Obsidian

by Thomas King

  The sheriff’s office would mean skirmishing with an antiquated computer and listening to the man try to talk him into returning to police work. The Aegean had the newer, faster computer, but it came with Archie, and the little Greek would want to pry into Thumps’s private life while offering up volumes of advice on how that life should be lived.

  Neither was a perfect solution. He’d have to make a decision, of course. And while decisions such as this were easier to make than decisions of the heart, they should only be made on a full stomach.

  Thumps had just put on his jacket when the phone rang. It didn’t ring all that much, and his general inclination was not to answer it. The chances were good that it was the sheriff or Archie, and they only called when they wanted him to do something. But it could also be Claire. Maybe she had had second thoughts about last evening. Maybe she had warmed to the idea of having a knight errant in her life.

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Thumps DreadfulWater?”

  The voice had the timbre and pitch of duct-cleaning services, credit-card offerings, and shopping surveys.

  “Not interested.”

  “Not selling,” said the voice quickly. “We have a mutual friend.”

  Thumps waited.

  “Nina Maslow.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Have you had breakfast?” said the voice.

  “What about Maslow?”

  “We’re here at the Tucker,” said the voice. “It’s in regard to the Obsidian Murders.”

  Thumps’s grip tightened on the phone. “Who is this?”

  “Can we say half an hour?”

  There were any number of reasons for not having a phone. Thumps could think of several without even trying. The damn thing was always too loud, always too close, always unnerving. It was like standing in a closet next to a siren. Worse, you never knew who was going to be on the other end of the line.

  Sometimes, it was friends.

  Sometimes, it was the past.

  THE TUCKER WAS the upscale hotel in town. According to the sign next to the front door, it was number one on TripAdvisor.

  Whatever that was supposed to mean.

  The original hotel had been built in the late nineteenth century and had been dragged through the twentieth century as a hospital, a general store, a warehouse, a roller rink, and a makeshift theatre for art films from France and Italy that no one wanted to watch, films that no one understood.

  The voice on the phone had said breakfast, which meant the Quick Claim. The coffee shop was thinly populated. Two families with moms and dads. One with three kids, two boys, one girl, and the other with three girls. An older couple kept glancing over their shoulders to make sure none of the children got loose. Or too close.

  “Mr. DreadfulWater.”

  The voice was sitting at a round table near the window with two other people, a man and a woman.

  “Please,” said the voice. “Join us.”

  The voice was tall with thick hair, an ex-athlete by the look of him. Broad shoulders, slim hips, a quick, neon smile. The woman was thicker, top to bottom, with clear eyes and cold hair. Viking stock, capable of throwing pigs over a shoulder with one arm and swinging a battle axe with the other.

  The third member of the gang was an older man who was average in all ways. Medium height, medium weight, medium complexion. Someone you could lose in a shoebox.

  “Anthony Mercer,” said the voice. “This is Runa Gerson. And our somewhat taciturn colleague is Harold Shipman.”

  “Just Harry.” The tattoo on the back of Shipman’s hand was of a small black star. The ring was too large for his finger.

  “My apologies for the phone call.” Mercer tried to look apologetic. “Mysterious, intriguing, juvenile. It’s the director in me.”

  Mercer, Gerson, and Shipman. It sounded as though Thumps had stumbled into a law firm. Not that the three people sitting at the table looked like lawyers. So maybe the old joke had some validity.

  Why do lawyers look like psychopaths?

  Because they don’t want to look like politicians.

  “Sit. Please,” said Mercer. “Nina spoke highly of you.”

  “We ordered a bunch of food.” Gerson waved a hand at the server. “Figured we’d share.”

  Part of Gerson’s little finger was missing. Thumps tried not to look, but Gerson caught him.

  “It’s a conversation piece,” she said. “I lost it to a wolf in the Yukon.”

  “Yesterday, it was the result of a knife fight with a Bedouin in North Africa,” said Mercer.

  Gerson smiled. “More exciting than getting it caught in a door jamb when I was three.”

  “This is a general outline of the project.” Mercer took a folder out of a bag and handed it to Thumps. “You don’t have to read it now.”

  “This was Nina’s baby,” said Gerson. “We’re just picking up the pieces and moving forward.”

  Thumps looked at the title on the folder. The Obsidian Murders.

  “Malice Aforethought?”

  Mercer shook his head. “No,” he said. “Malice Aforethought was cancelled.”

  “They lost their star and a producer,” said Gerson. “There’s no recovering from that.”

  “Maslow and Sydney Pearl were in town this summer,” said Mercer. “The Samuels episode?”

  “What was his name?” Shipman waited.

  “Calder Banks,” said Gerson. “Hosted the show. Son of a bitch killed Nina because she found out he had killed that actress in Las Vegas.”

  “Amelia Nash,” said Mercer. “I met her once.”

  Thumps rubbed his temple. “So this is Malice Aforethought, Part Two?”

  “The networks are drowning in reality shows.” Mercer looked pleased with himself. “We’re talking a cable movie.”

  “Obsidian,” said Gerson. “It’s got real punch.”

  Thumps could feel his defences go up. “So, you guys worked with Maslow?”

  In Thumps’s experience, people who answered questions too quickly were generally lying, and people who had to think about their answers were lying as well. There were even a number of theories that linked deceit with facial expressions. Eyes darting back and forth, blinking, closing for a second or two were all indicators of a lie. Right-handed individuals tended to look directly to their right when lying about something they heard, and down and to the right when they were lying about smells or sensations.

  Thumps wasn’t sure that any of these markers were accurate, but Mercer’s eyes had begun to dart back and forth, and Gerson’s eyes were blinking. Only Shipman seemed relaxed.

  “We didn’t actually work with Nina,” said Mercer.

  “But we admired her work,” said Gerson.

  Shipman shifted in his chair. “You’ve caught us.”

  Thumps wasn’t sure he had caught anything.

  “Tony and Runa didn’t know Nina,” said Shipman. “I was the only one who actually worked with her. I did some of the research for her projects.”

  Of the three, based on first impressions, Shipman was the most intriguing. Mercer and Gerson seemed eager to please. Shipman didn’t seem to care.

  “I brought her the Obsidian Murders. She was going to use it for Malice Aforethought. I talked her out of it. It was too good for a single episode. It needed more space.”

  “And then she was murdered.”

  “Yes,” said Shipman. “Then she was murdered.”

  “Harry’s right,” said Mercer. “It has a great storyline.”

  “I understand that Sydney Pearl gave you Nina’s file on the killings.” It wasn’t a question, and Shipman didn’t wait for Thumps to respond. “But that file wasn’t complete. Or at least, it wasn’t up to date. At the time she died, I was following up on a couple of ideas that Nina had developed.”

  “I’m not working the case,” said Thumps.

  “You spent a month in Eureka.”

  “Tying up loose ends.”

  Shipman set a second f
ile on the table. “Raymond Oakes?”

  Thumps waited.

  “Anna Tripp’s husband?” said Shipman. “He got out of prison several months before the killings began.”

  Thumps waited some more.

  “The police thought the Obsidian Murders were the work of one individual,” said Shipman. “Nina had two theories that she was exploring. One that the police were right, that the killings were the work of one individual. But she also thought there was a good possibility that the killings were the work of two people. Unrelated. In the second scenario, Oakes kills Tripp and her daughter, while an unsub kills the other people. She believed that Oakes used the other murders to cover up his crime.”

  “A serial killer,” said Gerson, “and a homicidal spouse.”

  Thumps and Ranger had already gotten that far. No hard evidence. Just circumstantial debris. And without Oakes, that’s all it would ever be.

  “Nina had me looking for Oakes,” said Shipman. “I tracked him as far as Rexburg before he disappeared.”

  That was new. Other than the fact that Oakes had been released from prison, they hadn’t been able to find any trace of the man, hadn’t been able to find any hint of where he had been before the killings.

  Or after.

  “She also had me looking at other serial killings,” said Shipman. “Nina had a theory that Northern California wasn’t the first time.”

  All the law enforcement agencies involved had looked into that possibility and had come up empty. There had been a number of cases that had fit the same general profile of the Obsidian Murders. A series of homicides over a short period of time. Victims who had no relationship to one another. A method of marking each killing. If Thumps remembered correctly, there had been four that had looked promising. One in Arizona. Another in Colorado. Oregon. And Nevada.

  But in each case, the killer had been caught or killed and the case solved.

  Thumps touched the file Shipman had put on the table. “So, if I help you,” he said, “you’ll give me this new information.”

  “Figured we’d make you an offer you can’t refuse,” said Shipman in a better-than-average Marlon Brando voice.

  “What Harry means,” said Gerson, “is that the file is yours whether you help us or not. Nina would have wanted you to have it.”

  “True,” said Shipman. “She told me if anyone could catch the Obsidian killer, it was you.”

  “But we’d appreciate your assistance,” said Mercer.

  “We’re hoping you have a vested interest in getting the story right.”

  Thumps didn’t open the folder, didn’t want to create the impression that there was a quid pro quo in the making. Movies and murder investigations were two different things. They had little in common.

  The food arrived. Sausage, eggs, toast, fruit, coffee. Thumps tried to remember the first rule of a diabetic. Small meals. Frequent meals.

  “Harry’s going to write the script,” said Mercer. “I’m directing. Runa’s producing.”

  “We’re getting together tomorrow,” said Gerson. “Two o’clock. Room 326.”

  “We’re hoping you’ll come and talk to us,” said Shipman. “Background about Clam Beach and the sheriff’s department. Personal details about Anna Tripp and her daughter, Tally.”

  “Callie,” said Thumps.

  “Sorry. Callie.”

  “It would help,” said Gerson, “to have an idea of who the characters are.”

  “But we don’t want to make it a melodrama,” said Shipman.

  “No one wants that,” said Mercer. “That’s why we need you.”

  Shipman helped himself to the sausages and the eggs. “Of course, if I were you, I’d turn us down.”

  The eggs were good. So was the toast. Thumps took the two folders and put them on the seat beside him.

  “I mean, who wants to be involved in a sleazy film that turns a horrific tragedy into a prime-time circus for a viewing audience of degenerate clowns.” Shipman paused. “Am I right?”

  “Easy, Harry,” said Mercer. “Mr. DreadfulWater might think you’re serious.”

  “And,” said Shipman, “I imagine that you’re going to go looking for Oakes.”

  “You know where he is?”

  Shipman played with the ring, an emerald in a heavy gold setting. “Are you asking if I’m withholding information?”

  “Are you?”

  “After Tripp and her daughter were killed, you quit your job as a deputy sheriff.” Shipman didn’t wait for a confirmation. “And then you wound up in Chinook.”

  Thumps tried the sausage. It was salty and had a somewhat sweet flavour.

  “I can put Oakes in Arcata just before the killings began. So, we know he was in the area. Which means he probably knew about you and Anna. He’s still there after the murders. Then suddenly, he’s on the road. California, Oregon, Idaho. Straight driving so far as I can tell. He finally stops the second night in Rexburg.”

  Thumps pulled up a map of the western states in his head.

  “And then he disappears. Nada.”

  “You can see where Harry is going with this,” said Mercer.

  “What happened in Rexburg?” said Shipman. “And where was he headed in such a hurry?”

  “Maybe he stayed in Rexburg.”

  “I checked,” said Shipman. “He didn’t.”

  “We think he was coming here.” Mercer drew his fork across the tablecloth. “When Oakes left the coast, we think he was coming here.”

  “And the only reason he would do that,” said Shipman, “is you.”

  Eleven

  Rexburg, Idaho.

  Thumps stood in front of the Tucker and tried to make sense of this new piece of information. Shipman had suggested that Oakes had been following him, had been on his way to Chinook when the man dropped off the map. The theory was interesting, but it didn’t make much sense.

  After Anna and Callie had been killed, Thumps had resigned from the sheriff’s department, had thrown whatever he could into his Volvo, and had headed east. At the time, he had had no idea of where he was going or what he was going to do. A blown fuel pump had forced him to remain in Chinook while he waited for a new part. But there was no way he could have anticipated that he would stay.

  Which meant that Chinook would have been impossible for Oakes to predict.

  Still it was intriguing. The timing. The route Oakes had taken.

  Shipman was right. Oakes could have known about Thumps and Anna, could have known that his wife was with another man. Was that it? A matter of anger? Vengeance? And then he had come after Thumps?

  You could make the pieces fit. But only if you pressed hard enough.

  And now, whatever the answer might be, Mercer, Gerson, Shipman, et al., wanted to make a movie out of the tragedy, out of the crime. Thumps had never understood the fascination that people had with mayhem, but he knew that violence and cruelty, along with murder in all its unimaginable forms, had become staples for the world of prime-time television.

  Zombie apocalypses. Housewives from hell. Medical disasters.

  People, it seemed, liked to be disgusted, liked to be terrified, and broadcasters without borders had quickly learned to mine this deep and disturbing vein in the American psyche.

  MIRRORS WAS THE new kid on the block, a specialty coffee shop that had been fashioned after a famous coffee shop in Uruguay. Café Brasilero in Montevideo had been the favourite haunt of the writer Eduardo Galeano. Thumps had not read any of Galeano’s work. Archie would know the man, but asking Archie about anything in print was opening the gates to literary hell.

  If Galeano was a writer worth reading, the little Greek would want to know why Thumps hadn’t read him already. This would be followed by a vigorous admonition to buy a book or two or at least check out several volumes from the library, followed by an intensive quiz on content and meaning.

  Thumps could look the man up on the internet, get the “Galeano for Dummies” version, and hope that this modicum o
f knowledge would hold Archie at bay. Better yet, he should probably not even mention the Uruguayan at all.

  Mirrors was crowded, but Thumps found a small table in a corner. As far as he could see, he was the only person in the place who did not have a laptop.

  Sensitive electronics and hot water.

  It seemed an odd combination. He wondered how many computers met their deaths each year in coffee shops around the world. A bump, a careless server, an inattentive moment over a cute animal video, and another hard drive winds up in a Nigerian landfill.

  When Thumps had been in Mirrors with Nina Maslow, he had had black coffee. Maslow had had something with milk and chocolate. He wasn’t sure he liked the place. It felt a little too much like a home-decorating spread in a glossy magazine.

  And he didn’t need any more coffee.

  On the other hand, he couldn’t imagine anyone looking for him here. He put the two folders on the table and opened the first one.

  “Hi,” said the server. “This your first time in Mirrors?”

  “No.”

  “Great. My name is Jenny, and our special today is oliang.”

  Thumps tried to imagine what that might be.

  “It’s a Thai drink,” said Jenny. “Basically, it’s an iced corn, soybean, sesame coffee. You put all of the ingredients into a coffee sock, pour boiling water through it, and let it steep for about fourteen minutes. Then you add ice and condensed milk, and that’s oliang.”

  “So, it’s cold?”

  “It is.”

  Thumps wondered why anyone would start coffee out in a sock. Or why, after they had got the coffee nice and hot, they would put in ice.

  “Black.”

  Jenny looked somewhat confused. “Black?”

  “Coffee,” said Thumps. “Black coffee.”

  “Nothing in it?”

  “Just coffee. No ice. No sock.”

  “Wow. That’s like espresso.”

  “Are you bothering this young woman?”

  Thumps hadn’t seen Ora Mae Foreman come in, but there she was standing in front of the table, her hands on her hips.