by Gregory Ashe
He followed the GPS directions through the city, and he cut off at an access road. After five hundred yards, the access road’s pavement ended, and a dirt track continued. The Odyssey lumbered along the uneven surface, and Hazard found himself climbing a low bluff. When he cleared the top, he could see a house set farther back: two-story clapboard, with a barn that looked like it had never been painted, and at the back of the property, a series of white studs against the blue sky. He couldn’t tell, not from that distance, but he knew: beehives. Set at the right of the road, a four-by-four piece of plywood had two uneven rows of stenciled letters: KLEINHEIDER HIVES.
After parking near the barn, Hazard got out of the minivan, popped his back, and considered the Blackhawk, which he had brought in a portable gun safe and secured under the seat of his car. Normally, it would have seemed like overkill; he was here to ask about Dulac—and, of course, to ask about any hives or queens that might have been sold recently. But Hazard unlocked the safe, holstered the gun, and pulled on a windbreaker in spite of the heat baking the tall Indiangrass. Nothing had been normal for the last few days.
When he knocked on the door, no one answered. Hazard checked the time; when a full minute had passed, he knocked again. Louder. A piece of clapboard, the nail at the end already loose, wobbled in time with the pounding. Still nothing.
Hazard moved to the barn, and when he got to the judas door, he called ahead. There was no answer, so he pushed his way into the barn and moved slowly through the structure. It was bigger than he had realized, with one side reserved for tools and a woodworking shop, while the other side of the barn was divided up into pens, all empty. The smells of old animal dung and straw and leather mixed in the hot, closed-up air. Where boards didn’t meet along the wall, slats of light broke the dimness, and Hazard had to stop and count to ten. Light like that, the slow strobe of walking through light and shadow, made him think of the Haverford. He focused on the scuff of his sneakers against the cement pad. He drew in a breath, concentrating on the barn smells. He was not in the Haverford. He was not.
Leaving the barn, he called out again for Kleinheider, but all he got back was the wind soughing over the bluff, catching the long Indiangrass and tangling the stalks, stirring up dust from the washed-out gravel drive. Hazard moved around to the back of the house. The white shapes he had noticed before were, as he had guessed, beehives, with bees drifting lazily through the air. Kleinheider also had a large garden: beanpoles and staked tomatoes and low, neat rows of lettuce and kale, all of it surrounded with chicken wire. An orchard of apple trees completed the property; the fruit coming in was small and green, and Hazard had no idea what type of apple Kleinheider might be bringing in.
Next, he made a circuit of the house. If it had a basement, it didn’t have any lower windows, so Hazard decided to look in through the windows on the main floor, which were set slightly too high for him. He found a bucket near an outside spigot and carried it with him, setting it down at each window and climbing, ignoring the plastic’s protests, fighting a smile the second time when he thought of what Somers would say about that ominous noise. From what he could see, the inside of the house was what he expected: heavy drapes bleached by sunlight; furniture that was thirty or forty years old; an ancient, cabbage-rose wallpaper; a pump organ; in a front room, most likely called the parlor, enough doilies and precious figurines to choke a Victorian horse.
He had cleared two sides of the house when he looked into an office and saw a man he guessed was Victor Kleinheider. He lay on the floor, half-covered by a desk that had fallen on top of him and surrounded by a pool of blood.
“Fuck,” Hazard swore. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Dropping down from the bucket, he carried it back to the spigot, and then he stood in the house’s shadow and stared out at the line of white hive boxes and the slow unfurling greenness of southwestern Missouri, the spine of knobby humps at the horizon, the blue of the sky. He was about to do something stupid.
In the Odyssey, he found his gear bag and pulled out booties and disposable gloves. He carried them with him to the back porch, pulled them on, and studied the door. It looked ancient; too old, probably, for his bump keys, so he’d have to pick it. But when he jiggled the latch, it swung open, and the smell of shit and blood and a violated human body wafted out, with undernotes of Fabuloso and moldering fabric. Hazard breathed shallowly as he moved into the ancient house. He took the most direct path he could into the office, where he studied the scene again, this time from the doorway.
The stench was worse here; putrefaction and bloat had set in, meaning Kleinheider had been dead for at least a couple of days, although probably not for a full week—the discoloration and rupturing of the skin wasn’t very far progressed. The dead man lay on his back, pinned by a particleboard desk. On one side of him, the CRT monitor for an ancient computer had cracked against the floor. On the other side, a Bakelite trash can lay on its side, snowing crumpled receipts and junk mail onto the rug.
At first glance, seen through the window, Hazard had assumed that Kleinheider and his killer had struggled in the office. Now, though, Hazard realized that couldn’t have been the case. Kleinheider had been wounded here, fatally, but there hadn’t been a struggle. At least, not the one Hazard had imagined. A long, dried streak of blood on the desk told part of the story: for some reason, Kleinheider had tried to pull himself upright. Maybe, in his confusion, he had thought there was a phone on the desk and he had planned on calling for help. He must have been partially successful, Hazard guessed, because at some point he adjusted his grip, reached across the desktop, and grabbed the back of the piece of furniture. Unfortunately, it was cheap and light, and his weight overbalanced it. Kleinheider fell, and the desk fell on top of him. He might have lived a little longer—more blood on the Bakelite suggested he had grabbed the trash can—but he must have died quickly. With the desk in the way, Hazard couldn’t judge the nature of the wound or wounds that had ended Kleinheider’s life, and he wasn’t about to move the furniture to find out. He dropped into a squat, considered everything from this new angle, and still saw nothing. Better to get out of here, call the Golden City police, and let them process the scene.
A part of Hazard was buzzing now, though. This was the first real break in the case. The first slip up. The first possible mistake. Kleinheider was dead, murdered in his own home, and while there may have been a number of reasons for someone to want to kill the Golden City man, Hazard thought the odds of a coincidence were astronomical. Someone had sold bees to the Keeper. Someone off the radar. And now a beekeeper, who had only recently listed his information publicly, had been murdered. The Keeper must have realized that Kleinheider was a loose end, and he had come back to take care of him.
Hazard was about to stand when he noticed a ball of paper in the far corner of the room. It looked like it had come from the Bakelite trash can, but that seemed impossible. It was off at an angle behind Kleinheider’s body; with Kleinheider in the way, it couldn’t have rolled there just by falling out of the trash can. The dead man would have had to knock it aside, bat it away with his hand. But that didn’t make any sense. Why bat it away? Why worry about a crumpled piece of paper when you were dying?
Because you were doing something important; Hazard’s brain was lighting up with cold luminescence. Because there was something important that you had to do—no, he corrected himself. Something important you had to find.
Drawing a pen from his pocket, Hazard used the tip to sift through the avalanche. It didn’t take him long; he found what he was looking for near Kleinheider’s hand, a bloody fingerprint marring the cardstock.
DETECTIVE GRAY DULAC – WAHREDUA CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT
And those cold, luminous channels in Hazard’s brain wouldn’t slow down. Dulac’s obsession with Somers. Dulac’s aggressive dislike of Hazard. Dulac’s insistence on worming his way into their lives. Dulac’s timing, showing up just before the first killings. Dulac’s disappearance. Dula
c’s computer, where he had been checking the Missouri State Beekeeper’s Association website, making sure Kleinheider hadn’t popped up. And Kleinheider’s last act, the stringy old farmer’s final effort, had been to find Dulac’s business card. Because Kleinheider wanted to name his killer.
Hazard left everything and escaped from the house. Stripping off the booties and gloves, he jogged back to the minivan, and then he called the Golden City police and reported Kleinheider’s death. He knew he’d have to wait, he’d have to talk to the police, he’d lose hours. But he had to make sure they found Dulac’s card. Had to make sure they did this right.
When he called Somers, his fiancé didn’t pick up. Hazard placed the call again.
“Ree, really busy here.”
“Have you heard from Dulac?”
“No.” Somers’s voice got lower. “Why? Did you find something?”
“Maybe.” Hazard knew he was being a coward, but he also knew that Somers wouldn’t believe him. Not yet. Somers believed Hazard had an irrational dislike of Dulac, and just that morning, Somers had exhibited more irrational behavior when he had learned how closely Hazard was considering their circle of friends as suspects. Hazard also knew he’d blown some of his credit by making his accusation against Darnell hard and fast and then being proven wrong. So he tried to choose his words carefully. “If you see him, hold on to him, ok?”
“What? Why?”
“Remember our conversation this morning? Well, I found some stuff on his computer.”
“What?”
“John, if he shows up, don’t go anywhere alone with him. If he shows up and it’s just the two of you, call me and put me on speakerphone and then get somewhere public.”
“Why does it sound like you’re accusing Dulac of something?”
“I’m not accusing him of anything. I’m asking you to take sensible precautions until we have more information. As I said, I just want to ask him some questions.”
“Ok, well, normally, I would make you tell me everything, because I hate this mysterious bullshit, but I literally stepped out of a meeting with Park, Riggle, Engels, and some blowhard from the Highway Patrol. Park’s been watching me the whole time like she thinks I’m responsible for every bad thing since the Lindbergh baby.” Somers hesitated. “Are you safe?”
“Of course.”
“Of course,” Somers said. “Great. Well, I love you.”
“John, I was serious. What I said about those precautions.”
“I know. You take care of yourself too. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
As Hazard disconnected, he thought he heard Somers mumbling, “Of course,” like it was some sort of new swear.
Hazard found a bottle of water, moved the minivan into a patch of shade from a sweetgum tree, and waited for the Golden City police. And while he waited, he started building his case against Gray Dulac.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
JULY 4
THURSDAY
6:02 PM
HAZARD WAS IN THE BASEMENT, starting a load of laundry and trying to figure out why his fiancé’s socks were dirtier than their three-year-old daughter’s. At the top of the stairs, the door that led out to the garage opened, and familiar steps moved into the house. Weary steps.
“Ree?”
“Down here.”
Hazard started the machine and took the stairs two at a time. Somers was waiting at the top, arms folded, the knot of his tie worked loose. Hazard kissed him and said, “Bad day?”
“Wasted day. All right, let’s hear it about Dulac.” Somers sighed and wiped his face. “This is going to be another fight, isn’t it?”
Grabbing the tie, Hazard tugged it until the knot slipped free, and then he turned Somers around and helped him out of the jacket. Hands on Somers’s shoulders, he guided his boyfriend to the kitchen table and pressed him into a seat. Then he tickled his neck once, draped the jacket and tie over another chair, and got a Pepsi from the fridge.
“What about my pipe and slippers?” Somers said, a trace of the wariness lingering in his face as he kicked off his shoes and took the Pepsi.
Hazard kissed him again.
“I guess that’ll do,” Somers said, stripping off his socks.
“If I find those socks on the floor,” Hazard said, “you’re going to be doing your own laundry for a year.”
Grinning, Somers held up the balled socks and then made a huge production of putting them on the chair with the jacket and tie, rearranging everything, shifting it all again, starting over.
“Why in Christ’s name am I ever nice to you?” Hazard said as he pulled the ribeyes from the refrigerator.
“Because I’m charming.”
“Not that charming.”
“Because of my sex appeal.”
“You have sock lint between your toes.”
Somers wiggled his toes, arched his back, and groaned. Then he held up the Pepsi, seemed to consider something, and said, “Because I do that thing in bed you like.”
Hazard waved the saltshaker at him. “You do it because you like it. The fact that I happen to like it too is just a bonus.”
Laughing, Somers took a drink of the Pepsi, and Hazard was surprised to see his boyfriend blushing. Hazard turned his attention to the steaks, keeping his face carefully turned away.
“Well, now tonight’s ruined,” Somers said, and Hazard could hear the smile in his voice.
“You wanted chicken?”
“I had this shit day. That meeting with Riggle and Park dragged on and on, and everything I said, Park was all over me with questions. I know this sounds crazy, but she said some weird things the first time we met. At first, I kind of shrugged it off as her throwing down a gauntlet. Now, though—” He shook his head. “I honestly think she might believe I had something to do with the Keeper killings.”
“What? Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because it’s crazy. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It was past noon by the time we finished, and I know you’re wondering, but I still haven’t heard from Dulac. I told Riggle, and he agreed to start looking for him. But when I wanted to take the lead on that, Park pulled me off it immediately. I spent the rest of the day shuffling papers. Just a fucking waste of my time.” He paused and took a drink of the Pepsi, setting it down hard, his voice rising as he continued, “And then I come home, and I’m really ready to have it out, just the fight to end all fights about Dulac, and you have to be cute and nice.”
“Bullshit,” Hazard said, adjusting the cast iron over the heat. “I’m never cute and nice.”
“Hey,” Somers said.
“Yeah?” Hazard dropped in the first ribeye; the meat sizzled as it hit the pan.
“Hey, big boy.”
“Jesus,” Hazard said as he placed the other steak in the cast iron. “What are you? A sailor on Fleet Week?”
“Will you please look at me?”
“I’m trying to make you a delicious, heavy dinner so that when we talk later, it doesn’t turn into a fight.”
“Ree, over here, please.”
Hazard glanced over his shoulder.
“I just wanted to let you know that it’s official.”
“You’re pregnant.”
Somers choked on the Pepsi, and he took about thirty seconds clearing his airway and dabbing at himself, and when he’d finished, he said, “Asshole.”
“Sorry,” Hazard said, hiding his face by turning back to the cutting board again. “You were saying?”
“I was going to say that it’s official, as of today, July 4, 2019, I love you more than ever.”
“Huh.”
“But now I’m not going to say it.”
“Ok.”
“Because I do not appreciate this side of you that likes to tease me. It’s coming out more and more.”
“Noted.”
“And because you’re trying to sedate me with steak. Steak should o
nly be used for good.”
“The ends justify the means.”
Somers was silent for a moment, and then the moment dragged on, and Hazard looked over his shoulder. Somers’s expression was distant as he played with the Pepsi.
“So it’s pretty bad, huh?” Somers asked. “This stuff with Dulac, I mean.”
“It’s not great. Let’s eat first. Did they make any headway on the search? Let’s start there, because if he turned up, that changes what I’m going to say.”
“Shit,” Somers said. “I completely forgot. I need to check in. Let me make a few calls; Riggle told me to steer clear, but I bet Norman and Gross will blab if I promise them beer.”
Hazard checked the steaks, flipped them, and seared the other side.
“This is ridiculous,” Somers said, lowering the phone.
“What?”
“I’ve called Norman twice and Gross three times. They’re not answering.”
“So try somebody else.” Hazard checked the steaks. “And don’t make faces at me.”
“I didn’t make a face.”
Hazard decided, since it had been a long day, he would let Somers have that one.
“What the hell?” Somers said, dropping his phone. “Nobody is answering. Not Carmichael. Not Moraes. Not Carlson. Not Nickels. I even tried Yarmark, the only one of those new assholes who might be decent.”
