Acts of Malice

by Perri O'shaughnessy

  Matt hovered meaningfully by the door.

  ‘‘Gee, Matt. Thanks for bringing the wood. Why don’t you have a seat. I’ll see if we’ve got any beer.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ve got more work to do.’’

  She picked up the newspaper. He continued to hover.

  Slapping it down on the table she said, ‘‘Okay. Tell me where you are going and what needs doing that obviously involves me.’’

  ‘‘Out to the pickup to restock your woodpile.’’

  ‘‘I guess we do need some.’’ She rubbed her bare feet. She did not want to go out into the snow again, not even for the promise of many future warm fires.

  ‘‘Andrea told me that you guys are almost out of wood. It’s already winter, Nina. You need four cords per winter up here. This isn’t the city. You can’t just flip the thermostat to high and expect to get heat. Sometimes, the power goes out. In fact, it goes out several times every winter. When the power goes out, the ignition for your heating system doesn’t work. It gets mighty chilly. Now. I brought you some wood.’’ He threw her a pair of gloves. ‘‘But we’re going to have to stack it under the porch.’’

  ‘‘How much exactly are we talking about?’’

  ‘‘Half a cord.’’

  ‘‘Oh, no,’’ said Nina. ‘‘Not tonight. Not that I’m not grateful, but . . .’’

  He took her arm. ‘‘Up you go. Where are your boots?’’ He snuffled through the front closet, pulling out a pair of large Wellingtons. ‘‘Ah,’’ he said. ‘‘Truffles.’’

  After they stacked the wood to his satisfaction, so that it did not touch the house, so that it was covered with a tarp, so that the newest wood sat at the bottom of the pile, Matt consented to dine with them. Bob had made a casserole with tomato soup, cheese, and noodles, covered with crackers. The broccoli he boiled to a soggy gray separately, because Nina insisted on a vegetable, and because he preferred his ingredients pure, meaning, Nina had decided, untouched by anything that met current medical guidelines for nutritious food.

  They ate every bite.

  Bob ran upstairs to start his homework, leaving chaos in the kitchen. Nina began the cleanup by mopping up the now-dried red dribbles on the floor by the living room.

  ‘‘Use some ammonia,’’ Matt said, resting peacefully at the table.

  ‘‘You know, the more confident and successful you get at your business, the bossier you get, Matt.’’ Matt drove a tow truck in the winter and ran a parasailing franchise on the lake in summer.

  He gave her a monkey grin.

  She poured straight ammonia on the spots, reeling back from the smell. ‘‘I wish Mom could see you now,’’ she went on. Matt had been their mother’s angel, and he still had a deceptive boyish innocence about him even though he was in his early thirties now.

  He had been through so much. While Nina had busied herself with law school and having an out-of-wedlock child, he had fomented his own revolution with drugs and dropping out. She never knew what had finally straightened him out. Maybe one of the rehabs their father had sponsored. Maybe the threat of prison.

  Or possibly, he had grown up. It happened to everybody at twenty or thirty or fifty. Now, compared to her, he was exemplary, a doting father, prospering businessman, and faithful husband.

  Matt said, ‘‘I hear you have a new client. The Strong family is pretty high profile up here. People enjoy gossiping about them. I hear a lot of stories.’’

  ‘‘Oh?’’ She straightened up, feeling a crick in her back that told her that tomorrow even her cushy office chair would feel like a medieval rack.

  ‘‘I heard something about Marianne Strong. Alex Strong’s wife.’’

  ‘‘What have you heard?’’

  ‘‘That would be gossiping. And I don’t gossip,’’ said Matt, too late.

  ‘‘Do you wish to return home in one piece tonight?’’ Nina said.

  ‘‘Okay, okay. Uh, she dated Jim Strong before she married Alex.’’

  ‘‘That’s all?’’

  ‘‘And she married Alex after Jim jilted her for Heidi. That was the story.’’

  ‘‘And where did you hear this?’’

  ‘‘From a ski instructor who knows her. His pickup ran off the road yesterday and I went out with the tow truck. He was sitting in the cab with me while I towed the pickup to a gas station and we got to talking.’’

  ‘‘Hmm.’’ She stashed that factoid away in a safe place in the filing system in her brain.

  ‘‘Is Jim Strong going to be charged with murder?’’

  Nina laid down the dish brush, wiped her hands, and walked to where she could see him better. ‘‘Can’t talk about it,’’ she said. ‘‘You know that.’’

  He shook his head. ‘‘Why do you have to do criminal work? Why can’t you do wills and trusts and appeals and stuff like that? You could still make a living, and you’d have more time to enjoy life. What’s the attraction?’’

  ‘‘You promised to stop harping on this subject, Matt.’’

  ‘‘Just remember what you promised. . . .’’

  ‘‘Right. No family involvement. I haven’t forgotten.’’

  Matt polished off his coffee and stood up. ‘‘Thank Bob for the astounding—I mean—outstanding dinner, will you?’’

  She laughed. ‘‘Sure.’’

  But he didn’t go. He leaned against the door. ‘‘I’ll never understand you, Sis,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Oh, stop. I do it because it’s real, Matt. I don’t know how else to explain it. I’m a practical person. Criminal law isn’t abstract or indirect, like drafting a bunch of papers that shift money around. Something real happens. It’s a crisis point for my clients. People keep their liberty or lose it. I make a difference.’’

  ‘‘But you’re involved with people you might not even want to know, putting it all into saving them. I wish you could follow my lead for once. I decided a long time ago to channel my energies into keeping my own family safe and happy.’’

  ‘‘And so far, you’ve succeeded magnificently. Really. I’m in awe sometimes, Matt.’’

  He pulled on his wool hat and put his hand on the doorknob. ‘‘You have neatly changed the subject.’’

  ‘‘Hush, Matt. Have a safe trip home.’’ She gave him a quick hug. He went out, still shaking his head.

  A hot bath helped, but even as she pulled on her nightgown in the bedroom, Hitchcock licking the water droplets off her legs, she knew she was stiffening up. She went back to the bathroom for some ibuprofen.

  At last. Beautiful, wonderful bed. It was only ninefifteen. Nine, ten hours of sleep stretched before her like a carpet of flowers. She curled up under the covers. Jim, Bob, Sandy, and Matt . . .

  Collier.

  Mrs. Geiger. Had the settlement really broken up the marriage? Was that good or bad? Was she somehow responsible? Should she take on Mrs. Geiger as a divorce client? Should she sink down gently through the layers of consciousness into a sweet swirling peace . . .?

  The phone on the bed stand rang. No, please, she really needed some sleep . . . It wouldn’t stop.

  She snaked out a hand and pulled the receiver off its hook, not moving from under the covers.

  ‘‘They’re searching my house!’’ Jim Strong said. ‘‘The police!’’

  ‘‘Okay. Let me think.’’ It hurt, but she forced her mind back from its languor. ‘‘Did they show you a warrant?’’

  ‘‘Yes. Can they do this at night?’’

  ‘‘What time did they come?’’

  ‘‘Just before nine.’’ It figured. Night search warrants required a much more detailed affidavit for the judge’s review, but if the search was commenced one minute before nine o’clock, under California law it was still technically a day search. Collier, she thought again, but this time with a completely different emotion than that of a few moments before.

  ‘‘They can,’’ she told Jim.

  ‘‘They’re tearing the place apart!’’
/>
  ‘‘I should have warned you it was likely to happen. Have you got anything there you shouldn’t have? Contraband, guns?’’

  ‘‘No. We don’t do drugs. I don’t keep guns. There’s nothing here. They’re bagging up my ski gear.’’

  ‘‘Damn it!’’ she said. ‘‘Excuse me, Jim. But have they got your boots? The ones you were wearing the night Alex died? It’s really important. That’s why I left a message at the lodge earlier today for you to call me.’’

  ‘‘My boots? They’re not here.’’ As if someone might be within listening distance, he lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘‘My father went in the ambulance with Alex, and I followed in my father’s Blazer. I left my boots in there.’’

  ‘‘Where are they?’’

  ‘‘Why—I guess my father has them. I haven’t felt like skiing since that day. They’re probably still on the floor of the back seat.’’

  ‘‘The Blazer’s not at your place?’’

  ‘‘No—it’s probably at his house at Marla Bay.’’ He paused. ‘‘They’re searching my car outside right now.’’

  A gleeful, guilty thrill ran through her. Collier wouldn’t have the boots tonight. Since Marla Bay was over the state line on the Nevada side of Lake Tahoe, it would take a while for the police to locate them, and longer to get a Nevada warrant.

  ‘‘So they want my boots! I guess I should have thought of that.’’

  ‘‘Jim, listen. It’ll be all right. I’m going to go get the boots from your father tomorrow and send them to an expert in Sacramento. Don’t try to get them yourself. Don’t talk to your father about it. Understand?’’

  ‘‘Not really.’’

  ‘‘Just do what I say. Okay?’’

  ‘‘Okay.’’

  ‘‘Have they asked you any questions? They should know better than to do that without me there.’’

  ‘‘They won’t say anything to me.’’

  ‘‘Well, if they do, tell them you spoke with me tonight and you are asserting your right to remain silent.’’ He didn’t have to be under arrest to assert that right, he just had to be under suspicion, and the search tonight confirmed that Jim was a suspect.

  ‘‘Okay.’’

  ‘‘Did the police ask you about the boots before?’’

  She could hear him expelling a deep breath. ‘‘Hmm. No, I don’t think so.’’

  And now she understood another reason why Collier had been so anxious to ask Jim just a few questions that day. He wanted to ask Jim where the boots were.

  The cops had blown it. Now Jim had a lawyer and they would have to find the boots themselves. She would be glad to bring them right into Collier’s office, as soon as Ginger had a crack at them.

  She and Collier were embroiled in a subtle, dangerous game. She’d have to get sharper. She should have gotten the boots today. On the other hand, the police should have found them the minute they suspected a homicide.

  ‘‘Aren’t you coming out?’’ Jim asked.

  ‘‘You don’t need me, Jim. I can’t stop the search. Just don’t say anything and you’ll be all right.’’

  ‘‘Who has to clean all this up when they’re done?’’

  ‘‘You, unfortunately. Do you have a Polaroid camera?’’

  ‘‘Yeah.’’

  ‘‘Take pictures of the mess after they leave, just in case. That’s about all we can do.’’ It probably wouldn’t do any good but might make him feel better.

  ‘‘Okay,’’ Jim said again. Nina could hear slamming and banging in the background.

  ‘‘I know how you feel,’’ she said. ‘‘Violated. You can’t believe a group of police can burst into your home and search into every private corner you’ve got. But that’s how the system works. At least in this country you have to get a judge to approve it first. I’m sorry.’’

  ‘‘I’m glad Heidi’s not here. She’d—I don’t know what she’d do. They’re going through all the stuff she left too. I guess I’ll go sit out in the car. I can leave the heater running. They’re finished with the car. I’ll wait until they’re gone to go back inside.’’

  ‘‘Good idea. Don’t leave the property. Let them know where you are. Don’t force any issues.’’

  ‘‘I won’t. Thanks for— I’m glad I went to see you. I couldn’t go through this without your help.’’

  ‘‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’’ She hung up with a clatter and sank back against the pillow, her mind buzzing with mental lists, details, strategic revisions.

  6

  POTENT SUN REFLECTING off virginal snowfields, and, filling a mighty fault line between high mountains, an oval of aching blue seventy-two miles around and sixteen hundred feet deep: Lake Tahoe.

  Through this oval, running north-south, the California-Nevada state line splits the lake lengthwise, but the settlers of the nineteenth century ignored such political niceties. Instead of building their towns on the west and east sides, which would have placed them comfortably within one state or the other, they settled on the North Shore and South Shore with the state line running through the most populous areas.

  On the South Shore, the line between the states is obvious. As the California town of South Lake Tahoe meets the Nevada town of Stateline, certain things change; the snowplows plow better, the sleepy motels become glitzy casino-hotels, and the party starts.

  Or so Nina reflected as she drove across the state line into Nevada and into heavy traffic on Friday at noon. As Calcutta children pour into the thirsty street at the first moment the monsoon rain falls from heaven, so the gamblers, the skiers, the purse snatchers, the weirdos, the adulterers, and the party people were pouring into town to celebrate the early snow.

  Once landed, some never left the casinos; some never left the slopes. A few never left their rooms. They were shoveled out in the morning with the empty whiskey bottles and Domino’s Pizza boxes.

  Just ahead, the sidewalks swarmed with bedazzled visitors making their way from one gaming establishment to the next. The locals looked seedy in their vests and jeans next to the bright spandex and nifty headgear of the tourists.

  At Caesars, where Clint Black was appearing, the valets couldn’t keep up with the demand and the cars stretched out into the street, blocking traffic. Vegas-style neon, tacky in the healthy glow of day, announced the weekend’s other pleasures, a show called ‘‘Phantasy II’’ at the Horizon and a circus at Prize’s.

  While the Bronco idled in the traffic, waiting with the other sports utility vehicles for a break in the pedestrian flow, Nina watched the ivory mountain bordering the town on the right, also split between two states. Bright dots streaked down the ski trails of Heavenly. On the far side of the mountain, mostly inside Nevada, she thought she could just make out the lodge at Paradise.

  Alex and Jim had been skiing that mountain, just inside the California line.

  Ten more minutes brought her to the Paradise parking lot and its mud-spattered chartered buses. She traded her heels for a pair of ankle-high boots. Stepping out onto the slush over the asphalt, she buttoned her coat and dropped her head against the chilly breeze, hurrying to the lodge.

  In the oak-paneled lobby with its antlered wall trophy, she ran into Jessica Sweet, Paradise’s accountant. Mrs. Sweet looked just as hale and tan as the last time Nina had seen her, but not so combative. She had lost her daughter a long time before and in a way Nina had helped her find out what had happened to her.

  ‘‘So he did go to see you,’’ Mrs. Sweet said, wasting no time.

  ‘‘Thanks for recommending me.’’

  ‘‘You’re the best of the local lot, I suppose.’’

  ‘‘I’ll do my best.’’

  ‘‘He’s a charming boy. A fantastic skier. It’s bad for the resort, all these rumors.’’ She told Nina how to get to Philip Strong’s office.

  Noisy families eating lunch filled the long trestle tables of the lodge cafeteria. Dripping skis lined the wall. Through the picture window, the beginners on the bunny
slopes gave the diners something to laugh at.

  Solemn as a mortician in her court clothes, Nina made her way through the skiers, ignoring the stares. There were probably only ten other suits in the whole town and eight of them were currently arguing with each other down at the courthouse. As she went down the hall toward Strong’s office, the door opened and she heard a man say, ‘‘He just died! I don’t want to talk about it!’’

  ‘‘Then I’ll sell the shares to Jim,’’ a girl’s hoarse voice said. The girl, dark, in ski gear, came rushing out and brushed by Nina.

  Philip Strong’s office smelled like cedar. The chairs were upholstered in bright Marimekko fabric. Books and photographs lined the walls. He met her at the door and shook her hand firmly, a sinewy man in a skintight blue ski suit. No smile. He was upset about the conversation that had just ended, that was clear. She wondered who the girl skier was.

  The first thing Nina noticed about the elder Strong was that he was bald. Not totally bald in a way that makes a statement, but half bald, his dark hair curling around the bottom half of his skull, but then leaving off suddenly, nuked by a bad gene, unable to climb the slippery dome. It gave him a clownish look, though the rest of his face, lined deeply from nose to mouth, was sensitive, sorrowful.

  ‘‘Sit down.’’ He waved toward a leather chair. Nina sat down and set her briefcase with the large empty plastic Nordstrom’s bag in it on the carpet.

  ‘‘Where’s Jim today?’’

  ‘‘In Reno checking on some equipment.’’

  So much for introductions. Cautious, Nina waited for Jim’s father to make clear his attitude and agenda. She meditated on how hungry she was. Hot soup would hit the spot. Would they be eating at the lodge?

  A display case on the wall was crammed with skiing trophies and photographs. Philip had his trophies, but there were quite a few for Jim and Alex up there, too. The Mirror hadn’t broken the news about the amendment to the autopsy report. When that time came, she was sure it would be front-page news again. The family was too prominent in Tahoe to expect much privacy.