by Gregory Ashe
“She pulled you off the case?” Hazard asked.
With one shake of his head, Somers stalked toward the refrigerator.
“No beer,” Hazard said automatically, before he could stop himself.
Somers gave him a little smile and shook his head. He opened the freezer and began rooting around inside. “Ree, how much frozen broccoli do we need?”
“Mathematically, if we eat broccoli twice a week, roasted, and at least one of those meals we have Evie with us, and if I only buy frozen produce once a month so that I’m sure I’m rotating—”
Emerging from the freezer with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Peanut Butter Cup, Somers waved Hazard to silence. He dug a spoon out of the drawer, plopped down at the table, and ripped off the ice cream’s lid.
“Is this the pretty boy version of day-drinking?”
Somers snorted and shoveled an enormous mound of ice cream into his mouth.
“Are you bingeing now? Is that what this is?”
Somers rolled his eyes and gave Hazard the finger.
“Because normally you’d be making some sort of joke about how you’re doing me a favor.”
Swallowing the ice cream, Somers said, “I am doing you a favor. All that fucking cardio, Ree. You need to get back to the weights. Three days a week.” He made a circular gesture with the spoon. “Your ass.”
“You didn’t have anything to say about my ass last night. John, what the hell? You came home twenty minutes after you left just to shove some junk in your face?”
Somers just took another vicious bite of ice cream. “Naomi is a bitch,” he said, the words muddled by the melting ice cream.
“Ok.”
Somers swallowed. He toyed with the spoon, running it around the inside of the paper carton. “Look, I just want you to know, you can say no.”
A frisson ran up Hazard’s spine.
Do you like puzzles?
“Start from the beginning.”
“I didn’t even make it into the station; I stopped by the Family Bakery to pick up donuts for everybody. Then Cravens called. She was pissed. Not at me, but she took it out on me. Apparently our esteemed mayor has a contact inside the Ozark Volunteers who is willing to talk about the murder.” Somers stabbed the ice cream with the spoon. “Fucking. Bitch.”
“And she wants me to be there? That doesn’t make any sense. She hates me. She hates me even more than she hates you, which is really saying something.”
“No, Ree. Her ‘contact’ will only talk to you. You. Not me and you. Not me and Dulac and you. You.”
“Who’s her contact?”
“Christ, I don’t know. It could be one of those toothless pill-billies. But it could just be her.” Somers shoved the ice cream away, and the container toppled; the spoon rang out as it slid across the table, trailing melted ice cream behind it. “Just say no, ok? I don’t want you getting tangled up with that bitch.”
“You know what’s weird about this case?”
Somers shook his head. “I know. But that doesn’t mean—”
“John, the Ozark Volunteers haven’t been anywhere in it. Unless you’re holding back something.”
“We talked about this. Going forward, we can’t talk, not the way we did before. But, as far as this goes, you’re right. No sign of them, except for whoever killed Fabbri. But Ree, that doesn’t mean—”
“And there’s something else. Come look at this.”
At the front door, Somers displayed the same care as Hazard. He studied the skeleton, borrowed the kitchen knife to peel back the note, and shrugged.
“A little late for Halloween decorations.”
“What do you think it means?”
“Do you?”
“What?”
“Do you like puzzles?”
Hazard spread his hands. “Who fucking cares if I like puzzles, John?”
“Apparently somebody with some extra Halloween decorations.”
“This has got to be Naomi, right? It can’t be coincidence. She must have thought I’d be reluctant to meet with her. She must have realized that you’d tell me not to do it. So she had one of the Volunteers hang this on the door.”
“Asking you about puzzles?”
“I don’t know. She’s crazy.”
“She’s a psychopath,” Somers said with a shrug. “She’s not deranged. I don’t think it was Naomi.”
“But this whole ploy, insisting that she’ll only talk to me—”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong. Maybe it is Naomi. Maybe it’s just like you said. But I’m saying I don’t think it’s her. I think this is something else.”
“Who?”
“You did just take on a big case.”
“Fuck, John. You make it sound like I put an ad in the papers. I’m a private investigator who’s had a grand total of one client. I don’t even have an office.”
“You have those nifty business cards, though. I’m going to frame one for you. I’m going to hang it over the mantel.”
Hazard tried to swallow the growl, but it kept building in his throat. “John.”
“Whoever killed Jim Fabbri might know that you’re looking into his death. You weren’t exactly subtle about it, right? I mean, you found the knife.” Somers frowned. “Shit.”
“What?”
“Uh. It might not be the murderer. It might not be an elaborate game of cat and mouse, you know, all Silence of the Lambs. Some of the guys on the force got a little prickly about you getting involved—”
“God damn it, John. I asked you. I asked if they said something, and you blew me off like—”
“Not the PI stuff; just when you found the knife. Although, I gotta be honest, I think they’re going to get heated when they hear about your new job.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Foley said something, but if he’s saying it, someone else put it in his ear. It’s not like he’s got the brains to get fired up all on his own.”
“I thought Foley liked me.”
“I think he does like you. But he’s also thoroughbred police. And genetically programmed to be a dick. So it’s simple to him: you’re not police anymore, no matter how much he likes you.”
“This is some kind of prank?”
“Or they’re calling you out. Christ, I don’t know.” Somers ran his hands over his head, mussing his already tousled hair. “This can wait, Ree. I want to get back to the station and talk to Cravens. We’ll figure out a way to put the screws to Naomi and—”
“No.”
Somers took a long moment to study Hazard. “Uh uh. No way.”
“I’m going to talk to her.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
Turning slowly, arms across his chest, Hazard cleared his throat.
“I just mean,” Somers stammered. “I just—I’m not trying to—Jesus fuck, Ree, no fucking way. That’s it. That’s the end of the conversation. Call me names, yell at me, tell me I’m a controlling, abusive asshole with no right to order you around, but I’m putting my foot down.”
Hazard walked down the hall, found his tactical jacket, and pulled it on.
“No,” Somers said, trotting behind him. “Please, no. This is a terrible idea. This is exactly what she wants.”
“John?”
“Whatever she wants, you’re giving it to her.”
“John?”
“No, I don’t want to hear it. Don’t tell me you love me. Don’t tell me it’s going to be ok. Don’t tell me we’ll figure it out together. That psychopath sold me out, Ree. She sold you out. She wanted us dead—still wants us dead. And I absolutely refuse to allow you to do this.”
“John?”
“What?”
“I do love you. And we will figure this out together. And your phone is ringing.”
Somers ripped his phone out of his pocket. “Hello?”
Hazard moved toward the garage, but Somers caught his arm. When Hazard looked back,
Somers met his eyes and mouthed, Wait.
“No,” Somers said into the phone. “No. I don’t think so, but let me ask.” Covering the phone with one hand, he said, “Did you talk to Phil or Rory?”
“The sheriff’s son?”
“They were supposed to stop by here.”
“They were?”
“You didn’t see them?”
Hazard shook his head. “I haven’t talked to them or seen them since dinner.”
He thought of standing in the dark, with the streetlights hanging sheers of gray haze in the night, and Rory asking what it felt like to love someone.
Somers was back on the phone. “No, he hasn’t. No. No, neither of us. Ok. Of course. Yes, of course. Goodbye.”
“Well?” Hazard said.
“That was the sheriff. Rory and Phil left town, but they never called to say they made it home. He’s tried both their phones. No answer. It’s like they disappeared.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
NOVEMBER 3
SATURDAY
11:46 AM
ALTHOUGH THE DISAPPEARANCE OF the sheriff’s son and his partner was strange, Hazard couldn’t do anything about it. Not right then. He was too busy trying to figure out how to handle Naomi. Too busy trying to decide what Naomi might have to gain by drawing Hazard into the fray—and, burning at the back of his mind, why she had left the skeleton with that strange note. Do you like puzzles?
Hazard was convinced Naomi had sent the message. He just wasn’t sure why. Or how to prove it.
Against Somers’s wishes, Hazard drove the Odyssey to the station, with Somers tailing him in the Mustang. Inside, they went through a whole song and dance routine like he hadn’t seen half of them when he’d found the knife the day before: hellos to everybody Hazard had ever worked with, first the uniformed officers, who had never been able to stand Hazard, now shook his hand and smiled like he was another guy off the street; then the detectives, Moraes and Carmichael and Somers’s new partner, Gray Dulac, who had skin like fresh cream and the best freckles Hazard had ever seen on a man. Hazard even had to hug Ruthie, who was eighty-seven and whose job, as far as Hazard could tell, consisted of burning the coffee and eating the pastries she supposedly brought in for the officers. Then, after running the gauntlet, Hazard found himself with Somers in Cravens’s office, waiting for the chief.
“You didn’t say he was pretty.”
“What? Oh, Gray? He’s not pretty. He’s cute.”
Hazard tried not to say it. He tried to focus on finding a more comfortable position in the chair. He rummaged through his pockets and threw a wadded Starburst wrapper into the trash. He put his hands on the armrests, holding himself in place. And then he couldn’t do it anymore; he turned toward Somers and said, “You think he’s cute?”
Somers grinned.
Cravens walked into the office, neat and proper in her uniform. She did a decent job of meeting Hazard’s eyes, but she broke the gaze first, looking down to shuffle papers on her desk.
Then they got down to business. Hazard didn’t like the conditions that Cravens put on the arrangement: he would be provisionally hired as a consultant to the Wahredua police force, so that he could talk to Naomi’s contact with some sort of legal standing, and Cravens insisted on both Somers and Dulac being present for the conversation. But it was better than Somers’s outright refusal to let Hazard go.
When Cravens had finished setting out the details, and when Hazard had finished arguing, she dismissed them to make the phone calls. Ten minutes later, they had the address: a trailer out at Paradise Valley. Hazard drove the minivan, Somers riding shotgun, Gray in the middle row of seats. A black and white pulled out of the lot behind them and stuck to Hazard’s bumper the whole drive.
“Please don’t tell me she sent Hoffmeister and Lloyd to play backup,” Hazard said, glancing in the rearview mirror.
“They’ll do their jobs,” Somers said. But he kept glancing in the mirror too.
“Dude.” That was Dulac, leaning forward between the seats to put his hand on Hazard’s arm. “I just want you to know that this is a fucking honor, man. You are a fucking legend.”
“Hand,” Hazard said.
“Sorry,” Dulac said, laughing and withdrawing his touch. “Oh my God, this is unreal. Totally unreal. Honestly, this is like a wet dream.”
“Your wet dreams involve a minivan and spilled Cheerios?”
“Holy shit,” Dulac said, laughing again. “Holy shit, you’re like, I mean, just like everyone said. Fuckin’ A, man. Fuckin’ A.”
Then Dulac’s voice got serious: two guys talking, one man to another. Frat boy serious, Hazard thought. Like they were about to become blood brothers or something equally ridiculous.
“Listen, man. Emery. Can I call you Emery? Listen, I just want you to know, John-Henry, he’s the fucking best partner I’ve ever had. No fucking joke. And I just want you to know, I know I can’t take your spot. Nobody can, man. Nobody. You’re a legend, right? But, like, I’m going to do my best. I’m going to fucking crush this job, ok? And I’m going to take care of your boy.” Dulac stretched out a fist, obviously waiting for Hazard to rap it. “Swear to God, man.”
Hazard ignored Dulac’s fist.
Twenty seconds passed, and Dulac slapped Hazard’s shoulder and said, “Cool, man. Glad we’re cool.”
Somers had sunk down in his seat so far that he was about to drip down into the footwell. He let out a slow breath.
Hazard gave him a look.
Somers gave back a look of wide-eyed, baby-blue innocence. Then, because he was a shit, he gave Hazard double thumbs up.
Hazard started planning how he was going to spank his boyfriend’s ass raw.
Paradise Valley sat on the northwest edge of Wahredua proper, butting up against the neighborhood known as Smithfield. Smithfield was home to drug dealers, gangsters, sex workers, and the poor and honest who couldn’t find a way out. It was a cancer eating away at the city. Paradise Valley, in comparison, was a genital wart: unpleasant, but not life-threatening.
As Hazard drove into the trailer park, though, he thought he might have to revise his opinion. He’d never actually been inside the park, although he’d driven past it plenty of times. He recalled bent aluminum siding, rusting window screens, plastic lawn ornaments—on one memorable occasion, some jokester had shoved a garden gnome up the ass of a plastic flamingo. And, of course, macho cars: Chargers and Mustangs and Firebirds. A few Confederate flags. All the traditional elements of a white-trash shithole.
Something had changed in Paradise Valley. The trailers looked as bad as ever: rotting wood around the doors, crumbling foundations that left the trailers hanging unevenly, louvered windows with cracked or missing glass. The cars were still the same macho cars. But something had changed. Hazard hated people saying shit like vibes or atmosphere or mood. But he could feel it, here: an ugly heat like an infection.
“Dude,” Dulac said. “Bad juju here.”
“Shut up,” Hazard said.
White flags. That was part of what had triggered the alarm in the back of Hazard’s mind. He spotted one hanging limply from a trailer, squinted, and saw the image of a rising sun on the white background. Two words: Bright Lights. Then he saw another one, this time tacked against the inside of a window. And then another draped over a porch with broken steps.
Other details emerged out of the chaos of chain-link fencing and weeds and trash. The placement of dumpsters and trash barrels, abandoned cars, cords of firewood. Someone had planned a new layout for Paradise Valley. The shifts were minor but significant, creating chokepoints, defensive positions, abattoirs. Someone was preparing for war.
They were driving into a fortress.
“Shit,” Somers said. “Do you see—”
“Yes.”
“What?” Dulac said. “What’s going on?”
“Turn around,” Somers said. “This is stupid.”
“We need to know what
she knows,” Hazard said. He glanced into the mirror; Hoffmeister and Lloyd were still following, the black and white bouncing over the uneven road.
“No, we don’t.” Somers grabbed Hazard’s arm. “Turn around. We haven’t even gotten a whiff of Ozark Volunteer activity around this case; everything points at Carl Klimich right now. Once we run him down, we’ll get some answers—then, maybe, we talk to Naomi. Somewhere safe. Like the United Nations’ building. Or a bank vault.”
“Jesus Christ,” Hazard said. “You actually have a lead? Why didn’t you fucking say something?”
“Because we’re not talking about an active investigation. Turn around and bitch at me later.”
“If I’d known you were—”
“Ree, get us out of here.”
Twenty feet ahead, a narrow side street intersected their path; Hazard readied himself to turn. But as he did, tires spun on gravel, and he glanced up at the mirror. Behind the black and white that Hoffmeister and Lloyd were driving, two huge trucks slewed across the gravel, throwing up dust and stones and blocking the road.
“Turn around,” Somers said.
“This is a minivan, John. It’s not a battering ram.”
“If you’re going fast enough—” Dulac began.
“Shut up,” Somers and Hazard said at the same time.
“Dead end,” Somers said, peering one way down the intersection. “Double dead end.”
Hazard had brought the minivan to a stop. In the mirror, he watched a mini drama unfold. Hoffmeister and Lloyd must have reached a different conclusion about this place and the level of danger because the black and white lurched to a halt and then began a complicated, eighty-point turn, backing up and then inching forward, slowly bringing the car around.
“What the hell are they doing?” Somers said.
“Being asshats,” Dulac said.
It was the first thing out of his mouth that didn’t make Hazard want to punch him. Much.
Eventually, Hoffmeister or Lloyd, whoever was driving, got the car mostly turned around, and then the lights went on, and then the siren. In the desolate, abandoned space of Paradise Valley, it was like an air siren in a war zone. Dulac actually jolted and swore under his breath.
