"Air Glide," said Merci.
"Friends of his," said Irene.
"No wonder they told me they didn't have any giants for drivers."
"No one talks about Zlatan. You must understand."
"Understand what?"
Irene stared at her and Merci stared back. "How he is without restraint."
"I'm beginning to."
"Then get out, please."
Serve and protect, thought Rayborn.
She pulled at the center desk drawer but it caught against its lock. The side drawers were locked also.
"Give me the key," she said. Irene sighed, then moved to the door and reached above the frame, She brought it to Rayborn, dropped it onto the blotter.
Top drawer: pencils, pens, a notepad promoting a company called NexLess. Merci held the pad to the light, saw no imprints on the top sheet but stripped it off and put it in her pocket anyway. There was a magnifying glass with a nice wooden handle. Matches, rubber band, paper clips. A key chain with a clear acrylic disk that said OrganiVen.
"What did he say about Gwen Wildcraft?"
"Nothing."
"Archie Wildcraft."
"Nothing. I read the papers about them."
"Don't tell me he never said anything about OrganiVen."
"He did not. Why would he talk business with me?"
"Except the girls."
Merci looked at her, tried to figure the bend of Irene's psyche that accommodated Zlatan Vorapin in whatever way she did. Came up with nothing but fear. Confirmed by the flatness of Irene's green eyes she stared through her.
"He was here. The man with the bullet in his head."
Rayborn felt her pulse jump, then the cool fingers of adrenal moving through her. "When?"
"Afternoon today. He waited across the street in a sports utilitycar. I watched from a window. When he took off his hat and looked at head in the mirror, I knew it was him. From television."
Irene shook her head, looked at her watch and brought her hand to the ear without the pearl. "I must finish and go."
"Thank you. Just so you know, Vorapin put that bullet in the man’s head. Murdered his wife in her own bathroom, shot her once in heart and once in the brain."
She offered Irene a card and the woman backed away.
"That would be foolish."
"Yes, it would. You'll remember my name. The operator will give you the department number."
"I've done too much for you. You can do nothing good for me. Go and never say to Zlatan that we talked."
Rayborn pocketed her card and turned to find Zamorra and the two uniforms examining the shower in Vorapin's bathroom. Twelve Gauge pointed at the gold nozzle, situated a full foot higher than the standard. Merci joined them, disturbed by the height of the thing.
"He's got some newspapers in his laundry room," said Zamorra. "Just certain sections, not the whole paper. They go back a week, and every one of them has something about Archie or Gwen in it."
"OrganiVen stuff in his desk," said Merci. She looked at Irene, who stared through a window like she wanted to fly out of it.
On the way down the hall Merci stopped and glanced into one of the bedrooms. There was a makeup table set up along one wall, with a lighted mirror and a chair in front of it. The chair was pushed back. A cigarette had burned down in the ashtray and the dead ash snaked from the filter down into the glass. A pearl earring sat next to a large tumbler of something clear over ice.
By the time they got back to headquarters, Zamorra had called Sheriff Abelera at home and talked him into authorizing twelve-hour after-dark undercover surveillance on the Bar Czar, Air Glide Limousine, Vorapin's home in the Fullerton hills and Archie Wildcraft's million-five spread in Hunter Ranch.
"I know, sir. I understand. Thank you."
When Zamorra punched off Merci asked him what the sheriff had said.
"He said he was holding a press conference tomorrow at noon. He's going to do the talking himself. We'll have a dedicated line for information and people to answer it twenty-four/seven. I can tell he's not convinced on the Russians, but he wants to be. The last thing he wants is Archie guilty. But he's got to act like he wants Archie guilty so he doesn't look like he's covering his own. Like Brighton did. He's got the Deputy Association pulling him one way, that prick Dawes leaking our evidence to the media, guys like Gary Brice making entertainment out of it."
Merci said nothing, just looked out the window at the darkened county, the taillights, the signs flipping past overhead.
"I wouldn't want his job," said Zamorra.
"Neither would I."
A lie, but she'd never told him of her plan. It wasn't something you could tell someone without sounding crudely ambitious. But that was the old plan anyhow. It went exactly like this: head of Homicide Detail by age forty; head of the Crimes Against Persons Section by age fifty; elected sheriff by fifty-eight. There had been a time when she believed it was possible. It was the plan of her life.
"You'd make a good sheriff," said Zamorra. "But you'd have polish your press conference performances."
"Man, would I."
"You've thought about that, haven't you—the job?"
"I used to."
"Don't stop. Things change. Then they change again. That's what you told me when Janine died, and you were right." She looked out at the county buildings along Flower Street, solid in the fading light. Funny, she thought, how she used to believe that her ninety-two percent conviction rate on homicide cases would pave her way to the office of the sheriff. Simple cause and effect. Girlhood dreams. She felt so much older now. But more real, more keenly attuned to the signals of all that can go wrong.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Tim had dressed himself for his mother's return home: plaid shorts, rubber rain boots, a suede cowboy vest with fringe and a red cowboy hat with his name embroidered on the crown. Stringless bow in one hand, rubber-tipped arrow in the other.
He met her at the screen door as she came across the porch in the lingering heat.
"Awchie threw flowers from the heckilopter."
"Yes, he sure did."
Good to know that her father and son had been monitoring the Wildcraft case. She could see Clark in the depths of the kitchen, looking out at her, keeping an eye on his grandson, too.
Tim banged the door open and clomped across the porch. She swept him up—it took real leg strength to lift him now—and he hugged her as much as the bow and arrow would allow. She tilted back the cowboy hat to reveal a face stained by something orange.
"Awchie is gone in the heckilopter?"
"Gone for now."
"Can you find him?"
"I hope so, Tim. He needs a doctor."
Merci elbowed her way past the screen door, reached up and locked the little deadbolt when they got inside. She set him down and he dropped his bow.
"Can I have your gun?"
"No. Never touch the gun. You know the rule."
"I never touch the gun?"
"Never touch the gun. "
"I can touch the gun?"
"What do you guys do all day, Dad," she said over Tim. "Just stay home and figure out ways to defy me?"
"Pretty much," he said. "They've been showing Archie and the helicopter over and over on CNB."
"Slow news day."
"You ought to see it. You can't tell at first what's coming out the chopper, then they zoom in and you see it's flowers. Then they show petals on the coffin. It really gets you. After that they intervewed the families."
In his rubber boots Tim waded to the TV and turned it on, but it was a commercial for a local car dealership.
"New car?" he asked.
"No, thanks, Tim. The Impala's running fine."
It was too hot and humid to be inside, so they sat on the backyard patio. Merci shooed one of the cats off an Adirondack chair and huffed down into it, wondering why an allegedly classic design was so uncomfortable. Clark had made lemonade but Merci asked for a "hearty scotch and water over ice. In t
he near dark, Tim played with a hose on the grass, watering down his hat, vest, shorts, everything. He chased one of the cats but it outran him and his spray. He found a gopher hole, put the hose down it and squatted down to watch the bubbles and mud froth out. She loved the way he squatted.
Merci looked out at Tim and the deep green Valencia orange trees beyond. She wasn't much of an orange eater, but she loved the smell of the trees, and not just the orange blossoms that narcotized you late winter and early spring, but the astringent summertime smell leaves and fruit. She was content for a moment, then the feeling was gone.
"Gary Brice left two messages. And Mike called a few minute ago."
"Mike? What about?"
"Well, not to talk to me."
"Pretty obvious, Dad."
"I really don't know. I'm just telling you he called."
Merci heard a vehicle out on the dirt road that led to their driveway. Probably the grove manager, she thought. Odd that Mike would call, but one of them was bound to break the silence. You don't love someone then arrest that person for a murder he didn't commit, then just ignore each other for the next fifty years.
Clark checked his watch, popped up and headed back toward the house. "I'm going to go get the evening paper," he said. "See if they got pictures of Wildcraft in the chopper."
The screen slider slapped shut and Merci saw Mike McNally's pickup truck bump onto the driveway concrete. She quickly connected the phone call, the watch check, the need for a newspaper and Mike's arrival into a loose conspiracy theory.
She watched the truck come up the drive and park under the floodlights she'd had installed. Mike got out and waved at her, same as he used to. His blond hair was shiny in the light. She saw from the way his hands went suddenly to his hips and the chesty posture that he was nervous.
Danny came around from the passenger's side carrying a small clear box by a handle. Danny was eight now, an intense and humorless boy who had gone far out of his way to ignore Merci when she and his father were together. She'd admired Danny's loyalty to his mother, a woman who treated Mike pretty much like shit so far as Merci saw. Tim spoke often of Mike and Danny, having easily attached himself to a friendly man and a big brother. Merci had explained their departure in vague terms that had never satisfied him. Tim was precise, forgot little, and it angered him to get soft answers to hard questions. She despised herself for taking them out of his life and told herself that someday he would understand. Mike had taken up with CSI Lynda Coiner after the arrest and she'd wondered what Mike told Danny.
Tim bolted for the backyard gate.
Here goes, she thought, taking a large gulp of her drink and pouring the rest into a potted rose tree, leaving the glass upended against the trunk and the ice cubes in the soil. Merci slid the bolt and Tim pushed open the gate. Danny gave Tim the clear box: a small terrarium containing an alligator lizard he caught. Danny didn't look at Merci. Mike extended his hand like salesman and she shook it, increasingly flummoxed and wishing she had some warning on this, then feeling her anger brew because Mike and good old Dad had not extended that common courtesy.
"Thanks for the warning," she said.
"We can't stay, Merci. I told Clark we were just going to drop lizard off for Tim."
"Well, okay, there's no harm done, Mike. It's great to see you. You too, Danny."
He glanced at her.
"Play with the hose?" Tim asked, pulling Danny by the shirtsleeve. The boy looked to his father for an answer, and Mike looked at Merci.
"Okay," she said. Tim pretty much threw the lizard box at her and the boys bolted.
"We can't stay," Mike said again. "We were just, look, Merci know I should have said something to you before we bombed in. I didn't. But I need to talk to you and I thought... I figured you'd say no and I didn't want to hear that."
"Okay, okay. Come on in. Let's sit."
Mike lowered himself into one of the torturous Adirondack chairs and Merci offered lemonade.
"No, thanks, really," he said. "I won't be here long."
She sat in the chair next to his and for just a flash felt like a real couple, watching their children play in the yard. Tim had turned the hose on Danny, who dodged in and out of range. She could smell the dogs on Mike because Mike was the department bloodhound hand and three of the hulking monsters—Dolly, Molly and Polly—lived with him.
"It seems like a thousand years since I sat here," he said.
"It does. How are you, Mike?"
"Just fine, really. I'm glad to be out of Vice. Burg-Theft is hopping.
"You?"
"Hands full with Wildcraft." She had the lizard box on her lap and she saw the creature peeking out at her from under a piece of bark.
"The press conference was bad. Sorry."
"Yup."
"But that's one of the reasons I'm here. I mean, not directly, but related."
"What's up?"
"It's time for the Deputy Association to elect its reps for next year. Pretty much whoever gets nominated gets elected. I'm on the nominating committee and I want to nominate you."
A wrinkle of joy wobbled through her, followed by a hot flatiron of suspicion. She set the terrarium beside her chair.
"Why me, Mike? Half the department hates me."
"It's kind of hard to explain. I'll try, though."
She watched Mike's forehead knit, saw in his clear blue eyes his enduring struggle with words. He'd told her once that he liked being around dogs more than people and meant it.
"Merci, some of it's about you and me. See, what happened wasn't all your fault. And not all Evan O'Brien's fault, either. Some of it was mine. So, skip forward until now, and a lot of the deputies, they blame you. And a lot of them took my side, like you just said. But not many of them knew that I fell in love with that girl, and that I deserved to get my ass kicked for it. Not that I deserved exactly how it went down, but. .. well, they just don't know. Am I making sense?"
"Some."
"So I hate it like this, half the guys pulling for me when they don't know what happened, and half of them hating you for no good reason. It's all. .. simplified and stupidified. Like a bunch of children. It's like we're symbols for something. But what you did with Brighton and my dad and yours, God, it must have been hard for you. And it had to be done, Merci. I know it did. I'm glad you did it, even though my dad suffered. He deserved to suffer. Clark deserved to. Brighton deserved to. So what I'm saying is, I was behind you then, even though everybody pulled us apart. And I was too wrapped up in you and the girl and getting arrested to see clear, you know? I just let the crowd carry me along like some kind of wounded hero. It was easy. But I'm sick of it now. It's degrading. I don't want the department torn like this. I want us all at least halfway together. What you did, it cleaned us out, but now nobody gets along. I can't write a memo about all this because it's hard plain all the emotions I was going through back then. Too personnal. I'm sick of my emotions, I really am. But I want you on the of deputy reps. And if I'm the one to make the nomination, then that just sets all this stuff straight. It says two people who disagree agree. I don't mean to sound like I'm important or anything, but it sends a message. I can send a message to this department—forget. forgive, move on. Actually, I can send half that message to the department. And you can send the other half by accepting the nomination and letting it go to a vote. I'll be explaining to the other deputies what happened, as much as I can. I'll be pulling for you. For us. You know, I mean, for the whole department."
He was a little breathless by then, blinking fast like he did when his mind was working hard.
"I haven't said that much at one time in my whole life," he said, smiling. His forehead was relaxed now, but covered in a shine of sweat. "Except maybe to one of my dogs."
A large and basic movement took place inside Rayborn then, and she could feel it, plates of hope and history in realignment. It was like breathing a new way, or having your nerves cleaned and straighten and freshly laid into place.
&n
bsp; "I accept."
"You've got a couple of weeks to think about it."
"I accept."
Mike stood but said nothing.
She opened her mouth to say she was sorry, that she was so sorry for everything that had happened, but this was not quite true and she knew it; and she was also about to say she thought he was a man, really a very good man, but there were a million wrong ways to take that; and she wanted to hold him like you'd hold a brother or old dear friend or an aging mother or father, but again there was so much that could go wrong. She wiped away a small tear and called upon all her will to keep more from coming.
"Damned hot today, wasn't it?"
He turned and looked at her. "Ninety-two at Civic Center, about average for this time of year. Good seeing you, Merci. You look terrific."
"Thanks. How's Lynda?"
"She said she'd break it off if I came over here and asked you to run. I told her it was off already, then. It shouldn't have gotten to that point. Even I'm smart enough to know that."
She let Tim stay up an extra hour to watch the late CNB report. Clark settled in early for it, like it was a playoff game. Merci sat on the couch beside Tim and stroked his soft hair while Michelle Howland blabbed her intro over a montage of the annual portraits that the Wildcrafts commissioned of themselves:
"Was it love or hate? Did the deputy kill his wife? Or did he try to save her—and get the bullet that is still lodged in his brain? This is Michelle Howland and tonight we'll have a special look inside the life of county Sheriff Deputy Archibald Wildcraft—a man many believe was responsible for shooting to death his beautiful young wife, Gwen. But whom many others believe is a man misunderstood, a man too deeply in love with his wife to ever do her harm. In the next hour we'll talk to Archie's and Gwen's parents and friends, to the people they worked with. You'll hear from doctors and lawyers. We'll show you how Deputy Wildcraft attended Gwen's funeral today without touching the ground, and we'll show you exclusive CNB footage of Wildcraft himself taken just hours after his dramatic funeral appearance. Stay tuned for 'Hero or Killer—the Mystery of Archie Wildcraft.' "
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