by Dave Balcom
“You know, we’re supposed to be strapped even when we’re off duty. It’s a rule. So they brought it. I was sitting right here. They left, and then a few minutes later you guys come in. I hadn’t had a chance to put the gun in the closet… some break, huh?”
“Worked out, I guess,” I said as I rubbed the side of my face. It was already swelling up, and I could feel the rawness of the abrasion on my cheekbone.
“We can find a doctor here to look at that,” Jan said.
“No, but I do want Miles to hear this disc.” I set up the player, he put on the ear phones and we waited as he listened to Mickey’s last testament.
We watched as he listened, his eyes narrowed at times, but that was the only reaction he displayed. The disc lasted less than seven minutes.
I watched as he played it again, stopping and replaying portions. Finally he took off the headphones.
“Oil?”
Jan ran him through the whole deal as she had learned it from Duane Dennis.
The afternoon was in full swing. Lawton was showing signs of wear.
“People are going to want to talk with you tomorrow,” Lawton said. “Where you gonna be?”
We each thought about it for a minute. Jan’s voice had a forlorn quality I’d never heard from her before, “I don’t even own the clothes on my back. I want to stay in Traverse City tonight. I have to go shopping.”
We left him with the disc, I took the player back upstairs. The young man was still lying there, like where could he go, right?
As I put the disc player back on his table, I saw the alarm in his eyes. I froze, and he reached up and ran his fingers over the swollen side of my face.
“Ran into a door.”
“What’s the other guy look like?”
“Never laid a glove on him.”
55
I asked Jan to drive. While I had been to Traverse City, it was her town. She worked this town, and had developed a career, customers and contacts here.
She didn’t hesitate and drove us directly to the Blue Water Resort on Front Street. The old resort that looks like a Spanish hacienda sits right on the beach adjacent to parks and downtown shopping.
“I doubt if they’ll have a room on a Friday night after Memorial Day,” I suggested.
“Rick and Jamie will have a room for us, you wait.”
The hotel lobby was beautifully decorated. I studied it while she went directly to the front desk and asked for a room. I hung back a bit and as the clerk typed into the hotel’s main frame, she gave me a winning smile over her shoulder.
In minutes we were walking back to the SUV where she handed me a key card as she adjusted herself behind the wheel. “You’ll need some clothes too, I’ll bet. What, waist and inseam thirty-six?
“Well my waist is thirty-four, but I don’t need clothes as much as I need a razor, tooth brush and deo. I can wash out my undies. The rest of my clothes will stand up for tonight.”
She raised an eyebrow. “The hotel will have your toiletries. I’ll bring you something to wear to dinner. I have exquisite taste in men’s fashion.”
“Hey, wait…”
But with a quick wave, she pulled away. I wandered around until I found the room. There were two bags of toiletries, including a comb.
I took a shower, shaved and rinsed out my underwear, a settling-in routine honed by decades of impromptu overnights in the pursuit of stories.
I stretched out on the bed. My face felt like it was on fire, and the colors that were developing on my cheek were those of a cedar stump left to burn out in a fire pit. On top of that, I was mentally exhausted, and I had muscles screaming at me, reminding me that it was 58, not 28, on my driver’s license. I fell asleep without as much as a wiggle of my toes.
The phone woke me up and evening was slanting into the window overlooking Grand Traverse Bay.
“If you open your door, you’ll find a bag of clothes. I’m having a drink. When you’re decent, come down to the patio and fetch me.”
I followed directions. The gabardine slacks hung just right. The short-sleeved pastel plaid shirt was something I would never have bought for myself, but I had to admit it fit perfectly and I liked it. A matching blue sweater – evenings can be cool on Lake Michigan in early summer – along with socks and underwear completed my outfit for the evening.
I wandered down to the lobby and saw a sign for the lounge, and there she was, sitting at a table outside, a glass of wine in front of her.
“About time,” she giggled. “Let me look at you!” She inspected me from all angles. “See? I told you! I did good!”
She was still wearing Rhonda’s loaners.
“You haven’t changed?”
“Noooo... I called because I guessed you’d be sleeping off a shower, and I didn’t want to barge in on you. I’ll go up now and clean up for dinner. I took it upon myself to make us reservations up the bay for seven-thirty. If I move quickly, wed can make that, okay?”
She gave me a peck on the cheek and headed off. “What room are you in?” I asked.
She stopped, looking directly into my eyes. “I’m in our room, James. I have a key.”
She was back at the patio in an hour and change. She was beautiful in a blouse and skirt combination. I had never seen her in anything but jeans, shorts, or her business uniform of slacks and an open neck shirt.
We sat and watched the sun working its way to the horizon, and I kept thinking about her and our room, emphasis on “our.”
At dinner she again knew the owners of the restaurant. And then it was about 10 and we were back at “our” room.
“Jan, we need to talk,” I started.
“No, we don’t need any more talking, Jim. What we need is some quiet time alone.” And with that she stepped into my arms and kissed me like an adult. No peck on the cheek.
I hadn’t been intimate, or even kissed, since before Sandy had died. My senses were full of the smell, taste, and feel of this vibrant, warm woman.
It was, I realized, the second-sweetest kiss in my life. I remembered Shirlee Nelson’s admonition. “You deserve to have another special person in your life. It wouldn’t be unfaithful.”
I held her in my arms and we stood there, silently savoring the nearness.
56
The first long shadows were intruding on the bay when I disentangled myself from “our” bed on Saturday morning. I was as quiet as I could be, but my movement must have awakened Jan. “Mmmmfh,” she said, “where you goin’?”
I closed the bathroom door without comment and submitted myself to the shower, savoring the stinging spray and, to be honest, the feeling of smug satisfaction of a bicyclist who hadn’t ridden in a long time. When I came out she traded places without a word.
When she came out I had coffee made and ready for her. She smiled and took a cup. “Now we can talk.”
She seemed to be watching me over her cup, and held that pose long enough for me to become nervous. Then, her voice soft and whimsical, she started, “At forty-eight Jan the professional is way worldlier than Jan the woman who has never been married. In fact, there have been very few men in my romantic life, and none of them attracted me as you do.
“It’s not that I’m some kind of prude, I just haven’t had time or interest for casual affairs. I don’t care for men who claim they find me beautiful or who claim they like to hear me play and sing in hopes of landing a one-night fling.
“I’ve always been attracted to men who appreciate and enjoy my mind and my ability to accomplish things.
“Since I decided to build the Record out of nothing, I haven’t had time to see men as anything but peers, tutors, or clients.”
I started to say something, but she held up a finger to shush me. “I know I have become more attractive with age. I lost my gangly look sometime in my early thirties. I finally found eyewear that didn’t make me look like a spinster librarian about the time my driver’s license proved I was qualified for the title. ‘Boys don’t make passe
s at girls who wear glasses,’ she recited from the memory of her playground years.
“But I have made a real life even if the romance part of it has been lacking. I’ve earned respect in my community and my industry. I’ve formed real bonds with talented and motivated people who wanted to build a town and a history, and I am a leading participant in those efforts…”
“Jan,” I said softly, “you don’t have to recite your resume to me. You know that.”
“I don’t feel that need at all, Jim. I just need to assure you that one, I’m a big girl responsible for living my own life, and, two, last night only served to confirm for me beyond any doubt that you’re the first guy I’ve met in a decade who can meet my standards for a commitment. I could have said ‘I love you,’ yesterday, hell, two weeks sago, but I was afraid you’d think it was just a line to lure you into the sack.”
Then, as if she were talking out loud to herself, “Well, just what do you think about that?”
I rose out of my chair, took her cup in one hand, her hand in my other, and pulled her to standing position in front of me. I put the cup on the lamp table next to her chair, and led her back to our bed, just to show her what I thought about it.
57
Saturday morning was really well underway when we made our way to breakfast. My cell went off as we entered the dining area. Jan went to a table, I went to the patio.
“Jim?”
“This is he.”
“This is Lawton. I thought I’d better warn you that you’re in the sights of those bloodthirsty ticks from the media.”
“Why’s that?”
“Jan’s paper made Buchanan a murder victim Thursday, I’m shot while investigating it, you kill another suspect in self-defense, then Means gets captured here on Friday… well, even in a place like Traverse City, that adds up to news for those bastards.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I never realized how much you hated Jan and me.”
“Like any other bigot, all of ‘them’ are scum, but the ones I know. The ones I know are all right; decent, in fact.”
“That’s good to hear,” I laughed. “You seem to be in pretty good spirits today.”
“I am getting better, and they’re going to let me go home today, so I’m looking forward to that. But the best thing is I am to sit in on an interview with Mr. Means this afternoon.”
“Could I join you in that? I’d really like to hear him.”
“Don’t have your hopes too high. First, I’ll ask if you can come, but don’t count on it; and second, he hasn’t so much as asked for a glass of water since his arrest. They’ve appointed a public defender for him, but he isn’t talking to the lawyer, either. It’s as if he’s waiting for something or someone.”
He called me back just as we were walking out of the restaurant. “You’re in. We’re meeting at the Traverse County jail at eleven-thirty. See you there.”
We checked out of the hotel, and as we got to the rental SUV, I was stunned to find the entire back of the Bronco full of boxes and bags.
“Hey,” Jan said defensively. “I don’t own any clothes. I am starting over. I can’t tell you how much fun I had yesterday. Think about it, a gal loose on Front Street in Traverse City, with an insurance company backing her credit card? I can’t wait to come back.”
“You won’t have to go back for years…”
“Oh, pooh. I had ten pairs of shoes I wore regularly and another dozen for special outfits. I have to have formal wear, beach wear, and rough clothes for the woods… raingear. I had all that stuff.”
I hadn’t even considered what emotional turmoil she must have been going through since the fire. The loss of her clothes was probably the least of it, and certainly the easiest to replace.
She told me that her insurance appraiser had already verified a claim for her house, but she had a contents issue so they were going to be talking about that in the next week. And, she said, she had decided to rebuild the cottage, with some “slight” design changes. “I think I like the layout of your house, and it would fit there nicely. I’m going to ask an architect in your neck of the woods to make some drawings for me, if that’s all right with you.”
I told her I had a good friend in that business, and I’d hook them up.
A deputy waiting in the lobby of the jail escorted us through the double-lock security doors, “There’s an interview room down here that we’re going to use,” he said. “Lawton is already there, along with the DA. You will be able to see and hear them; they won’t know you’re there.”
“I’ve always wondered why the suspects don’t realize that most rooms don’t have eight-foot mirrors on the walls,” I said as we entered the observation room.
“Hi, I’m Howie Lund, the county prosecutor,” a thin, balding guy introduced himself. Lawton completed the introductions.
“If you were in there,” Lund explained nodding at the room we would be watching, “you’d see nothing but a blank wall, like the one you see on the other side. It’s a special reflective paint, and there’s a video camera recording everything as well.”
Means was led into the room by a deputy. His public defender and two plain clothes officers, casually dressed on a spring Saturday, came in minutes later.
They introduced themselves and reminded him that his attorney was there to protect his rights, but that they’d like to have him answer some questions.
He sat mute, staring straight ahead. The one-sided conversation lasted about two minutes, and the officers left.
“I’ll bet he’d talk to me,” I said.
“You can’t lay a hand on him,” Lawton said. “Hell, we all think we could beat these bastards into talking.”
“No, I’m not thinking about that. I just think I could lead him to talk. I know things about him and about his friends.”
“Like what kind of stuff?” Lund asked.
“Like Mickey knew that Means was probably the guy who would kill him, if anybody did. Like the fact that Santiago the younger told me that he and Means had killed Mickey.
“And,” I paused. “We have history, Means and I do.”
Lund went into the room and asked the public defender to step outside. “Terry, this is Jim Stanton. He’s up to his ears in this investigation. He would like to try and interview your client. I just didn’t want to spring that on you.”
The public defender appeared to be in his 20s. He had a thick shock of black hair and a definite Asian look to him, but his English was strictly Midwest. He stuck out his hand, “Mr. Stanton, I’m Terry Asasso. I’m a big fan of your work.
“I don’t care if you try to talk with him in my presence, but you have to know that he won’t talk to me. I’ve advised him that he shouldn’t say anything about the events of the past three days until he’s had a chance to review them with me. So far, he’s had nothing to say.”
I went into the interview room with Asasso.
“Raymond,” I started. “Looks like you’re in the shit, partner. I’d like to talk about it with you.”
I started with Mickey’s tape. “He knew you’d be the one if they decided to eliminate him. He predicted it.” I sat silent, and he gave up nothing.
I started again. “What I don’t understand is how you pulled it off. MSP says he was going at least a hundred when he hit that culvert. There were no skid or rubber marks, so you couldn’t just jack it up, rev it up, and then drop the rear end, like I had thought you might.
“How did that work?”
Nothing. A small smile had flickered at his lips, and I knew he wanted to talk to me, but he had composure. I checked my center, my breathing. I wondered if he knew where his center was.
“But the real reason I wanted to talk with you is old times. I’m sitting here watching you and I think you’re being loyal to Charlotte. I dunno, maybe to Frank or Crocker? It has to be one of them, but my money’s on Charlotte.
“It has to be those three, see, ’cause the others are all dead. You saw me kill Ricardo. I als
o killed Miguel back in Oregon. You must have known I wouldn’t have been here if I hadn’t killed Miguel.
“I would have killed Ronnie, too, if I had the chance, but Miguel took care of that chore.”
His eyes darted to mine.
“That’s right. It was supposed to be cleanup time. You and Ricardo were going to eliminate Jan Coldwell while the boys were going to kill me in my house.
“But the real plan was that during their raid on my house, I was supposed to kill Ronnie then Miguel would whack me, and it’d be an inexplicable mystery.
“Ronnie was expendable, and I’m guessing that if you guys would have tended to business at Jan’s house that night, you’d have never made it back to the compound. I can’t guess how many folks that river has claimed, one way or another.
“They were going to close shop, Ray; you, Ronnie, anyone else? We haven’t been able to find Crocker, is he going to be found, you think?”
He seemed to relax, sat casually, one arm along the back of his chair, a legs crossed under the table, “Mickey told us you were going to fuck us over. He told Char that night. I thought it was all bullshit, you know Mickey, he was always so cock sure he had it figured out.”
I shrugged a bit and lifted my hands, palms up. “No shit, this time he really did.”
Asasso put his hand on Means’ arm. “Ray, please. You don’t want to talk about this here. Let’s you and me talk about this in private before you make any statement to the author...”
Ray scowled at the young attorney, and Asasso yanked his hand away. “If you have to be here, pencil neck, you just sit there with your mouth shut.”
He shifted his look back to me. “Is there any wiggle room for me in this, Jim?”
“I’m not official, but I doubt it. You might try for something on the Mickey killing, but you shot a police officer. That attempted murder charge won’t probably go away. But, then, I don’t know what you can give them.”
