Acts of Malice

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  ‘‘Are you saying you threw this statement at me to make me get out of it? Am I hearing right?’’

  He put his arms out against the wall, pinning her in the corner.

  ‘‘Listen to me,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s because I owe you. I’m trying to help. I’m laying it out for you before the arrest so you don’t commit to him blind. If you still want to represent him now, that’s up to you.’’

  ‘‘I don’t want any favors! You make me feel like a two-year-old! Is that how you think of me?’’

  ‘‘Don’t shout. If you’d rather, I’ll leave you to make your own mistakes next time . . .’’

  His face was about six inches away. Nina’s indignation was turning into something else. ‘‘I’m leaving now,’’ she said, suddenly aware of a new feeling between them.

  ‘‘No, you’re not.’’ She wished he wouldn’t lean down like that. He had great eyes, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at them. He stopped talking. Neither of them moved. His coat was gray gabardine, his tie red silk. She had the crazy desire to reach out and stroke it.

  ‘‘Collier, move,’’ she said, eyes downcast. ‘‘Please.’’

  He leaned in and his eyes went blind and he planted his mouth on hers. She had been waiting for it. His lips felt warm, soft, right. She let him kiss her, let him feel how much she wanted it, but didn’t kiss back. Relieved of all responsibility, she just stood there and took it like a woman.

  The kiss lasted quite a while. Her mouth sent messages down her spine that stirred things up and she started trembling. His lips seemed to get hotter and hotter. He kissed her like he was searching for something, looking for her, only her. His hand went around her head and he held it buried in her hair so he could get just the angle he wanted. She was surprised to feel the soft bristles of his beard. This required investigation. Her arms came up to go around his neck—

  ‘‘Collier?’’ Barbara Banning, the impeccable young prosecutor, arms folded, said from the doorway. Collier stepped back, naked alarm in his eyes.

  ‘‘I’ll be seeing you,’’ Nina said with as much dignity as she could muster. She walked past Barbara’s fabulous perfume and curled lip, back into the pit where the secretaries labored, through the door, head held high, but in the hall she stopped, held her hand over her mouth, and said to herself, what the hell was that?

  5

  SANDY STOOD IN the just-plowed parking lot of the Starlake Building talking to a silver-haired Native American man in a leather jacket. Sandy often had visits from relatives and other tribe members. There was nothing extraordinary about this. The beat-up Chevy Cavalier with chains on the tires and the orange pennant flying from the antenna wasn’t extraordinary, either.

  What Nina found extraordinary was Sandy’s posture: hands on hips, head thrown back. Though Nina could hardly believe her eyes, they insisted that Sandy was laughing. Also, even though the weather had turned menacing, Sandy was not wearing her usual shield, the heavy square purple coat she hung on the office hat rack with scrupulous care each day.

  A few snowflakes swirled down in icy wind at the start of a snowstorm that would last into the night. The Bronco bucked over the frozen snow of the driveway and Nina pulled into her spot on the far end.

  ‘‘Call me,’’ Jim said, jumping out. He got into his truck, a late-model Toyota.

  Although the Bronco was parked in plain view across the lot, Sandy and her friend didn’t notice it. The man handed Sandy a small package, smiling at her, and then a mind-boggling event occurred: Sandy stood on her tiptoes and gave the fellow a peck on the cheek. She smiled again, a wide, unnerving smile that showed she had beautiful white teeth.

  Then she saw Nina.

  Jim’s truck had just started up. He drove out and into the traffic.

  The smile faded, the eyebrows grew together into a Frida Kahlo frown, and Sandy turned to watch Nina walk from the lot into the building.

  Five minutes later she came in, still holding the package. Nina, on the phone in the inner office, gave her a wave through the open door. ‘‘Hmph,’’ was the answer she got as Sandy sat down and turned to the computer, which had gone into a wait program Bob had installed, consisting of a dog chasing a cat endlessly around the monitor.

  ‘‘Honestly,’’ Nina said as soon as she got off the line. ‘‘I wasn’t spying on you.’’

  ‘‘Some people can’t give other people a second of privacy.’’ Sandy kept her back turned and didn’t miss a keyboard stroke. Her bracelets jangled slightly.

  ‘‘I know it’s none of my business—’’

  ‘‘But you won’t let that stand in your way—’’

  ‘‘Who is he?’’

  Sandy hunched her shoulders, indicating that she was vexed, a warning sign. Nina disregarded it.

  ‘‘And what’s in the package?’’

  ‘‘His name is Joseph.’’

  ‘‘And?’’

  ‘‘He’s Washoe.’’

  ‘‘You looked pretty happy out there.’’

  ‘‘You don’t have to sound so accusing. Now, I have work to do. Isn’t that what you hired me for?’’

  And not another word would she say.

  Nina returned to her phone calls, thinking that Sandy had definitely lost her mind. If ever there was a woman who was done with men, it was Sandy. She wouldn’t even discuss her ex, Wish’s father. She was obstructive, stubborn, independent, and proud, not qualities that lent themselves to a love affair. Sandy, with her plain workmanlike talk and her dour expression. It couldn’t be!

  And yet, the Sandy picking up the ringing phone in the outer office seemed indefinably different from her former self.

  Was Sandy in love? Why shouldn’t she fall in love? And why did Nina feel this obscure disappointment, this sudden sense of insecurity? Had she thought, half-unconsciously, that she and Sandy had a pact: done with men, was that it? Was that why she felt betrayed?

  Self-insight can be very deflating. Nina began feeling ridiculous. No question about it, she was a completely ridiculous person.

  She could still feel Collier’s lips pressed against hers.

  She felt a very strong urge to know what Sandy was up to. Was Sandy seeing the man outside or was Nina completely misunderstanding the situation?

  A buzz. ‘‘It’s Ginger.’’ Nina picked up and heard the breezy voice of Ginger Hirabayashi, an expert among experts in forensic pathology.

  ‘‘How’s business, Nina?’’

  ‘‘Oh, we’re having a great time up here. How are you?’’

  ‘‘Cool. You have something for me?’’

  ‘‘If you’re available. A skiing accident that’s getting dressed up into a homicide. A young man, expert skier, my client’s brother. Age twenty-seven. They were skiing together. The brother went over a cliff off-trail and landed on some rocks below.’’

  ‘‘Is Doc Clauson still the coroner up there?’’

  ‘‘Yep. He reconsidered his original autopsy report and my client found out he was in trouble, after the cremation, unfortunately. Ginger, get this: Clauson’s report concludes that the man died after the fall when somebody jumped on his torso in ski boots! Can you believe it? The trauma, whatever it was, transected the liver.’’

  ‘‘Ouch,’’ said Ginger. ‘‘Ski boots, hmm? Rigid, heavy plastic. Might leave a mark. Have they got your client’s boots?’’

  ‘‘I—I don’t think so.’’

  ‘‘They will soon. They’ll be trying to match up marks on the skin.’’

  ‘‘Clauson did think he saw something he calls ‘faint patterning’ on the skin, but only from looking at the photos long after the body was cremated. You think there could be a pattern even through cloth?’’

  ‘‘Oh, yeah. Might be able to compare the boot bottoms and marks on the cloth itself. Do they have his ski bibs?’’

  ‘‘I guess so, because the bibs were checked. Not a mark in that area, or on the parka. But . . . the cotton pullover underneath apparently had some kind of m
inor damage. I don’t have access to it. The report has this speculation in it that somebody pulled down the bibs and unzipped the parka before— My client hasn’t been arrested yet.’’

  ‘‘Intriguing. So where are they? The boots?’’

  ‘‘Well, I’m not sure. There’s no mention in the autopsy report.’’

  ‘‘Where’s your brain, girl? Good thing you have me. If they’re still lying around in his closet, you could ship them to me. I’ll give them up when they’re demanded, of course, but meantime I could have a look.’’

  ‘‘Good thought.’’

  ‘‘Use gloves. Put ’em in a clean bag.’’

  ‘‘I’ll try to get them. And I’ll send you Clauson’s report.’’

  ‘‘Fax it to this number.’’ It was a San Francisco number. Ginger’s office was in Sacramento.

  ‘‘Where are you, Ginger?’’

  ‘‘Downtown in the Federal Building, waiting to testify and dressed like a dork to impress the jury. Have you got the photos of the body?’’

  ‘‘No, and I won’t get anything else until after my client gets arrested. Which may happen soon.’’

  ‘‘Bummer.’’ Ginger mentioned her current hourly rate, which had increased, and Nina hung up.

  ‘‘Sandy? I need a really good private investigator.’’

  ‘‘You drove him away, remember?’’

  ‘‘There are others besides Paul.’’

  ‘‘No. There aren’t.’’

  Nina didn’t want to talk about Paul Van Wagoner. Exasperated, she said, ‘‘Why are you so mad at me? What did I do, except innocently drive into the parking lot of the building where I work?’’

  And see you with your guard down, she thought to herself, not expecting an answer. ‘‘Could you call around for me? I need to see somebody who’s good at locating people right away.’’

  ‘‘If you’re gonna make me.’’

  ‘‘And fax this to Ginger. Here’s the number. Then see if you can get Jim Strong at Paradise. I need to talk to him right away.’’

  ‘‘If I can get a word in, there’s a Philip Strong on hold.’’

  ‘‘Who?’’

  ‘‘Our client’s daddy.’’

  ‘‘Oh!’’ She picked up the other line.

  ‘‘Miss Reilly? My name is Philip Strong. I’m Jim’s father.’’ He had a youthful-sounding voice for a man who must be in his fifties. Nina imagined an older Jim; tall, attractive, wearing a brand-name parka, holding the phone to his ear in the big lodge while he kept an eye on the skiers climbing onto the quad lift outside.

  ‘‘I understand Jim came in to see you. I’d like to talk to you.’’

  ‘‘I appreciate your concern. Unfortunately, I can’t really talk about the case with anybody except Jim.’’

  ‘‘Yes, yes. But I can talk to you, can’t I? I have something to tell you. It’s important.’’

  ‘‘Certainly. Would you like to come to my office?’’

  ‘‘Actually, I was hoping I could invite you to have lunch with me at Paradise tomorrow. I promise I won’t ask you questions.’’

  ‘‘Does Jim know you’re calling, Mr. Strong?’’

  A pause. ‘‘No, and I’d prefer he didn’t,’’ Strong said. ‘‘He might not want me getting involved at this juncture. Even so, I feel I have to.’’

  Nina thought about that. If it would help Jim, she should go. ‘‘All right,’’ she said. ‘‘About one o’clock?’’

  ‘‘Come to my office in the lodge.’’

  ‘‘He’s been around a long time,’’ Sandy said later. They were turning off the lights, getting ready to leave. Sandy had gradually thawed into her usual cantankerous self.

  ‘‘Who?’’

  ‘‘Phil Strong. He and my daddy were friends. They used to hunt together when they were young. One time they hunted a bear. Illegal even back then, but they were both pretty wild, I hear.’’

  Nina zipped up her parka and started gathering up her papers. ‘‘How long ago was that?’’

  ‘‘Oh, who knows. Thirty-odd years ago. That family started the ski industry at the lake. They’ve been here since people wore coonskin caps.’’

  ‘‘And where’s your father now?’’

  ‘‘Dead.’’ Sandy said it with no emotion. ‘‘But he never did forgive that man. He almost stole my mother from him. That’s what my daddy said, but my mother said she had more sense. I always wondered what the truth was.’’

  ‘‘If he had, you’d be rich,’’ Nina said, teasing.

  ‘‘I am rich in everything that counts,’’ Sandy said in her customarily severe manner. They went out together and Sandy climbed into her ancient sedan and skidded off onto the darkening icy street, leaving Nina to realize that Sandy looked downright happy.

  Bob offered to make dinner when they got home. He was probably motivated by hunger and the certainty that Nina would not work her way around to his needs for quite some time yet. While she raced through her mail and picked up the living room, he rattled through the kitchen slamming drawers and opening cupboards, announcing a special dish he had in mind which combined a box of noodles, a few cans of soup, and a bag of frozen broccoli.

  She didn’t care what he made, she was so very grateful. She planned her praise in advance, and would say it, no matter what. That was how to raise a child that would cook.

  They had lived in their A-frame cabin for over a year now, and although she couldn’t remember ever shopping, somehow, over time, the place had gotten furnished and a few personal touches had begun to emerge. A soft rug defined the seating area by the large stone fireplace. Pictures of tropical palms, the ocean, and favorite art prints had somehow worked their way into frames on the walls.

  The sun spent much of the day on the kitchen table, coming in at a slant through one set of windows in the morning and pouring through the large plate glass at the back of the cabin in the afternoon. The sunniness, the airiness of it, and her attic bedroom were what Nina loved about her new home.

  Her main difficulty with home ownership, other than financial, was general maintenance. Her brother Matt had found her a handyman, a local man with arms like Popeye and a similarly half-cocked eye, and when things went wrong, if she remembered to call, he got around to making them right again eventually.

  When she got involved in a case, she ignored everything else. She got up in the morning and ran out the door. Stacks of clothes, folded and unfolded, clean and dirty, began to pile up. Paperwork, especially junk mail, took up a larger and larger portion of the kitchen counter, and eventually oozed to the table until they had to push things over to set places.

  Lately she had tried a new tack: no matter how tired she felt in the evening, she disciplined herself to spend at least fifteen minutes trying to establish some order before allowing herself the all-important glass of wine.

  She was really bushed tonight. What she really wanted to do was fall into bed and have five minutes to think about Collier before sleep took her. Fifteen minutes, she chanted to herself, don’t be lazy, go for it . . .

  Pulling a throw pillow out from beneath a chair, she tossed it to the couch. It fell back to the floor. Sighing, she picked it up again. She knew that there was a philosophy behind this repetitive labor, something about being in the moment, something about enjoying whatever you did thoroughly, but housework had always bored her. She could hear her mother’s voice even now, years after her death, saying, ‘‘Hustle, now, hustle.’’

  She bent down and started picking up Hitchcock’s sock shreds from the rug.

  ‘‘Hey!’’ A muffled shout, and a pounding at the door flooded her with relief. Matt had come to interrupt.

  ‘‘I’ll get it!’’ she called out to Bob.

  ‘‘Sis,’’ he said when she opened the door, stamping the snow off his feet. ‘‘You do have a shovel, don’t you?’’ He could barely see her over the snow-dusted logs he held in his arms.

  She looked past him, observing the narrow footpath
in the snow, the ice on the steps.

  ‘‘Oops,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ve been meaning to shovel that. Bob and I come in the back door when the snow’s bad.’’

  ‘‘What about other people?’’ Matt said, coming inside with his load.

  ‘‘Other people? What’s he mean, other people?’’ Nina closed the door on that problem.

  ‘‘I’ll shovel it for you before I leave.’’

  ‘‘No, no, no, Matt. You’ve got your own walkways to shovel. Don’t worry. We’ll get to it.’’

  Bob poked his head out of the kitchen to say hi. He held a wooden spoon which dripped thick red liquid on the floor.

  ‘‘You’ll get to it—in spring, right, Bob?’’ Matt said.

  ‘‘I could do it this weekend,’’ Bob said, ‘‘for a small remuneration.’’

  ‘‘Nice talk,’’ Matt said, sounding reproving.

  ‘‘Yes, what kind of language are they teaching you at that school?’’ Nina said.

  Bob laughed. ‘‘It’s a word nobody but me can pronounce in this scene we’re doing from Love’s Labour’s Lost.’’

  ‘‘How apropos to the moment at hand,’’ Matt said, walking over to the empty metal stand that sat on one side of the fireplace. With a loud thump, he dropped the wood, raising a cloud of dirt mixed with snow. ‘‘Labor being lost, I mean.’’

  ‘‘You’re in a scene?’’ Nina asked Bob, coughing and waving her hand. ‘‘Are parents supposed to come to see the play?’’ She hated that it came out like that, so put-upon sounding, but making time for his school activities, in principle her first priority, somehow often ended up lingering somewhere at the bottom of the list.

  Bob licked his spoon. ‘‘No, it’s just for the class. We’re going to critique each other. Will you listen tonight while I do my lines?’’

  ‘‘Sure,’’ she said. ‘‘After we eat your delicious dinner.’’

  He disappeared into the kitchen. ‘‘You let him cook?’’ Matt said, heading back toward the front door.

  ‘‘Whatever it is, say good things about it, Matt.’’ She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes were up. She had tried. Her heart had been in the right place. She had told herself to hustle. It wasn’t her fault Matt had arrived. She sat down, put her legs on the coffee table, crossed them, and took a sip of the wine she had poured earlier. ‘‘Whew. What a day,’’ she said. The wine tasted like summer, like Brazilian music, like Collier’s mouth. . . .