know with absolute certainty. But I'm about ninety-nine percent sure."

  "What about him makes you so sure?"

  "Basically, he got in my face and I saw hardness in him. He's an operator, probably ex-military."

  "Gay men can't be hard?" The tiniest smile twitched her lips. "Maybe you just turned him on?"

  "I didn't mean hardness in that sense." I smiled, too. "Call it masculine energy, if you want. But even if the dude is gay, I know he's pretending to be someone he isn't. That's a huge red flag for me."

  Sonja looked reflective. I half-bowed and turned to resume my departure.

  "Hold on, Scott."

  "It's actually Hayden."

  She grunted. "Hayden, then. I want to talk to you a bit more about this, if you don't mind."

  "Of course not."

  I tried not to skip with glee or appear smug as I returned to me chair and the half-filled wineglass. She noted my glance at the wine and nodded an okay.

  "Thank you for not hating me," I said.

  "I don't appreciate you lying to me, Scott – or Hayden." She gave a quick shake of her head. "But I do appreciate you telling me the truth. You didn't have to do that. And the truth is that some things about the shooting never made sense to me. My ex-husband could be an asshole at times, but he wasn't a psychopath, and he didn't carry hate in his heart toward anyone. He was more of a lovable goofball boy who never grew up."

  "Even the mainstream news conceded he had no history of violence. Burning the gay flag in those Facebook pictures didn't help his cause, though."

  "That Facebook post was supposed a joke. Maybe not in good taste, but he didn't hate gay people. He even believed that blacks are being unjustly treated by the police. I can't believe Gary or his friends would just start murdering people, especially in a church. He had a strong belief in God. It ju
st doesn't add up."

  "Can you think of anyone who might know more about what happened?"

  "The police in the shootout with them? But they've already given statements about what happened."

  "A doctor would need to sign death certificates."

  "I have no idea who did that. You could ask."

  "I could ask, but I don't think they're legally required to answer if I'm not a relative." I paused. "But you, on the other hand, have every right to find out who called his death and talk to him in person. You're still legally his wife, right?"

  She raised her eyebrows in not a friendly way. "Are you suggesting I get involved in your investigation?"

  "I guess it depends on if you want to know. If they give you the run-around, then we have more evidence that something's not right."

  Sonja gazed out at the shimmering river with a reflective frown. A long, creepy wail carried across the waters.

  "Loon," she said, noting my expression. She reached for the wine bottle. "I think I need a refill."

  She topped off my glass, and we both drank in silence for several moments. I didn't see anything to be gained by pressing my point. I was on shaky enough ground already.

  "You want me to learn who signed his death certificate and talk to him?"

  "I think that would be a good start."

  "What's the point? What would I talk to him about?"

  "Just sound him out, I guess. You can learn a lot by talking to someone face to face."

  Sonja went silent again. A few more loon cries – sounded like one was answering the other – pierced the eerie evening.

  "I think," she said, "that I would at least like to know who signed the death certificate. I'm not sure about talking to him."

  "I'm sure we could find his or her name in a few seconds online."

  "Maybe the death certificate is online?"

  "Could be. But somehow I doubt it will be that easy."

  She retired to her house and brought out a laptop. I moved in a bit closer as she searched for "St. Paul death certificates." A site came up for Ramsey County that seemed to have the information we wanted.

  "The certificate isn't available online," she said. "I'd either have to go in or do it by mail."

  "I vote 'go in'."

  "I thought you might."

  As she sat bent over I couldn't help notice the fine, muscular lines of her back in her form-fitting blouse and the way her blond-streaked brown hair seemed to sparkle in the last pockets of sunlight. She hugged her arms in as a cool breeze rolled over us, and I wanted to drape a protective arm over her shoulders. In contrast, the main protective urge I felt around Lilith was self-protective.

  "There he is," she said, pointing to a middle-aged man with thinning sandy hair. "Dr. Frank Castle. He's been Ramsey County's chief medical examiner for nearly ten years..." I read the article along with her.

  "He was also the person who certified all the other deaths in the shooting," I said. "That's convenient."

  Sonja edged the computer away, frowning. She shuddered as an owl, possibly Great Horned, joined the haunting loon chorus.

  "Were you planning to drive back home tonight?" she asked.

  "No. Especially since I live in Phoenix, Arizona."

  She shot me a dour look. I raised my hands.

  "But I really do run a computer business there."

  "Not Scott Harrow Software Solutions, I take it."

  "Hayden Hunter Consulting. I know, not as punchy."

  "What's your blog called?"

  "The Truth Hunter."

  "Not bad."

  She drew her laptop back to her and tapped in "Truth Hunter." The last blog I'd written came up: Who's Running The Show?

  "I was trying to untangle all the connections and players the make up the 'Powers that Be,'" I said.

  She made a non-committal grunt and thumbed down the page. "Gary was into this stuff, too."

  "It does seem to mostly be a guy thing."

  "Men love their toys and their political bullshit."

  I refrained from a snappy reply, maybe something like: "And women love manipulating and living off men's toys and political bullshit." But it wasn't all that snappy and I didn't want to spoil the mood.

  "Anyway," Sonja said, "I was thinking you could stay here tonight – you could have your pick of spare rooms – and we could drive in together to the records place."

  "That's really nice of you. Thank you, Sonja."

  She tossed me a sidelong, measuring glance. "You will be sleeping in a guest room. I want to make that clear."

  "Of course." Then I couldn't help myself and grinned. "Though I really enjoyed that kiss."

  That roused a tight smile. She closed her laptop.

  "We probably should go downtown later and retrieve your car," she said.

  "Okay. I guess I should make some effort not to squander more of my employer's money."

  I WAS getting used to feeling disoriented at night. Sleeping in different motels, staying at the Killians', flying over the empty darkness of South Dakota. And now I was somewhere also in darkness – not quite sure where - when I awakened to the sound of a door opening.

  Maybe someone was trying to get the drop on me, but I doubted it. The shadowy form tiptoeing toward me had a more benign shape. I dragged myself to my elbows.

  "Sonja...?"

  "Good guess."

  I edged my hands through the tangle of covers and made contact with her arms. I was gearing up for serious action when she slid in next to me and laid her head on my shoulder. She was wearing full-length "little girl" pajamas.

  "I'd just like to sleep with you," she said. "Just sleep. Is that okay?"

  My libido, along with my boxer shorts, sagged. It had all happened so fast that – mercifully - I hadn't built up enough anticipation to be bitterly disappointed.

  "Sure," I murmured.

  "Thank you. See you in the morning?"

  "Okay. Goodnight."

  I awoke a few hours later alone and yet not quite alone: the smell of sausage and pancakes (or maybe waffles?) swarmed in through cracks in the closed door, providing both pleasant company and an inspiration to get up.

  After a satisfying breakfast, Sonja and I headed toward Saint Paul in her car (politely declining my invitation to ride in the van). At nine-thirty the traffic was fairly mellow, but we dragged to a stop three or four times. Neither of us seemed inclined toward conversation. Maybe she was thinking about last night or about her theoretically dead husband. I was thinking mostly about last night.

  At the Ramsey County Public Health building, Sonja filled out an application and paid a $15 fee before they handed over her former husband's death certificate. We read through it in her car. Not much new except the locations of the wounds.

  "Do you want me to talk to this Dr. Castle person?" Sonja asked.

  "I think you should. Of course he's going to stick to his story, but you could sound him out a bit, get an impression whether or not he's telling the truth."

  "Evidently, I'm not so great at detecting when men are telling the truth."

  I smiled while I winced. "You seemed to have a gut instinct that I wasn't telling you the truth. If the medical examiner is less than honest, I bet you'll pick up that, too."

  She cast me a doubtful look.

  "Anyway, I'll probably take a shot at him myself after you. We can compare notes."

  "Should we call him? Maybe we need an appointment or something."

  "Let's just surprise him. Not give him a chance to rehearse his story."

  We drove ten minutes across town to a non-descript, single story brick building that was the Medical Examiner Office, parking out of view of the building. Sonja gave me a tight farewell smile and walked inside.

  I amused myself for fifteen minutes imagining the various scenarios. The fact that she hadn't returned immediately suggested that Dr. Castle was in his office. Sonja would need to run the gauntlet of the secretary and likely some time cooling her heels before gain
ing the ME's audience. But who knew? Maybe he wasn't busy and they were already talking?

  Another ten minutes and Sonja was striding through the parking lot trees back to the car, a half-frown on her pretty face.

  "I don't know," she said, settling into the driver's seat. "He explained more about Gary's injuries." She stopped, biting her lower lip, taking a deep breath. "Other than that, he was a little gruff and busy like a typical overworked bureaucrat, but I can't say he was lying about anything."

  "What's your gut feeling?"

  "I don't know." She sighed. "I guess that I don't completely trust him. But that could be because I've soaked up some of your conspiracy paranoia."

  "I had hoped it wasn't contagious." I chuckled, though I really didn't find her characterization all that amusing. "I guess now it's my turn."

  "You're going to go in there and talk to him?"

  I thought about it. If I waltzed in there now, he'd know something was up. Even if he were legit, he would probably be on guard. I needed to come at him from a different angle.

  "No," I said, smiling as a different "angle" occurred to me. "I have another idea."

  AT FIVE-THIRTY the front doors of the medical examiner's office building opened and a middle-aged man with thin light-brown hair emerged, blinking and shading his eyes. I slipped out of the shadows of the trees and moved to the driver's side of his car – conveniently identifiable by the County Medical Examiner license plates.

  I was leaning against the car, arms folded, wearing a grey business suit and a somewhat menacing expression as Dr. Frank Castle came around his car. He stopped, cocking his head, raising his sunglasses to better view me.

  "Excuse me," he said. "But you're leaning on my car."

  I straightened up. "I've been waiting to talk to you, Dr. Castle."

  "Do we know each other?"

  "You know my employers. They're concerned about who you've been talking to."

  His face scrunched up in puzzlement. His reaction seemed to shoot down my hypothesis that someone had bribed him to certify deaths that hadn't occurred, but then I thought I caught a flash of fear in his eyes.

  "Talking to who about what?" he asked.

  "The shootings," I said. "We understand the widow of Gary Hanson had some questions for you today."