by Julia Keller
“File a complaint.” Bell leaned forward. “Tell me about the tension between you and Diana Hackel.”
“Ha. ‘Tension.’ Now, that’s an understatement.” Runyon briefly inspected the nails on her right hand. “She didn’t like the hours I made Eddie work. She thought I was too hard on him. Of course, she certainly didn’t mind cashing his paychecks. Thanks to my company, that woman lived very, very well. Big house, nice car, startup money for some silly business. No reason for all those complaints of hers. She was lucky to have Eddie.”
“And did she?”
“Did she what?”
“Have Eddie. Or was there someone else in his life?”
Runyon shrugged. “I don’t pry. If Eddie was indulging in some extracurricular activities around here after working hours—well, that was his business. Not mine. And it surely wouldn’t have been the first time a married man has indulged in a little fun on the road.” Her expression softened. “Frankly, given what happened to him, I hope he did have a little something going on here. You know? Hope he had some pleasure. Heaven knows he got little enough of it when he was home with her.”
“Forgive my bluntness, Ms. Runyon—but were you and Ed Hackel having an affair?”
Runyon ran an index finger across the hem of her skirt. Then she looked up. “What does any of this have to do with his murder?”
“Maybe nothing.”
“Will it have to be made public during the trial?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Do I have to answer?”
“No. You don’t. Not now, anyway.”
“I see.” Her finger smoothed the skirt hem once again, this time going in the other direction. “I don’t think I have to explain to you, Mrs. Elkins, how difficult it is to be a woman with power. In charge. We’re scrutinized in an entirely different way than men are. If we’re tough, we’re called bitches. If we’re not tough, we’re too soft for the job. And God forbid we ever try to relax every now and again. Blow off steam. A man can have a hundred affairs and he’s considered a stud. Other men envy him. A woman has a little fun every once in a while and she’s a slut. Other women look down on her. Pity her. I get so tired of the double standard. Don’t you? Really, now—don’t you?”
Bell knew exactly what she was talking about. She didn’t disagree. But she wasn’t here for the camaraderie. She remained silent.
Unfazed, Runyon went on. “Mountain Magic was my idea. All of it. I grew up in Illinois, and my parents and I drove through here once when I was kid. Family vacation. We didn’t stop—we were on our way to the beach—but I never forgot it. These mountains! They were like something out of a fairy tale. I kept thinking we’d come across flying dragons or princesses on horseback. So when I finally got to the point in my career when I could develop my own project, this was it. I mean, I’d worked for other people’s dreams for so long. Now it was my turn. My dream. This resort really is going to be magical, Mrs. Elkins. You’ll see.”
There was a wide window across the back of the trailer, and it drew Runyon’s gaze. Bell’s, too. They might have been looking at the same landscape, but Bell was fairly certain they were seeing very different things.
The window provided a luscious panorama of an area that, if things worked out the way Runyon and her investors hoped, soon would be filled with the huffing, tanklike machinery of construction, with the giant iron claws that slashed and gouged great holes in the earth. An endless parade of trucks would bring in cement and steel beams and PVC pipes and pallets of bricks and stone. Land that had looked roughly the same as it had looked for centuries—wild and raw, thick with a thousand different kinds of plant and animal life—would be subdued by the heavy hand of progress, tamed and flattened to create a playground for people who could pay for it. It would be nobody’s home. It would become mere scenery. Backdrop. The kind of thing that, if it grew too dowdy and frayed-looking, could be touched up with glitter and glue.
“You know, Mrs. Elkins, we really do have the best of intentions for this place,” Runyon said.
“That’s the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s the people with the good intentions,” Bell said, “who usually do the most harm.”
The phone rang. It had rung several times throughout their conversation and Runyon ignored it, but this time, she used it as an excuse to stand up and initiate a dismissal. She smiled.
“If you don’t mind,” she said, in a voice clearly indicating that she didn’t give a damn whether Bell minded or not, “I really do need to get that. I’ll text Paul. He’ll let your deputy know that you’re ready to leave. You can wait for him outside. Good day.”
Chapter Twenty
On the ride back into town, Deputy Oakes told Bell what McGloin had shown him: battalions of shiny new pieces of earth-moving equipment ready to rip out great hunks of unsuspecting ground. Awaiting the signal to attack.
Shortly before they reached the courthouse Bell changed the subject. She wanted to talk to him—casually, as if the thought had just occurred to her—about his habit of winking at women. Bell had no real authority over him, and didn’t want to make a major issue of it. She just wanted it to stop. And she certainly didn’t want to bring in Sheriff Harrison—who did have authority over him.
She tried to explain to Oakes that, no matter how he meant it, the winking was inappropriate. A lot of men did it, she acknowledged, but few of them were under eighty. It was a throwback to an earlier era, when sexism was pervasive—and overlooked. There was, she further explained, a grossly lascivious subtext when a man winked at a woman that way, as if he’d seen naked pictures of her and was recalling every curve and shadow.
“It’s like you’re not taking us seriously,” she said. “It’s sort of offensive, frankly.”
“Nobody’s complained about it.” He shifted his posture. “Nobody but you.”
“Maybe they’re too intimidated to bring it up. People respect that uniform, you know.”
“You think I’m dishonoring the uniform?”
“Didn’t say that.”
“Then let me get this straight,” Oakes said, in an arch, amiable voice that rose toward a peak of amused incredulity. “We got a big murder trial coming up and lots more evidence still to collect, plus all of our regular duties—and the thing you’re worried about is me winking at a pretty lady now and again? Really?”
“Not ‘now and again.’ All the damned time.” She was irritated now. “And from what I’ve seen, you wink at all women. Pretty or not.”
“Well, Mrs. Elkins, maybe it’s my way of making ’em all feel pretty. You know?”
She gave up. For the present, anyway. She’d just pulled into her parking spot next to the courthouse.
He waited.
“You’re not coming?” he said.
“No. Errands to run.” She needed to drive home and let Goldie out. Ben Fawcett had a field trip at school today and couldn’t do it. But that was none of Jake Oakes’s business.
He opened the door and eased himself out. Replaced his hat, fussing at the tilt of the brim until he got it the way he wanted it. Crossing in front of the Explorer on his way to the courthouse steps, Oakes paused and looked back at her through the windshield. His hand made its way up to his forehead in a lazy-looking salute. And then he did exactly what Bell expected him to do: He winked.
Jerk, she thought, but there was no heat behind it. Because the truth was, Oakes was right. With a murder trial set to begin, she had a lot more to worry about than an ornery deputy with a flirty streak.
And then he did something she wasn’t expecting him to do: He walked over to the driver’s side of the Explorer. Twirled his index finger in a little circle, meaning he wanted her to lower her window.
“Listen,” he said, leaning over so that his face was level with hers, the heel of his hand cocked on the sill. “I know you think I’m just a dumb old deputy, but I did get a little information out of McGloin.”
“Really.�
��
“Yeah. He took me over by the area where they’re going to put in the riding stables. Gorgeous spot. Wanted to show it off. And he got a little talkative. I bet it’s because we’ve already charged somebody for the murder. Doesn’t feel like he has to protect the boss anymore.”
“What did he say?”
“First off, he said Hackel was a slick hustler. Wore a nice suit and always had his shoes polished—but nobody trusted him. Total hypocrite. Pretended to be a family man, but spent plenty of company time chasing tail and partying. Matter of fact, first thing Hackel did when he got to town, McGloin said, was start asking certain folks around here where he could score some cocaine. Wanted a reliable source for the duration.”
Bell shrugged. “Well, we don’t get to choose which homicides we work on, Deputy. Got to investigate all of them, no matter what anybody thinks of the victim.”
“Hold on. I’m getting to the interesting part. Turns out McGloin was working late a few weeks ago and he caught ’em.” Oakes grinned. “Walks into the trailer and finds ’em there. Carolyn Runyon and Ed Hackel. Really going at it.”
Bell nodded a dismissive nod. “So they were having an affair. Figured as much. And again, we’re not the Morality Cops.”
“Hold on.”
“What?”
“You think I mean he caught ’em on the fold-out couch,” Oakes said with a grin. “Nope. He caught ’em in the middle of a big fight. A real knock-down, drag-out. Plenty of yelling and screaming.”
“Over what?”
“He doesn’t know. But whatever it was, he said it sounded like they were ready to rip each other’s heads off and then spit in the neck holes.”
* * *
Goldie ran headlong around the backyard, smelling everything she encountered. Occasionally she’d stop and bark wildly at the shadow cast by the big silver maple; the shadow spread out across the lawn, darkening the tender fringe of early grass.
Bell watched her from her seat on the back stoop. She wished there were a way of somehow explaining to the dog that it wasn’t real, that it was just a shadow. Nothing to be afraid of. But then again, Goldie probably wished the same thing from time to time: Wished she could tell those silly humans that most of the things they worried about were mere illusions, and that even the ones that were real probably couldn’t be helped—so why get upset about anything?
Bell pulled out her cell and called David Gage. She realized how much she looked forward to talking to him. The conversation with Carolyn Runyon that morning had left her hungry for straightforwardness and sincerity.
“Hey,” he said. “I hear that bark. Either you’re watching Turner & Hooch or Goldie’s trying to say hello to me.”
“Wait. I thought I was the only person who remembered Turner & Hooch.”
“No way. I’ve been trying to get my girls to watch it ever since they hit middle school. But any movie I recommend is sort of tainted. You know?”
She knew. She’d tried multiple times—with no success—to get Carla to watch some of her favorites such as The Year of Living Dangerously and Streets of Fire. A parent’s selection simply had to be rejected automatically. There was a principle at stake.
“One day,” Bell said, “your girls will be trying to get their own kids to watch The Fault in Our Stars—and then they’ll know what it feels like to be sneered at.”
“No doubt.” His voice dropped its jocular tone. “So how’s the case? I know you’ll be going to trial soon.”
“Too soon.”
“Can you get an extension?”
“Not unless I want the judge to slash my tires. Or order the bailiff to do it. Judges like to keep things moving along. Can’t blame them—the backlog in the courts is bad and getting worse. Too many drug cases, frankly.” By this time, Goldie was back at the stoop, licking the palm that Bell held out to her. “But we’re working hard to be ready. Which is why I called, David.”
“Oh. Okay.”
She heard the slight edge of disappointment in his voice. He’d assumed it was a social call.
“I need to find a child psychologist to fill in some gaps for me,” she went on quickly. “Thought maybe you know of a good one up at the med school at WVU. Someone who specializes in clinical research about the effects of early trauma. The defendant in this case was a survivor of the Buffalo Creek flood. Lost his parents. But he’s never shown any propensity to violence as an adult—before now. So I’d like to get a sense of how the flood might’ve shaped him, you know?”
“Sure. Know just the person for you. One of my good friends. Well—she used to be one of my good friends. I sort of lost her in the divorce. Now she’s my ex-wife’s good friend. But she’s still a hell of a child psychologist. The best. Lectures all over the world. Has published a ton in peer-reviewed journals. Impeccable credentials.”
“Sounds ideal.”
“Her name’s Melanie Treadwell. I’ll text you her contact info.”
“I’m very grateful.” Bell switched the cell to her other hand, so that Goldie could lick her other palm.
“And—uh, Bell? Know you’re up to your ears in work and all, but I thought—well, you still have to eat, right?”
“Theoretically.”
“Then how about dinner tomorrow? I’ll be over in Steppe County most of the day, but I’ll be driving back through Acker’s Gap. Thought maybe—”
“Absolutely, David. Love to.” She didn’t know if she’d love to or not, but she knew that she wanted to love to. She wanted, that is, to keep trying with him. Goldie had finished with her palms and now lay at her feet, keeping an eye on the giant fuzzy-edged shadow out in the yard and occasionally growling at it, still not quite convinced that it meant them no harm.
Chapter Twenty-one
The list, printed and single-spaced, filled one full page.
It was the record of items recovered from Edward Hackel’s motel room. First thing this morning, Bell had opened a manila envelope and tilted it, shaking the contents onto her desktop. Out slid notes, printouts, transcripts, photographs: the tangible record of the investigative phase of the case. On top of the pile was the list. The items themselves were stowed in an evidence locker.
She needed to get a better sense of Hackel, a more specific impression. One that would help her put together the case against his killer. There were different ways to do that. You could talk to the people who had known him—colleagues, loved ones, each with her or his own perspectives, prejudices, histories. She’d done that. Another way was to reflect upon the things with which he’d surrounded himself in his daily life. It was all that was left of him now.
Bell had occasionally seen Hackel around Acker’s Gap, and she had watched his presentations to the county commissioners about Mountain Magic. There was a swagger to him, no question about it; he had a big smile and a big laugh. Handshake always at the ready, the big hand stuck out. Square-cut nails, a firm and formidable grip. Never met a stranger. Never looked blue or downcast or even slightly ruffled. No, sir. Blue skies ahead. A Did-you-hear-the-one-about—? twinkle in his eye. Big voice. With Ed Hackel in the house, you could not not be aware of his presence, which was by design. He was heavy, yes, but like a lot of big men, he carried the extra weight as if it, too, was by design, to give him more of a stake in the world. Ballast. Grounding. Nothing wispy about him, by God. He wouldn’t go blowing away in the first strong wind. He was here to stay. His handshake sealed the deal. Count on it.
But she knew the other side, too, of all that energy and bluster. The bullying side. She knew that Hackel had pressured Royce Dillard to give up his land after Dillard had changed his mind about selling. He’d cajoled and connived in order to create a shiny new resort for high rollers that would replace a rugged and unique natural landscape.
Was she being unfair to Hackel and his job? Maybe. Maybe she was, at that. Because a resort was surely a better fate for the land—any land—than a coal mine, either the underground kind or the surface-mining kind that whacked of
f the tops of the mountains with the monotonous efficiency of a bread-slicer. Anyway. In the end, Hackel’s morals didn’t matter. His personal failings were irrelevant. Bell would work as hard as she could to convict his killer—whom the county believed to be, and would prove accordingly, Royce Dillard. That was her job. And she didn’t have to approve of the victim in order to do it.
She ran a finger down the list of items the deputies had found in his room:
A plastic vial of Tic Tacs (Cherry Passion flavor). Axe body spray (Dark Temptation scent). Hair gel. A roll of Tums, half gone. A sleeve of bright green Gas-X pills. A prescription bottle of Zoloft. Tiny white crumbles found on the bathroom vanity; sent to the state crime lab for testing, the substance was determined to be cocaine. Two (2) cuff links, embossed with the interlocking initials EJH. Four (4) packages of Trojan condoms. An unopened pack of Marlboros. Nail clippers. A travel-size package of Q-tips. Car keys. Business cards. One Samsung Galaxy cell. One MacBook Air, the Internet search history of which Hickey Leonard—he was the courthouse’s resident geek—had dug out and enumerated, finding a dreary series of porn sites. On the desktop were icons that led to files containing artists’ renditions of how Mountain Magic would look once it was up and running, from the sprawling, glass-walled hotel to the eighteen-hole golf course, all tucked under the protective gray embrace of a mountain range. His e-mail was mostly business-related. Two e-mails in his Draft file were addressed to his wife, with instructions to share them with his children. They contained links to allegedly funny YouTube videos showing frantic cats scrabbling out of bathtubs, scaling drapes, and being hypnotized by ceiling fans. The e-mails were signed, Thot you guys would get a kick out of these!! Love, Dad.
The last item was a small triangle of paper, a corner torn from a larger sheet, found on Hackel’s bedside table. Two letters scribbled on it: VG. And next to them, a dollar sign and two question marks. Bell had no idea what it meant.
