Obsidian

by Thomas King

  Leon was first to the bedroom. “Nothing in the bathroom but tile and mirrors. What’d you find?”

  Thumps motioned to the closet.

  Leon went over and had a look. “Now ain’t that real convenient.”

  “What’s convenient?”

  The sheriff and Mercer were in the doorway.

  “It appears that Thumps has found the murder weapon,” said Leon.

  “That’s not mine!”

  Duke clamped a hand on Mercer’s shoulder. “What’s not yours?”

  “Whatever is in that towel,” said Mercer. “I’ve never seen it before.”

  Leon took a closer look. “I’m betting a baseball bat. Probably aluminum.”

  “I’ve never owned a baseball bat in my life!”

  Duke took his phone out of his pocket and hit speed dial. “Lance, need you to bring a forensics kit to the third floor.” The sheriff waited for his deputy to repeat the instruction back to him. “That’s right. Mr. Mercer’s room. And you might want to put a blanket and some sheets in our executive cell.”

  “You’re arresting me? Again?”

  “No choice,” said Duke. “You found the bodies. The potential murder weapon has been discovered in your room.”

  “Come on, sheriff,” said Mercer. “If I killed Harry and Runa, do you think I’d be stupid enough to hide the murder weapon in my room?”

  “I try not to judge,” said Duke.

  “This is crazy.” Mercer was shouting again, the sarcasm having slipped away. “You can’t put me in jail!”

  Duke undid the handcuffs from his belt. “Think of it this way, Mr. Mercer. If you did kill Shipman and Gerson and were stupid enough to leave the murder weapon in your room, then you deserve to be in jail. But if you didn’t kill them and someone is gunning for you, then jail is the safest place I can put you.”

  “Sounds like a win-win to me,” said Leon. “What about you, Tonto?”

  Mercer looked as though someone had drained the blood from his body.

  “It’s the best option you have,” said Thumps. “And you can drink the coffee in complete safety.”

  Thirty-Seven

  The object in the towel was a baseball bat. A Joerex twenty-eight-inch soft aluminum bat that the ad on the internet described as appropriate for “softball training, car and home self-defence.”

  Duke scrolled through the site. “You can pay over three hundred for a good bat,” he said. “This one goes for around $28.50.”

  “So we got a cheap serial killer,” said Leon.

  Thumps watched the bats roll by. He hadn’t realized the variety of colours that were available. The blood-stained bat in the sheriff’s possession was black and silver with a black non-slip handle.

  “Christ,” said the sheriff, “they sell these things at all the big-box stores.”

  Thumps glanced at the door to the cells. “What are you going to do with Mercer?”

  “No idea,” said Hockney. “I can hold him on suspicion for a couple of days, but then I’ll have to formally charge him or cut him loose.”

  “Don’t think he did it,” said Leon.

  “Me neither,” said Duke, “but you play the hand you’re dealt.”

  “What about you, Tonto?”

  “He didn’t do it,” said Thumps.

  “Almost forgot,” said the sheriff. “Fax came in for you.”

  Thumps frowned. “Me?”

  “No,” said Duke. “For your friend. You might tell him this is not a Western Union office.” The sheriff slid two sheets of paper across the desk. “This about the case?”

  Leon picked up the fax and did a quick read. “Looks as though Zorba stumbled onto something.”

  The fax was a list of names and dates, along with notes. Whoever had sent it had circled one name in particular.

  “Deputy Tupper,” said Leon. “I asked her to look to see who we had in lockup during the time of the murders.”

  Thumps read the name. “Simon Gordon. Culver City. Actor. In Eureka for a job that never materialized. Drunk and disorderly. Assault.”

  “You two going to share?” said Duke. “Seeing as you’re using my fax machine.”

  “Archie came up with the idea that Obsidian had killed before and the reason we hadn’t caught the pattern was that each of those cases had been closed.”

  “That’s a good trick.”

  “Because the chief suspect killed himself,” said Leon.

  “So, you’re thinking that our killer set up patsies to take the fall.”

  Thumps nodded.

  “Actually, it’s ingenious,” said Duke. “And this Mr. Gordon was supposed to be the patsy?”

  “Except he got himself thrown in jail and messed up the scenario,” said Leon.

  Duke went back to his monitor. “You got an address for this Simon Gordon?”

  “Right here.” Leon handed the sheriff the fax.

  “You know,” said Duke, “this is a very long shot. We like it because the pieces fit. But that doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  “It’s all we have,” said Thumps.

  “And it looks as though it’s enough.” The sheriff turned the monitor around so Thumps and Leon could see the screen. “Take a look at that.”

  “Gordon killed himself?”

  Thumps scanned the report. “Found dead in his home from a suspected overdose.”

  “Cleaning up after himself,” said Leon. “Gordon would have been a loose end.”

  “A loose end our killer couldn’t afford.” Thumps wandered over to the percolator and gave it a shake. He could feel the coffee float up against the sides of the pot like a tide of warm honey. Duke Hockney, coffee gourmet, was going to take some getting used to. “Okay,” he said, “let’s say that we know how he did it. We’ve got the pattern.”

  “But what do we do with it?” said Leon. “We’re still holding air.”

  “How about we shake the tree a little harder,” said Duke. “See what falls out.”

  MERCER WAS PACING the cell. “Do you know how small this shithole is?”

  “Six by eight,” said the sheriff. “But it has a window, so it feels larger.”

  “If I laugh at your stupid jokes,” said Mercer, “will you let me out of here?”

  “How about you answer a few questions first.”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “You’re not under arrest,” said Leon. “The good sheriff has you in protective custody.”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “Fine,” said the sheriff. “I’ll have Deputy Packard bring you a phone so you can call a lawyer.”

  “Good.”

  “Just as soon as he returns.”

  Mercer stopped pacing. “As soon as he returns?”

  “He had to go to Glory,” said Duke, “but he’ll be back just after noon.”

  “All right,” said Mercer. “Ask your question.”

  “No can do,” said Duke. “Once you ask for a lawyer, our chit-chat comes to an end.”

  Mercer began pacing again. “So have Turkey One or Turkey Two ask the question. That way, you can listen in. And then you can let me out of this cell.”

  The silver dollar was in the air. “You want to be Turkey One?”

  “Gobble, gobble,” said Thumps.

  MERCER DID ANOTHER couple of circuits of the cell and then came to the bars. “The sheriff’s an idiot,” he said. “I had nothing to do with Harry and Runa.”

  Thumps was tired. He hadn’t gotten any sleep, and it didn’t look as though he was going to see a bed for the rest of the day. “The three of you came to town to work on a movie.”

  “What? That’s a crime?”

  “Movies aren’t cheap.”

  “Damn straight they’re not.”

  “Let’s talk about the production company,” said Thumps. “The folks that sign the cheques.”

  “This Dustan Schwarzstein Ltd.,” said Leon.

  Mercer’s eyes darted between the two men. “What about it?”


  “Head office in Los Angeles?”

  “Don’t know,” said Mercer. “Could be out of the Cayman Islands or Romania for all I know.”

  “Hidden bank accounts? Money laundering? Drug cartels? Film companies?” said Leon. “That sort of thing?”

  “Could be,” said Mercer. “The cheques were good. That’s the gold standard.”

  Thumps turned to Leon. “You want coffee?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “Come on.” Mercer went back to the pacing. “What do you want? Runa and Harry and I were hired to make a film. End of story.”

  “So the only thing you have is the name of what appears to be a shell corporation,” said Thumps. “This the way movies normally work?”

  “Hell,” said Mercer, “there’s nothing normal in movies anymore. The only question you ask is, ‘Am I making money or am I losing money?’”

  “And you were making money.”

  “Yeah,” said Mercer, “I was making money.”

  “No address? No phone number?”

  “You know how hard it is to get a start in this business?” Mercer shook his head. “If I’m Bruce Willis’s kid or one of the Coppolas, it’s a done deal. Otherwise, good fucking luck.”

  “So the offer to direct was a surprise?”

  “That’s what this business is,” said Mercer. “Surprises.”

  Leon leaned against the bars. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Probably,” said Thumps.

  “We should probably tell the sheriff.”

  “I suppose we should.”

  “How about you tell me,” said Mercer. “It’s my ass on the line.”

  Leon ignored Mercer. “You want to flip for who tells Duke?”

  “No,” said Thumps. “This is my rodeo.”

  SHERIFF DUKE HOCKNEY was relaxing in his swivel chair. His eyes were shut, his hat was pulled down over his face, and his feet were on the desk. Thumps and Leon each grabbed a chair and waited.

  “If he was really asleep,” said Thumps, “he’d be snoring.”

  “So, he can hear every word we say,” said Leon.

  “Every word,” said Thumps.

  “Gobble, gobble,” said the sheriff without opening his eyes or moving his lips.

  “Okay,” said Thumps, “we’ve got most of it figured out.”

  “Best guess,” said Leon, “is Mercer, Gerson, and Shipman were hired by a fictional production company.”

  “Most likely our serial killer.”

  Hockney opened his eyes, pushed his hat back, and sat up. “Our serial killer owns a production company?”

  “No,” said Thumps. “It’s just a front.”

  “Nina Maslow was mostly right,” said Leon. “Our killer is smart, well organized, and wealthy. The guy plans all his killings ahead of time. Where he’s going to kill, how he’s going to kill, and who he’s going to set up to take the fall.”

  “Most of the time, the plan works,” said Thumps. “Sometimes it doesn’t.”

  “Clam Beach.”

  “That’s right,” said Thumps. “Clam Beach.”

  “Back then,” said Leon, “when we went looking for similar killings, we found a number that appeared to be a match.”

  “But in each case, the main suspect committed suicide before the police could question him.”

  “And there was evidence in the suspect’s house or car that linked him to the killings,” said Leon.

  “So the case was closed.” Duke took his cup to the percolator. “And a closed case is a closed case.”

  “Exactly,” said Thumps. “There’s a certain genius to that.”

  “But at Clam Beach,” said Leon, “the guy who was supposed to take the fall, one Simon Gordon, went out drinking and wound up in jail.”

  “Giving the patsy the perfect alibi for the killings.”

  “Except Obsidian didn’t know Gordon was in jail until after the fact,” said Leon.

  “And with Gordon in jail,” said Thumps, “our killer doesn’t have a fall guy. He’s exposed.”

  “All that happened years ago,” said Duke. “Why is he back now?”

  Leon pointed his chin at Thumps. “I don’t think the question is why,” he said, “but who.”

  “Thumps?”

  “I think he wants to play,” said Leon.

  “And he kills Shipman and Gerson as part of the game?” said Duke. “And he tries to blame it on Mercer.”

  “No,” said Thumps. “He knows we won’t buy that. This is his way of letting us know it’s him.”

  Hockney came back to his desk. “You think it’s Raymond Oakes?”

  “Or a player to be named later,” said Leon.

  “So, what do we do now?”

  Thumps shrugged. “Wait for him to make a mistake.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “Breakfast,” said Thumps. “In the meantime, we get breakfast.”

  Thirty-Eight

  Al’s was crowded. The stools at the counter were all occupied, and Thumps and Leon had to stand outside on the sidewalk.

  “What about the booths?” said Leon.

  “The booths are for tourists,” said Thumps. “And families.”

  “I’m sort of a tourist.”

  “None of the regulars would consider sitting in a booth.”

  “I’m not a regular.”

  All of the booths were empty, but as hungry as he was, Thumps couldn’t bring himself to take the chance. He’d never hear the end of it. Wutty Youngbeaver, Jimmy Monroe, and Russell Plunkett would ride him for months, and Al would probably stop filling his cup to the top.

  Leon was looking for his silver dollar just as Stas Black Weasel and Chintak Rawat came out of the café.

  “Two stools,” said Stas, “but you must step on eggs.”

  “Yes,” said Chintak. “It is exceedingly tense.”

  “Al?” said Thumps.

  “Indeed,” said Chintak. “Most unfortunate.”

  “This about the guy who stood her up?” said Leon.

  “I would not mention this,” said Stas. “Messengers are being shot.”

  Thumps smiled. “Wutty Youngbeaver and the boys?”

  “Baron Wutty and his entourage have been reduced,” said Chintak.

  “Slow coffee service?”

  “To a tickle,” said Stas.

  “Trickle,” said Chintak.

  “We must get to work,” said Stas.

  “Most assuredly,” said Chintak. “But you will tell us if there is any gratuitous violence or bloodshed.”

  WUTTY YOUNGBEAVER, Jimmy Monroe, and Russell Plunkett were in their usual spots, near the door, across from the grill. Thumps and Leon took the stools that Chintak and Stas had vacated. There were potatoes cooking on the grill but no Al.

  Leon looked up and down the counter. “Do we ring a bell or something?”

  Jimmy put a finger to his lips. “No humour.”

  “Wutty decided to be funny,” said Russell, “and now we don’t get coffee.”

  “Wasn’t my fault,” said Wutty. “Al’s all sensitive.”

  “It was Wutty’s fault,” said Jimmy, “but we’re being punished too.”

  “Where’s Al?”

  “Back room,” said Russell.

  Thumps glanced in that direction. “What’d you say?”

  “Didn’t say anything,” said Wutty.

  Jimmy slumped on his elbows. “What his Baronshit said was that the car guy evidently knew the difference between a Cadillac and a pickup truck.”

  “You said that?”

  Wutty had his neck and head hunched down into his shoulders. “Not exactly.”

  “His exact words,” said Jimmy.

  Thumps caught the movement.

  “You three still here?” Al strode out of the back area carrying a bowl of shredded potatoes. “You think of another good joke?”

  “That was Wutty,” said Russell, “not us.”

  “You guys are
all friends,” said Al. “Am I right?”

  Russell looked at Jimmy. “Sort of.”

  “And friends share,” said Al. “Good times, bad times?”

  “Come on, Al,” said Wutty, “it was just a joke.”

  Al ignored Wutty and turned to Thumps and Leon. “You two got a joke you want to share?”

  “Nope,” said Thumps. “Just looking for breakfast.”

  “Ditto,” said Leon.

  “Good,” said Al. “’Cause I’m flat out of chuckles.”

  OVER THE NEXT half-hour, the café slowly cleared. Wutty and Jimmy and Russell hung around until the end, but with no coffee in sight they finally gave up and shuffled out into the day. Al moved back and forth behind the counter, working the grill, making a pot of coffee, cleaning the counter.

  “You two are uncommonly quiet.” Al set the pot down. “Just tired or scared to death?”

  “Tired,” said Leon.

  “Scared to death,” said Thumps.

  “I don’t bite,” said Al. “You boys catch the bodies out at the fairgrounds?”

  “Sheriff’s problem,” said Thumps.

  “Hear it was a real mess.” Al wiped a spot on the counter. “Archie says we got a serial killer on our hands.”

  “You people are quicker than Facebook,” said Leon.

  Al shrugged. “Small town. We don’t like surprises.”

  Thumps looked at his watch. Claire hadn’t said when she expected him, but if he was guessing, he would guess that sooner was better than later. Maybe he should bring something. Flowers. Chocolates. Something for the baby. What did you get babies? Thumps couldn’t imagine that they needed anything.

  “You know anything about babies?”

  Leon looked stunned. “You’re asking me?”

  “Not you,” said Thumps. “Al.”

  “What?” said Al. “Because I’m a woman?”

  The tone was all Thumps needed to hear to know that this was not a question he should have asked.

  “And because I’m a woman, I’d naturally know everything there was to know about babies?”

  Leon tried to save him. “Well, Tonto here doesn’t know squat.”

  Al set her feet apart as though she were getting ready to tackle a running back. “So, ask your question.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “You still hoping to get breakfast?”

  Thumps held up a hand in surrender. “I just thought I should take something for the baby.”