by Andy Straka
The door was open, as always, so I went in and sat down, a dog-eared paperback copy of George Garrett's Do, Lord, Remember Me in my back pocket. I was in a foul mood. What if Dewayne Turner had been selling crank to Camille? What would have happened when he stopped? What if Nicole knew about it? If you listened to Camille, the whole mess was somehow my fault.
I was only partway through Howie Loomis's opening soliloquy when Cat came out from the kitchen. “Mornin’, Eagle.”
“Hey, big guy.”
“You up early. Didn't get enough to eat the other day, or just after company?”
“I couldn't sleep.”
He looked as if he hadn't slept too well himself. “Can't say as I blame you. Coffee?”
“Sure.”
He went over to a serving station beside the bar and poured a couple steaming mugs from the pot.
“Where'd you get that slicker? Looks like something even the Salvation Army wouldn't take,” he said.
“Keeps me drier and warmer than all that space-age stuff,” I said.
He chuckled. “I'll bet … how was the trip to Charlottesville?”
“Fine.”
“You see that fella from New York?”
“Rashid? Yeah, we saw him.”
“Anything new?”
“Yeah. He's got the gun that did Singer. Guess who turned it in?”
“Who?”
“Boog Morelli “
“That a fact.”
“Yeah, but if it was a gang gun, it won't be that easy to trace.”
Cat shook his head. “Probably no tellin’ where the thing's been.”
“Umm … Let me ask you something. Just speculation. From what you know of Nicky, if she were put in a situation where she knew something about someone that was close to her, something that might get them in trouble, how do you think she'd react?”
“Nicky? No question,” he said. “She'd stay loyal to the person. Maybe she'd try to get them to work it out.”
I nodded. “That's the way I see it too.”
We sipped the hot liquid.
“Oh,” I said. “I almost forgot. What did the sheriff want to talk to you about yesterday?”
“Your daughter and that Turner kid.”
“You mean about the night they were picked up here?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anything else?”
He hesitated. “Yeah … well he was asking about my relationship with you and Toronto.”
“He was, huh?”
“Asked what I knew about your PI business, that sort of thing.”
“You think he's planning to make a run at me?”
“Don't know, buddy. I guess you'll have to ask him that one yourself. But I'd watch my back, I was you.”
I said nothing.
“You talk with Nicky again? How's she doin’?”
“I talked with her. She's okay, for someone in jail.”
He grunted, looked toward the door for a moment, then back at me.
“Have you noticed anything … well … different about her mother the last few months?”
“Camille? Not really. Course, I don't see her that much. Why?”
“No reason.”
“Hey, that boyfriend she's running around with—now he's something different,” he said.
“Was,” I said. “He skipped town.”
“Can't say as I'm too surprised.”
“Good coffee,” I said. “What blend?”
“Just regular old joe.” He squinted at me and winked. “Part of your problem, see. You move down from New York, you're okay for awhile, but now you've gone and got civilized again livin’ up there in that university burg.”
“Oh? What did I get when I lived over here in Leonardston?”
“Education,” he said with a smile.
We drank in silence for awhile. He glanced out the windows in front. “Looks like it's comin’ on to more rain later.”
“Looks like,” I said. “I've got a meeting in a couple hours. Maybe I'll take a little drive, see some scenery before then.”
My cell phone rang just as I was climbing back into my truck.
It was Jake. “Someone's trying to get ahold of you.”
“Yeah? They finally discover my old winning lottery ticket?”
“No. Cowan called. He said he wants to talk to you alone this morning.”
“You mean before we all meet with Ferrier?”
“That's what he said.”
“Where, his office?”
“Un-uh. Says he goin’ fishing.”
“Fishing?”
“Right. You know that little reservoir up past Yellow Mountain?”
“Sure.”
“Says he'll be there after sunrise. Asked if you could stop by.”
“What time did he call?”
“About four-thirty. Woke us both out of sound sleep.”
“Odd, don't you think?”
“Yeah. You want some backup?”
“No. Not this time. I'll be all right.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Suit yourself.”
Though I had learned much about the woods from falconry, fishing was not my forte. On the way to Yellow Mountain I stopped by a combination gas and supply store, where I filled the truck and bought a cheap rod and reel with a spinner, the kind the store normally sold to tourists.
“Guess you don't really plan to catch much of anything.” The store clerk was a smart-alecky, freckle-faced youth with red hair.
“It'll be real peaceful then, won't it?” I said, smiling.
The road to the reservoir wound northward from the state highway through an expansive cedar grove planted by the civilian conservation corps when the dam that formed the body of water was built. The reservoir itself occupied a wide canyon that had formed between the back of Yellow Mountain, most of which had long ago been blasted out for mining, and a group of smaller, thickly forested hills. The sun was up but the area around the mountain was now encased by fog.
Reaching the water, I saw no sign of the sheriff or his car. I drove on a rough course along the shore, headed toward the dam a mile or so distant. I passed a few other fisherman out on the water; they waved to me and I waved back.
Pretty soon I came to a high hill where a rockslide angled all the way down from the ridge above into the water. No way a vehicle was going any farther on the track. That became even more obvious when I caught sight of the sheriff's cruiser parked in the turnaround. Cowan was probably down the shore a ways casting.
I stepped from the truck, unpacked my gear, brought out the .357 just in case and strapped it to my belt. If the sheriff were up to something devious, I didn't think he would try something in broad daylight and with a handful of witnesses in easy earshot. Hadn't heard of there being any alligators or man-eating hippos around either, but you never knew.
I locked the truck and, balancing the rod in one hand, began to pick my way across the slide. On the other side I entered a stand of white pine.
I kept moving, expecting to come upon the sheriff at any moment, but there was no sign of him. After a few hundred yards I began to hear the noise from the dam.
I passed a large red sign, clearly visible from anywhere on the water, warning all craft away. Around the next point of land the levee itself became visible; it wasn't a large one, as such structures go, a fairly old embankment dam. There was a walkway across the top with iron railings on either side. The clear, deep water looked fairly placid upstream, though I knew that could be deceptive; as it neared the dam you could see its current begin to narrow and speed up in a powerful flow that crashed through the spillway. Hydraulic doors could broaden the flow, if necessary, and they were wide open now.
Still no sign of Sheriff Cowan. I walked down to the dam. The roar from the spillway became almost deafening. I looked around a bit then carefully crossed the walkway to the far shore. I walked along the water again until I rounded a point, just out of sight of the dam.
An owl, perhaps disturbed by my presence, left its sleepy perch in the woods and glided soundlessly through the trees. If I couldn't find Cowan, maybe it was best to let him find me.
My cheap spinner cast clumsily into the water. I put slack in the line and propped the rod with a forked stick anyway, hoping for blind luck. I sat on the bank to wait, but a pack of blue jays caused me to look up with a start. Their jagged cries were approaching from the woods behind me.
Suddenly, a broad pair of dark wings with translucent windows, a burnt orange underbelly and a tail with narrow black-and-white bands, flew from the woods with the jays in pursuit. A red-shoulder hawk, cousin to the red-tail, glided overhead, as if flirting with its tormentors; the jays spun like angry bees in its wake.
At that point I became aware of the figure of a man, seated with his back to me, some distance down the bank. Had to be Cowan. He seemed to be waiting patiently, his line in the water. I undid my rod and started walking toward him. As I drew closer I saw I was right: it was Cowan. He wore blue sweatpants and hiking boots, some kind of thick sweatshirt covered by his brown windbreaker with the words SHERIFF stenciled on the back. His sidearm rode on his waist, and I could even make out his badge gleaming there too.
“Sorry. I didn't see you,” I said as I came within earshot.
There was no answer.
“Cowan?”
He didn't move.
I pulled out my weapon and began to step sideways as I came around in front of him. It was not a pretty sight.
Affalachia County's ail-American sheriff, Peter Cowan, was dead.
30
The Beechcraft nineteen-hundred bound for La Guardia climbed out of Charlottesville later that morning, its nose pointed at the sun. The rain and clouds had receded beneath us while the rest of the world blended into arctic blue. Toronto sat across the aisle from me scanning a fresh Wall Street Journal from behind amber glasses. In his fancy boots again, this time with a heavy sheepskin overcoat, he looked like an eccentric foreign investor or a Hollywood stuntman who had somehow gotten hopelessly lost.
“What time we make the gate, hoss?” he said.
“Eleven-forty-five.”
“Still early for Morelli. My bet is, if he's been doin’ the nose-brain thing, he'll be sleeping things off.”
Boog Morelli was infamous for late-night bar-hopping with his little entourage in tow, usually a couple of bodyguards and a group of thugs and hangers-on who followed him around like puppy dogs, mostly for the coke.
“We'll be his wake-up call then.”
“Sure. You got a plan?”
“Nope. But I'll know one when I see it.”
Toronto flipped to another page of his newspaper and smiled.
Ferrier and Spain, after visiting the lake, had grilled us individually for a couple hours. We were lucky to be out of jail ourselves. We were not to have any more involvement in the case. The two state agents were locked onto target now, what with a dead county sheriff, dozens of reporters, and their own higher-ups in Richmond with which to deal. Though not considered suspects, for the moment at least, we were not supposed to leave the state either. Luckily, we hadn't run into any SWAT teams barring us from doing just that.
Sheriff Cowan had been shot several times in the face, probably with the same weapon that had murdered Dewayne Turner. If it were one of Morelli's people, we would know soon enough. All Jake and I had had to do was call one of our falconry pals who lived about a half hour away to come care for Armistead and Jersey for a short while, book the flight to LGA and retrace Cowan's footsteps—simple enough in theory, especially since we used to call the Big Apple home. What might not be so simple, Jake noted, was how to keep from getting killed along the way ourselves.
The sky was clear when we reached New York, as clear as it ever gets anyway, and the sun was beginning to try to warm the frigid air. We picked up our rental car in the parking garage across from the terminal.
The swarm of trucks, cars, and buses on the Grand Central headed for Manhattan throbbed like some gargantuan aorta feeding the city. We made one quick stop on the Major Deign near Yankee Stadium then threaded our way up along the Harlem River and took the Cross Bronx to the Henry Hudson north into Riverdale.
A phone call told us Boog Morelli still lived in the same penthouse we remembered, at the top of a high-rise overlooking the Hudson and the Palisades. To many of his wealthy neighbors who didn't know he had done time up in Ossining, he was probably nothing more than a reclusive, odd-looking businessman who seemed in need of a great amount of protection and came and went at unusual hours. Thirteen years might have slowed the Boog down some, just as Hack Wilson had said. Then again, maybe not.
The grim-faced guard on duty in the lobby wore a kelly green uniform with matching hat, bright gold braid, and epaulet. He gave Jake and me hard eyes when I handed him my card and told him whom we had come to see. Morelli's man.
“Mr. M. doesn't normally accept visitors before two o'clock,” he said.
“He'll see us,” I said. “We're old pals.”
He studied my card and Jake's sheepskin as if they might yield additional information that would tell him what to do. Maybe he was thinking he would just have us stand there until two. I decided to wait him out.
At last he said: “Have a seat. I'll see what they say upstairs.”
We plunked down in a pair of black leather chairs facing a matching black sofa and looked at a marble-and-onyx sculpture on a chrome-and-glass table. Sort of an art deco thing, I guess, but the lack of color made it look depressing. The guard spoke with his hand cupped over the receiver to keep us from hearing. Must have been taught that in guard school. He even maintained his surveillance of Jake and me at the same time. Probably graduated near the top.
“Okay, fellas. Your lucky day. Mr. Morelli doesn't like it, but he says he'll see you.” He put down the phone and jerked his thumb toward the bank of elevators. Then he went back to the copy of the Daily News he must have been studying before we came in.
I looked at Jake and shrugged. We stepped to the elevators and the doors of one on the far end slid open. There was one man aboard who motioned for us to join him.
Cherry-paneled walls and railing with brass fittings. The man was tall, about six-foot-seven, but not too muscular. He had blond hair and wore a blue tracksuit. A deep scar ran across the base of his chin.
“You guys carrying?” he asked. “I'll have to search you anyway, but it might make things simpler.” Real polite.
Jake held his arms up and waited while he was patted down. I did the same. Neither of us had brought a handgun, but the stop on the way in from La Guardia had been at a self-storage facility where Jake had disappeared for a few minutes before returning to the rental car carrying an oversized, weathered briefcase. He passed the case to the man now.
The track star whistled when he snapped open the locks. “You guys planning to go to war?”
Inside, in their padded cut-outs, were two Ingram M-11 semiauto pistols and enough clips to do some real damage.
“If necessary,” Jake said.
The man laughed but he stopped when he saw the look in Toronto's eyes. We rode in silence the rest of the way to the top.
The doors whisked open again, this time on a dimly lit hall where a fat man about a foot shorter than our guide stood like a cigar store Indian. He too was dressed in a dark running suit, but I could see the bulge from his shoulder holster through the material.
“We had to wake him up,” the man said, expressionless. “Almost time anyway.”
The tall man led us, carrying the case, to the end of the corridor where a set of heavy double doors were locked with an electronic mechanism. He punched in a code, the handle clicked, and he stood to the side holding the door open. We stepped past him into the suite.
Not much light here either. Heavy drapes hung over the windows, blocking the brilliant sunshine but also spoiling the view. There were several pieces of Ethan Allen furniture and a lot of boxes piled n
eatly around the walls. Some large water bottles took up one corner and what looked like air tanks. Boog Morelli was nowhere to be seen.
But we could hear a deep, rattling cough coming from the far side of a hospital bed deployed in the middle of the living room. An Asian woman in a short skirt bent over the matress helping her patient drink from a paper cup with a straw. No one else was in the room.
“Mr. Morelli,” the tall man said. “Your two guests are here.”
“Ah, Christ.” The voice was a whispery reed. “Can't even let a man get his friggin’ rest. C'mon in. C'mon in.”
Boog Morelli used to arm wrestle some of his little misfits and hoods just for fun. In his prime, it was said, no one could beat him, and though the competition might have been somewhat suspect, I guess he had been pretty good. He was a bottom-heavy mass of fat and muscle and deep-set eyes that, along with a distinct curvature of his upper spine, made him resemble, for all the world, a scale model Tyrannosaurus Rex.
But the shrunken man in the bed didn't look much like the old Boog. He weighed maybe a hundred pounds at best, his arms as thin as broomsticks. His skin was pockmarked with blue and black nodules. He had long white hair and his cheekbones looked as if they were about to collapse.
“Old pals, my ass. Pavlicek and Toronto. How ya doin’, boys? Been a long time. C'mon in.”
We moved around to the front of the bed.
“Hello, Boog,” I said. “You don't look well.”
He coughed so hard his whole body convulsed, but it ended in a chuckle. “I don't look well. Jesus, you hear that, Marina? I don't look well.” He looked at the tall man.
The tall man said: “Mr. Morelli suffers from late-stage malignant melanoma.”
Jake was nodding.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “That doesn't sound good.”
“It ain't,” Morelli whispered. “I used to sit over at Jones Beach all day, all day long, you hear? Put baby oil on, that was all. Used to look like a lobster then turn brown as a nigger. Now these shots I'm takin’ don't work. I'm dead.”
