by Jon Jackson
“What about this Lucani group?” Mulheisen asked.
The Colonel seemed startled. He glanced at Joe, who didn’t reveal anything in his expression. “I don’t know what Joe has told you,” Tucker said to Mulheisen, “but it’s just an informal group of agents, with like minds about some things. I’m sure you’re familiar with the kind of rapport that some law enforcement people develop with one another.” He glanced at Joe again, then added, “Joe might have gotten a mistaken view of it . . .”
He said to Joe then, “I’m sorry, Joe. I probably misled you a bit. But you are, essentially, an outsider on this issue. Sometimes it’s necessary, a need-to-know sort of thing. Mulheisen, I’m sure”—he glanced at Mulheisen—“understands how that works. It’s a necessary evil, a way of doing what needs to be done.”
Mulheisen asked, “Was Constance Malachi a member of the Lucani?”
“Not really,” Tucker said. “She might have thought she was. I may have given her that impression. Once again, it’s just a way—”
“Of doing business,” Mulheisen finished for him, with a wry tone. “And you’re confident that Luck never knew she was an agent?”
“Well, you can’t ever be sure,” Tucker said. “But, yes, I’m fairly confident. I never had any indication otherwise, from her or from him.”
“All right, then. What’s all this stuff about this Echeverria? Did you set Joe up to assassinate him?”
“Echeverria is a complicated issue,” the Colonel said. “I’m really not at liberty to discuss—. All right”—he noticed Mulheisen’s impatient expression, and went on, hastily—“all right, he’s another of those snafus that crop up in bureaucratic situations, one group trying to carry out a mission, an official mission, and then another group intervenes with a superior mandate. You know the sort of thing. I never agreed with the disposition of that case, but what could I do? My hands were tied. And then it seems he had a connection with the bombing. One of his men was being heard that day, making a deposition. I thought we might be able to make a connection. Plus, Joe here had reason to be interested. Echeverria held a grudge against him. But let me say, there was no assassination plot.”
“No?” Mulheisen raised an eyebrow toward Joe.
The Colonel shrugged, sipped his whisky, poured some more. “We needed Joe’s help. It had to look like Echeverria was hit. That was the cover. Then, when I needed his help again, on this investigation, he was being a bit cute with me. I applied a little pressure. Joe can be difficult, you know.” He smiled wryly at Mulheisen, then said, “Sorry, Joe.”
Joe was looking out the window. He didn’t acknowledge the remark. Mulheisen was thoughtful, gazing quietly at Tucker, puffing gently on his cigar.
“What do you know about Constance Malachi’s death?” Mulheisen asked finally.
“Not much,” Tucker said. “Why? Is there a problem?”
“I don’t know,” Mulheisen said. “Is there?”
“Not that I know of,” Tucker said.
Mulheisen sat quietly, drawing on the cigar and looking at Tucker. It was a long silence. Joe turned from the window, waiting. The silence was accentuated by the rain drumming steadily on the metal roof.
Finally, Tucker said, “She had some kind of congenital heart problem. Tragic. She was so young . . .”
“She was a federal agent, you said,” Mulheisen noted. “I guess she must have had some training? Yes? And a physical. You usually have to pass a physical. That’ll be on record. It must not have been detected. Eh?”
“I don’t know,” Tucker said. “I guess not. Her doctor said—”
“I know what her doctor said,” Mulheisen said, “or at least what someone who was supposed to be her doctor said to the doctor who actually examined her, postmortem. I suppose one could have her remains exhumed, just to clarify the cause of death. If one knew where she was buried. Do you know where she’s buried?”
But Tucker had heard enough. He pushed back from the table. “Gentlemen, I’m tired,” he said. “I’ve had a long day. This is absurd. I’m not in the mood for sitting around discussing the death, by natural causes, of a woman who obviously has no bearing on my mission.”
“Ah,” Mulheisen said calmly, “what do you want to discuss?”
“I’d be happy to discuss the bombing. That’s my task. If we’re through here—”
“Relax, Colonel,” Mulheisen said. “Have another drink.” He pushed the bottle. Tucker hesitated, then poured himself a shot. While he drank, Mulheisen asked, “What do you know about Luck’s operation? You had an agent there. What’s the point of the armed guards? What’s he hiding?”
Tucker shook his head wearily. “It’s just some pseudo-militaristic patriot group,” he said. “It’s nothing. A bunch of lard-ass conservative flag-wavers. But really, fellas, I’m not here to be interrogated by a man who isn’t even an official pol—”
“Tucker, listen up,” Mulheisen said calmly, drawing on the stub of his nearly depleted cigar. “People don’t die unattended without the body being autopsied. And when the body disappears—” “Bodies can disappear,” Joe interjected. “Especially out here. Float away in the river. Sometimes they aren’t found.” There was no menace in Service’s tone, just a flat, almost careless assertion that sounded fairly reasonable.
Tucker’s eyes flickered from Mulheisen to Service, then back. He finished his drink, then reached for the bottle. Mulheisen moved it away, casually, before he could touch it. The Colonel sat back, watching.
“What is this,” he said, looking at Joe, “good cop, bad cop?” He snorted contemptuously.
“I’m not a cop,” Joe said, “and neither is Mul.” He was leaning his butt against the counter, fiddling with the .38, flicking the cylinder open, spinning it, then snapping it shut. “I thought about shooting you more than once, Tucker,” he said, without emotion. “You tried to set me up once before, with that idiot agent of yours. What was his name? Pollak. The guy who never came back. I’ll tell you what . . .” He set the .38 on the table next to Tucker’s hand. Then he opened his jacket to reveal the Llama automatic in his shoulder holster.
Tucker smiled derisorily. “Am I supposed to throw down on you? Joe, you’ve been living in Montana too long.” He waved his hand toward the pistol.
The Llama flashed out, into Joe’s hand.
Tucker was visibly taken aback. His chair scraped as he reeled back from the table, his hands up, his eyes wide. He wasn’t tired anymore.
Joe said, his voice low and tight, “Pick it up. I’ll blast your ass through that window. Pick it up.”
Tucker stared at him. Suddenly, Joe leaped. He seized Tucker by the collar. Tucker fell back, tipping over the chair and landing on the floor. Joe was on him, twisting his collar, the Llama thrust into his face. Joe’s eyes were wild.
“Joe! Don’t,” Mulheisen cried, scrambling to his feet.
“Get away, Mul,” Joe snarled. “I’m gonna blast this asshole!”
“Joe! I can’t let you do it,” Mulheisen shouted. “I swear, I’ll hunt you down. Let him up.”
Joe didn’t move. His and the Colonel’s eyes were locked. Then, abruptly, Joe released the man and stood up. He slipped the Llama into the holster and then picked up the .38. He stepped back casually.
Tucker got to his feet, awkwardly, straightening his clothes.
Mulheisen helped Tucker pick up the overturned chair and got him seated. He poured him a jolt of whisky and waited until he’d drunk it. Then he sat down. “Sorry about that, Tucker,” he said. “Are you all right?” He glanced at Joe warningly, but Joe was nonchalantly leaning against the counter again, as if nothing had happened.
“I’m all right,” Tucker said. He didn’t look at Joe.
Abruptly, Mulheisen asked, “You were Constance Malachi’s superior. You have access to her files. Her medical file, her reports. It would be interesting to see them. Let’s say that you had no reason to suspect any problem with her demise. But now a question has arisen. It wouldn’t be m
uch of a problem for you to obtain the records and review them.”
“No,” Tucker said, responding to Mulheisen with alacrity, eagerly seizing on a different topic. “No, it wouldn’t. I could get them. That’s a good idea. Just to clear things up. Would that satisfy you, sergeant?” He glanced at Joe, who was toying with the chamber of the .38, idly spinning it.
Mulheisen drew on his cigar and found it was dead. He laid it in the ashtray at his elbow. “Yes, it would be helpful. If there was no problem, as you say. But, if there was a problem, then I suppose the next step—”
“We’d have to talk to Imp. Luck.” Tucker seemed eager to pursue that. “There might be questions he’d have to answer.”
“But would Luck cooperate?” Mulheisen asked rhetorically. “Mightn’t he say too much, about other questionable issues? If he felt threatened, I mean?”
“Ah. I see what you mean,” Tucker said. He seemed more composed now, collaborative. “Well, that’s something we can face when and if it arises. But he’ll have to answer for Connie, won’t he? That’s really, after all, a separate matter. Yes, I think it could be managed.”
He gestured toward the bottle and Mulheisen nodded. Tucker poured himself a sizable jolt, then drank. “Ah, that’s not such bad stuff,” he said, “though a little commercial. I prefer the single malts. You don’t drink, sergeant?”
“Where was Luck when the bomb went off?” Mulheisen asked.
“Fishing,” Tucker said. “He had an alibi.”
“Who attested to it? One of his men?”
Tucker shrugged. “It seemed to be substantiated. It would be hard to dispute.”
“I wonder,” Mulheisen said. “There must have been some kind of trail associated with the explosive, the truck that was used, the other men involved.”
“Oh, we’ve gone over that meticulously,” Tucker said. “No witnesses could identify the accomplices. The truck was stolen, no fingerprints. It was a well-planned job. No, we’ve found that to be a dead end.” The Colonel spoke confidently now, recounting the details of the incident. “The explosives were common materials, nothing that could be traced. No pattern that could be associated with known bombers, particularly. We’ve been all through that.” He nodded at Mulheisen. “That’s something you might be able to help us with, though, if you came on board, Mul. You might see something that we missed, as thorough as we have been.”
“What’s this group that Luck runs?” Mulheisen asked.
“Well, again, it’s . . .” Tucker hesitated. “Well, it’s just a local patriot group. They’re just conservative types, like a lot of good, ordinary, staunch citizens. He calls it the Holy American Flag and Farm, Hunting and Fishing Society, or something like that.” He laughed lightly. “It’s a kind of joke, I think. A bunch of guys get together and drink beer. A night away from the wives. The government doesn’t pay much attention to it: it’s harmless, releases some tension, some crankiness about government. Hell, it’s an American tradition to complain about government.”
“It’s not a mask for something more serious?” Mulheisen asked.
“No. I don’t think so,” Tucker said confidently. “Hey, I’ve known Imp for years. He’s got some beefs, some of them legitimate. But he’s been a loyal citizen.”
Mulheisen looked up at Joe. “Do you have anything?”
“Me? No,” Joe said. “I’ve heard enough. What do you want to do with this guy?” He gestured at the Colonel. “Lose him?” Then he laughed. “Just kidding, Colonel. Well,” he said to Mulheisen, “have you got room? I don’t think this guy is fit to drive, and I’m tired.”
“Yeah, there’s room,” Mulheisen said. “That all right with you, Tucker?”
“I’d like to call my people,” Tucker said. “Get them to stand down. I’m sure they’ve been anxious.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’re used to it,” Mulheisen said. “You can call them in the morning. Is that all right?”
“Ah, yes. Sure. So, where do we . . .?”
Mulheisen pointed to the loft. “There’s beds up there. Bedding. It’s comfortable enough for hunters, I guess.”
“Well, since we’re not going anywhere,” Tucker said, reaching for the bottle again, “join me in a nightcap?”
“No, thanks,” Mulheisen said. “Well, get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow we’ll go get those records on Constance Malachi. Okay?”
“All right,” the Colonel said agreeably. He drank, standing by the table. “Well, I’m glad we had this talk. You’ve given us a good direction here, Mul. Maybe something will come of it. It’ll clear the air, at least. See, I knew you’d be a good guy to bring in.”
16
Dogged
Helen drove out to the Mulheisen place first thing in the morning. She got there early, a little after eight. She’d been prepared to have to wait, but she saw that the household was up and moving about. Mrs. Mulheisen was quite perky and friendly. She was just finishing her breakfast and invited Helen to have some tea and toast with her before she went on her morning walk. Helen had introduced herself as a friend of Mulheisen’s, which both the nurse and the mother accepted without question, although Mrs. Mulheisen soon began to probe the nature of this association.
“You’re very young,” Mrs. Mulheisen said. “How long have you known Mul?”
“Oh, not long,” Helen said. “I met him a couple of years ago when he was investigating a case about a colleague, a man named Grootka.”
“Oh, I remember Grootka,” Cora Mulheisen said. “Rather a formidable fellow, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t know him,” Helen said. “I was just administering a foundation. One of our grantees was researching a history of the police department, and she got interested in Grootka’s career. Which was how your son came into it.”
“Ah. Well, tell me, dear, are you married?”
Helen smiled. “No.”
“Goodness, why not? You’re very pretty.”
“Well, I guess I’ve just been busy,” Helen said.
“Mul isn’t married either,” Cora said. “I’ve given up nagging him about it. In fact, I despair of him ever getting married. Probably too late for grandchildren now.”
“Well, he’s a fine fellow,” Helen said. “I wouldn’t despair, if I were you.”
“Do you think so?” The old woman sized Helen up out of the corner of her eye. She seemed to like what she saw. “Well, we’ve finished the tea,” she said, “and it’s a fine day. Not too late to see a few birds. Why don’t you join me?”
Helen agreed. The nurse said she would accompany them, but she soon fell back, obviously happy for Helen to walk with her charge while she herself had a cigarette.
Mrs. Mulheisen carried a set of small binoculars. She seemed quite agile for a woman of her age who had recently suffered a serious accident. She walked slowly. She explained that when looking for birds one always walked slowly, often stopping. “They’ll come out, if you just wander,” she said.
“Does Mul enjoy the birds?” Helen asked.
“I think he likes the idea of bird-watching, but he’s never really gotten into it. I don’t push it. If you try to get a child to like something they’re sure to hate it. Maybe when he gets a little older. He’s gone off, up north, to some little town called Queensleap.”
“What an odd name,” Helen said.
“The people there are even odder, it seems,” Mrs. Mulheisen said. She paused on the path and focused her glasses, scanning across the waist-high marsh grass. More to herself than to Helen, she muttered, “Birds hibernating! What nonsense!”
“What’s that?” Helen said.
Mrs. Mulheisen explained the cockamamie theory of the fellow up north, as it had been told to Mulheisen. “It’s absurd,” she said.
“Why on earth is Mul up there?” Helen asked.
“Oh, it’s something to do with terrorists,” Cora said. She lowered the glasses and moved on, alongside Helen, toward the channel. “He’s wondering whether to get involved in thi
s investigation the government is doing. A fellow named Tucker is heading it up. Nothing will come of it, I daresay. But it’s good for Mul to get out of the house. It’s ridiculous for him to retire at his age. He’s really not very old . . . in his prime, one might say . . . the child of my old age. A man can go to seed without something to occupy his time and energies. Well, he does spend a good deal of time on his study.”
Helen seemed puzzled, so Cora explained. “You doubtless saw the little cottage that’s going up out near the barn.”
Helen looked where she pointed. She had noticed it, a small building, hardly large enough to be more than a single-bedroom house, with a four-sided roof. She hadn’t realized, she said, that it was on their property.
“Oh, yes. We have several acres here,” Mrs. Mulheisen said. “It was supposed to be just a kind of glorified hut. Mul needed some place to go smoke his cigars. The poor boy won’t smoke in the house, although I don’t mind, as long as he doesn’t smoke too many. He used to smoke one or two in the evening, when he was living here. Well, he got involved, as one will, with the project. He’s over there at all times, bothering the contractor. The project has grown. I’m amazed at how quickly it went up, but now of course the contractor is doing the interior, and that takes forever. I hope I’m not dead before it’s finished.”
Helen hastened to assure her that it was obvious that she would be around for many years to come. But Mrs. Mulheisen waved that away with a careless gesture.
“If I linger too long, the hut will be a mansion,” she said. “I think Mul’s planning to live there once it’s done, now that I’m so much better. Well, it’s a good project for a man. It would serve as a honeymoon cottage.”
Helen didn’t rise to this bait. “Still, I’d think bird-watching would interest him, with an expert at hand to point out the various species,” she said. “Wasn’t he interested as a boy?”
“Why, I don’t know that he was,” Mrs. Mulheisen said. “Perhaps he might have been, but I only took it up late in life myself. The poor boy doesn’t know a hawk from a handsaw. Now this young fellow who came by the other evening, one of Colonel Tucker’s young men, he immediately fell into it. We were fortunate enough to chance upon a marsh hawk. A very handsome and dramatic bird, a male—”
