"Smart," said Mike.
Lovechio said, "How's that?"
"Go on," Ben urged him
Lovechio said, "After I left the motel, I drove into town and had breakfast at Donna's. You've been to Donna's, right, Chief?"
"A few times." The fact was, Ben practically had a second office at table number seven.
"Then you know Marietta," said Lovechio. "I stopped by to express my condolences on the part of the company for the death of her husband."
Mike thought, You clever bastard. You laid out an alibi every step of the way. No way were you going to be caught anywhere near where Olson's car went off a highway he knew, without leaving skid tracks.
Mike said, "Too many people have died up at that site."
"I'm here now," said Lovechio. "It's a new day."
Ben said, "And after breakfast?"
"Why, then I went down to the school to visit my son." Lovechio was eyeing Mike, watching for his response.
Mike struggled not to let his shock register. His fists clenched. The line of his mouth hardened. "There's a court order against you seeing Paul without his mother's consent."
Lovechio shrugged. "Back in Illinois, yeah. Hey, word man, I didn't come all this way just to mess up your good thing, so listen to the Chief, why don't you, and slow down. Saying hello to my boy upon my arrival in town seemed like a suitable thing to do."
"I've got it," said Mike, nodding. "It's just a big coincidence that you get sent across the country to project manage a site in the town where your ex-wife just happens to live."
Lovechio's stony eyes glittered. "That's right. Just a coincidence."
"Then that makes two of the damn things," said Mike. "The second coincidence is Olson driving off the highway right after you get to town."
"You'd damn well better not print anything about me that you can't prove," Lovechio told him evenly, "or I'll sue you out of existence."
"The Clarion doesn't print anything that isn't a provable fact."
Lovechio made a face and a dismissive gesture. "Hey, is it my fault that the people I work for decided to build this resort where my ex-wife moved after she left me? And I certainly wasn't around when Joe Olson drove his car off that highway."
Ben considered this and nodded. "Reckon your alibis will prove that square enough."
"Are you going to check them, Chief?"
"Reckon I will, Mr. Lovechio."
Lovechio said, "You're like your buddy, here, aren't you, Chief? You don't much care for me, do you?"
Ben gave the slightest shrug. "Ain't my job to care for people or not. Thanks for your time, Mr. Lovechio. That ought to do it. You have a good day."
"You too, Chief. Drop by anytime. But next time, feel free to leave the local media behind in whatever dumpster you found him in." He looked at Mike. "And you, relax. You don't have to worry about me, Landware."
Mike said, "I wasn't planning to. You stay away from my family."
Lovechio sneered. "You're not going to threaten me in front of the Chief, are you?"
Mike said, "Just stay away from my family."
Lovechio lifted an eyelid and glanced at Ben. "Chief, that sounds like a threat to me."
And Ben said, "Just stay away from his family."
They watched him stride off in the direction of the lodge under construction.
Mike said, "Thanks, Chief."
"I thought you were going to take another poke at him after that dumpster crack."
"And get you pissed off at me? No, Ben, I'd rather share notes and have you on my side."
They returned to their cars. Lovechio was swallowed up by the activity and dust of the construction site.
Ben said, "That's a pro there, boy. Thinks he's a real slicker and doesn't care if we know it. Guess that's what sticks in my craw the most. Arrogant son of a bitch."
"Thanks for sticking up for Robin."
"Hey, that's a fine woman you married there, son. Her boy's a fine young 'un too."
"You're telling me."
"Wonder what she ever saw in an SOB like Lovechio?"
Mike said, "Headstrong, romantic college-age girls can make mistakes."
"Yeah," said Ben, "reckon so. Same with old geezers, ain't it? Everybody's somebody's fool." He eased behind his cruiser's steering wheel.
Mike remained at the open car window. "Uh, Chief?"
"Yeah, Mike?"
"Why didn't you mention Del Muskie's tape? The conversation between Lovechio and Olson on that tape pretty much contradicts everything that suit just told you."
"I know. See, since that arrogant prick is going out of his way to mess in my town, right under my nose, and him being so god-awful smug, thinking there's not a chance in hell of getting busted at it . . . why, I aim to take mucho satisfaction in nailing his ass to a Murder One rap. That boy just don't have enough rope yet to hang himself, so I figured I'd give him a little more."
"He's guilty as sin. Someone did the dirty work for him, and tampered with Olson's brakes."
"I know that, too. I'm on it. For starters, I'll run a search on Jerry-boy through every available data bank the department can tap. But you stay out of it, Mike."
Mike frowned. "Stay out of it? What part about this isn't news? I have a right to be all over this thing, and I intend to be."
"You know what I'm talking about. Did Robin say anything to make you think her ex might be showing up?"
"Not a word. I guarantee you that Robin didn't know he was coming. I'd sure like to know why he's here."
Ben removed his hat and ran fingers through his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. "What happened to Olson is police business. I think you're right. His car brakes were tampered with. And your wife's ex-husband made sure to have himself several cast-iron alibis, including that visit to see Paul. But you just make sure that you only report the news. I don't want you making it."
Mike said, "I won't." But he was thinking, At least, I'll sure as hell try not to.
"Unless he's convicted of a crime, that city slicker has every right you do, and if you break any laws meddling or invading his privacy and he files a complaint, well, you know me well enough to know that in my book, a lawbreaker is a lawbreaker."
"I know your book, Chief, believe me."
"Good. So don't do anything crazy."
"I told Lovechio that I wasn't going to worry about him and I'm not. I've got a feeling Robin's already doing enough worrying for the two of us. I've got to give her a call."
Ben said, "I'll keep you informed," and the cruiser pulled away.
Mike wheeled the Jeep around and was about ten car lengths behind Ben when they passed through the main gate of the site. This time, the security guy in the guard shed didn't even bother looking up from whatever report or skin magazine he was concentrating on, which was fine with Mike. Sunrise Ridge was a large operation, so naturally they would have a large security staff. The men who had chased and shot after him last night would most likely be off-duty at this hour of the a.m. Still, he had to admit that he was glad that he'd had the law with him on this visit, and that he was getting off the project site. On previous visits, when here to interview Olson, he had not felt threatened or intimidated in any way. Olson had been civil if not friendly during those encounters.
But of course things were a lot different this morning, what with Joe Olson bodybagged, and after Mike's adventure last night.
He knew the dark and violent side of life all too well. As a gung-ho kid barely old enough to shave, he'd seen combat in the jungles of Vietnam during the bloody closing days of that war. And back home, as a police reporter in Denver, he had learned every bleak angle of the street and the hustle, and of the terrible things people will to do each other, with and without weapons. He'd seen bodies living one minute, then blown apart the next. And he was proud to feel that he had never flinched from his duty as he saw it at the time.
Anesthetizing his emotions after living that side of life was what the drinking was all about. He had no desir
e whatsoever to travel down those streets ever again. Those days, that part of his life, were past. Investigating the unusual number of fatalities among the workers at Sunrise Ridge, he had never seriously entertained the notion of criminal activity, murder or otherwise. Now, he wasn't so sure. Now, he wondered if another trip into the bleak, dark, violent side of life was not beginning.
God, he hoped that. Robin, Paul, himself . . . they didn't deserve that.
Those clouds that were haloing the southern peaks continued to gather, their undersides gray, reminding him of the color of dead ashes. For the first time he became aware of an increase in the humidity. Normally the air was so dry, around ten to twenty percent humidity, that even the slightest increase in stickiness was noticeable. He heard the faint, vague rumbling of thunder and he frowned. Dry thunderstorms were never a good thing during fire season.
Ahead, Ben's cruiser disappeared around the curve in the road leading away from the site, toward the highway.
Mike reached for his cell phone. He'd had it off while he and Ben had been confronting Lovechio. He had to reach Robin. He knew that a quick check of his incoming calls would show that she had already tried to reach him more than once, no doubt as soon as she heard that Jeff was around. Mike had to hear the sound of her voice. He had to know how she was taking this before deciding what to do next.
A sudden glint of light caught the corner of his eye from brush and tall grass that grew around a stand of conifers on higher ground just off the road, interrupting the movement, with his fingertips inches from the cell phone.
Glint of light, he thought. Binoculars?
There it was again.
He lifted his foot off the accelerator. He'd only been driving at about twenty miles per hour along the gravel road, and the Jeep immediately slowed to a crawl.
He squinted across the distance separating him from that high grass, before a clump of boulders grew. Yes, it happened again, like someone sending a message with a mirror to another in the distance, similarly equipped, the way the cavalry had done in the old West. But he knew it wasn't that, and realization flashed through his mind.
Someone up there didn't know much about spying on people with binoculars. That's what was reflecting sunlight. The lenses of binoculars.
He braked the Jeep to a complete stop on the side of the road. At the moment, there was no other traffic in sight.
A flurry of movement from up there. The briefest glimpse of someone bolting from behind the boulders. A flash of yellow, and he realized that the yellow was blonde hair. The person vanished into the wall of forest.
Binoculars.
Surveillance.
Somebody was spying on him.
He thought about last night. About the blonde driving the Altima, who had been watching the newspaper office.
Carol.
The cell phone was forgotten.
He leaped from the Jeep and without a further thought, he took off, running after her as fast as he could.
Chapter Thirteen
He pitched into the forest's cool, piney embrace, a place where sunlight only filtered through and the air was still, free of movement. There was birdsong, but even that came muted as if heard through gauze.
He heard no footfalls.
Could she have outdistanced him already? Had she really existed?
A nauseous snake of dread slithered through him. Why had he thought of Carol? His rational mind had already dismissed any notion of. . . .
Then another thought intruded. A trap. Could this be a setup to kill him for some reason which he did not understand, which he was not even aware of? A bullet fired at him last night. Chased through the woods, just as he was now in hot pursuit of the blonde woman. If any notions of Carol were dismissed as but ripples of his subconscious, what if this blonde had been watching him for a very real reason?
Would Jeff Lovechio want him dead? Were there now orders for him to be shot on sight? That would hardly apply to most of the Sunrise Ridge security force, since many of those people were from Devil Creek and knew Mike, and liked him. They were neighbors. But what if Lovechio had brought in an enforcer of his own? What if that one had tampered with Olson's brakes, thereby effectively murdering him, and was now using a mysterious and elusive blonde to get Mike where they could put a bullet in his head? Or more likely make it look like another accident.
With Olson, Lovechio had been doing his job, arranging the murder. Del Muskie's tape recording was proof enough of that.
But why shouldn't a guy like Lovechio employ his resources to pay back some perceived personal debts, too?
Mike wished he'd brought along the .38 revolver that Robin had insisted they keep in the house, ever since those events of two years ago.
Movement erupted from just over a ridge, beyond his line of vision but sounding as if it originated from no more than several yards ahead of him. He heard fleet-footed running that conveyed a desperation to the sound, branches being frantically brushed aside and clacking and the rustle of underbrush, clear to him through the stillness. She had tried to stay frozen, hoping to outwait him or react to whatever he did first. But her nerves had gotten the better of her, which is exactly what he had been hoping and waiting for.
He gave chase, sprinting up the rest of the incline with wide strides. She was no "returned vision" of Carol. This was a flesh-and-blood woman, fleeing from him. Unless she really was luring him into a trap. He dismissed the thought for a second time and followed instinct, feeling like a greyhound at the track, chasing its mechanical prey without a thought in his head.
Except one: he was not a greyhound. He was a slightly out-of-shape, middle-aged man who felt the tendons in his knees stretching to their endurance as his legs pumped him along the incline. He'd been in better shape. No spare tire or fat ass, thank God. Robin made sure he ate right, sometimes almost to the point of nagging. But at this moment, he wished like hell that he was in better shape and faster.
His right foot came down on a pinecone, which sent the pinecone skidding across a flat outcrop of rock, which sent him spilling over backwards, swinging out his arms to maintain balance, but gravity was already dropping him into a flat-back fall, jarring his head against the ground inches from the rocky outcrop. Then his body started involuntarily skidding on a carpet of pine needles, and he went sliding back down the slope.
He found himself reflexively using the momentum of the short slide to his advantage, executing a tight roll that brought him to his feet, and this time his arms were sufficient to regain his balance even as his soles gained traction, allowing him to pivot as his slide ended and his climbing resumed.
A breathy curse tumbled from his lips. He'd lost her. She'd had more than enough time to disappear down the forested other side of this hill.
He gained the rise, staying low on bended knees, ready to dive to the ground in either direction in the event that he had been lured into a trap. There could have been riflemen waiting for him. It was a perfect place for an ambush, if that was what they had in mind. Crouching close to the ground, his eyes scanned the steeply sloping hillside in every direction. There was no "they."
Thank God, it wasn't a trap.
But she was real enough. She wore jeans, hiking boots and a summery pale blue blouse that offset the cascade of blonde hair even through the muted light. She plunged through dry underbrush, her arms out-flung to catch and use tree trunks she passed for balance as she ran.
He started down after her, carefully watching his step, unable to move as fast as he could, or wanted to.
Something else glinted in the sunlight at the foot of this rise. The silver Altima was parked on a narrow dirt service road that had been hacked through the trees. She was close to reaching it, having covered more than half the distance toward the car.
He forgot about caution and increased his pace, staying to the outcrops of rock rather than following the ground that was covered with millions of the tiny brown needles.
Then that carpet of pine needles pl
ayed tricks on the blonde. He heard her wail of surprise and dismay as her boots slid out from under her and down she went, skidding along on her backside. Mike felt a grin of victory tug at his face and quickened his pace even more, easily closing the distance between them. She started to stand, dragging at some low branches to tug herself to her feet, but her shapely legs slid out from under her a second time, though she managed to hold onto the branch. She regained her footing and thrust herself toward the Altima, now less than a hundred feet away.
He caught up with her, traveling so fast that his momentum almost knocked them both down when his arms went around her to halt her progress. He dug in his heels, arresting her forward movement from behind with one arm around her waist and the other bracing an elbow under her chin after inadvertently brushing across the outline of firm, shapely, heaving breasts beneath her blouse.
He spoke close to her ear. "Hold it right there." It was more of a plea than a command. He felt like a mugger, and it was not a nice feeling.
"Let me go!"
"Why have you been spying on me?"
She struggled, but he had held her fast.
As she struggled against him, a strange sense of familiarity overcame him, and he wondered why. He still hadn't gotten a look at her face, only at the stunning mass of blonde hair that now mashed against his face as he braced her to him. The scent of her filled his senses. And he smelled Carol's perfume! He couldn't remember the name of the perfume she liked, damn his soul, and he had told himself after Carol died that he would never forget anything about her. He hadn't smelled her perfume in years. Some musky French off-brand that she special ordered, and he'd always loved the way she smelled when he took her out. And on special nights, she would wear perfume to bed with very little else. . . .
He was holding her. It was Carol!
The back of her body writhing frantically against him, she struggled to gain a better footing on the sloping ground.
Then something even stranger happened that succeeded in shocking him into immobility. The familiarity. The writhing of her rounded buttocks against him. Her scent. That perfume. He felt the beginnings of an erection.
Devil Creek Page 9
