Fox Goes Hunting

by Paty Jager

“Don’t do anything that will cause embarrassment to this country or my officers,” Böðvarsson said.

  “I won’t. You have my word on that.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was dark, noisy, and bodies bumped and gyrated in the flashing lights of the dance floor. Hawke felt out of his element. Ásta, Bragi, and Katrín were grinning and dancing with everyone who came along and asked. They appeared to know at least half of the people at the establishment. He’d told them he was looking for someone and showed them the photo.

  This was the third place they’d checked out. He was ready to call it a night and go home. He’d sipped on a beer at each place, never finishing it. All he wanted was to go to his quiet room and relax.

  Katrín danced back to the table. “I think I saw the person.”

  Hawke sat up straight and studied her animated face. “Where?”

  “He’s over there with people I know. Want me to introduce you?” She held out a hand.

  He was old enough to be her father and wondered how she would introduce him. “Sure.” He grasped Katrín’s hand and followed her through the undulating bodies.

  She stopped at a table with two couples. He recognized Billy Weston immediately. Katrín had indeed found the man he was looking for. Weston had an arm around a busty brunette who looked as if she were about to pass out.

  Katrín faced the other couple. “Solla and Jón, this is my friend Hawke.”

  They studied him and shook hands.

  “Hello,” Jón said. “These are our friends, Valdís and Billy.”

  “Billy?” Hawke said. “You must be American or English?”

  The man nodded. “American. You sound American, too.”

  “Yeah. Oregon.” He settled Katrín on the chair next to Solla and pulled a chair from another table over and sat. “Where are you from?”

  “Philly.” The man said it with pride.

  “Never been there. I hear it has a lot of history.” Hawke ordered a drink for him and Katrín when the waitress came around. The waitress raised an eyebrow. Katrín said something in Icelandic and the woman smiled before heading the other direction.

  “What was that about?” Hawke asked the young woman.

  “We,” she pointed to Solla and Valdís, “women in Iceland don’t let men buy our drinks.”

  He stared at her. “It’s courteous.”

  “No, it means you will expect something and you may not be the man we wish to end the night with.” She leaned towards him. “And you are much too old for me.”

  Hawke stared at her. She knew he wasn’t here to pick up anyone, why would him buying her drink matter? Either she was pulling his leg or she was pretending he had that idea to keep Billy and the others not knowing his real reason for dropping down at their table.

  Katrín ignored him, visiting with the couple next to her in Icelandic.

  “She got you there,” Billy said. “But I’m not a woman and I’m not Icelandic.” Billy eyed Hawke’s drink and then his own empty glass.

  Hawke waved the waitress down and bought a drink for Billy.

  When the drinks arrived, Billy toasted him.

  “Are you vacationing or working here?” Hawke asked.

  “Vacation.” The man didn’t seem to be leery of the questions. “You?”

  “I’m here for a SAR conference.”

  Billy stared at him. “SAR?” The tone said he knew the answer.

  “Search and Rescue. I’m a tracker. Taught a class on that the other day.” Hawke held the beer up to his lips as he studied the man.

  “Heard there was an accident at the conference.” Again, the non-committal tone with a drop of curiosity.

  “The person we were tracking was murdered,” Hawke said it bluntly as he peered into the man’s eyes.

  “How unfortunate for him, and you, I guess.” Weston took a drink and stood, drawing the woman next to him to her feet. “Let’s dance.”

  Hawke had a feeling the man was going to leave, but he couldn’t apprehend him. The two staggered onto the dance floor and disappeared among the moving bodies.

  “Where is Billy staying?” he asked the two remaining at the table.

  Solla shrugged. “We ran into him here. He offered us the use of the table and then he and Valdís decided to hook up.”

  Katrín held up her phone. “I can ask Valdís tomorrow. Solla gave me her phone number.”

  Hawke smiled at the young woman. “Good thinking. I’m going home now. Tell Bragi and Ásta I enjoyed hanging out with all of you tonight.”

  Katrín’s grin dissolved. “We want to help find out who killed Nonni. He was a very good friend.”

  “And I appreciate your help. Talk to you tomorrow.” Hawke walked out of the nightclub and into the foggy night air. He’d yet to see a clear night and stars. He inhaled the cold, damp air and started walking toward his hotel. While he’d picked his hotel to be near the conference center, it was also within walking distance of many of the downtown restaurants and clubs.

  He entered his hotel.

  “Mr. Hawke, you have mail.” The young woman behind the registration desk held out a long business-like envelope.

  Surprised anyone would leave him a letter, he walked over and plucked the envelope from her hand. He turned it over and over. The only marking was his name printed in block letters with blue ink.

  “Thank you.” He didn’t open it. Instead, he entered the elevator, pushed the button, and continued turning the thing over and over until the door opened, and he stepped into the hall.

  In his room, he pulled out his pocketknife and slit the top. Hawke pushed on the ends, causing the envelope to gap and show him what looked like an unfolded single piece of paper inside. He grasped it by a corner and pulled it out. In block letters written in the same blue ink as the envelope it read:

  LOOK INTO SIGGA EIRÍKSDÓTTIR’S MEN

  Hawke dropped the paper back into the envelope and set both on the counter under the television. What did Sigga’s love life have to do with the murder? He remembered how she’d been upset with Nonni being tracked. She’d wanted that opportunity. What could that have had to do with his death and her men?

  The promiscuousness of the culture in this country was alien to him. When Leonard had mentioned it, he’d thought it was only the young people who fell into bed together, knowing very little about the other person. But after his visits to the various nightclubs and bars, he’d noticed all ages leaving in pairs.

  He prepared for bed, tossing around the best way to find out about the Chief Inspector’s men. Ask Largess? Ask Böðvarsson? He should take the note to forensics to be checked for prints. Or the very least to try and figure out where the note came from.

  Hawke picked up the phone in his room and dialed the registration desk.

  “Hello?” the young woman answered.

  “This is Hawke in room three-fourteen. Did you see who left that envelope for me?” He knew it was a long shot but worth trying.

  “No. I was called to a room and when I returned it was sitting on the counter.”

  “Do you have a surveillance camera in the lobby?” Again, a long shot given how clever the person was slipping the key under Largess’s door. If it was the same person, there wouldn’t be any sign of them. Which would mean it was the killer trying to throw him off. But if they did catch someone, then it could be Sigga was a person of interest and should be taken off the case.

  <<>><<>><<>>

  Saturday morning.

  Hawke hurried and dressed. They only had today and tomorrow to catch whoever did this, if it was a person attending the conference. Monday the conference attendees would be scattering back to their homes in other countries.

  He shoved the envelope into his pack. Riding the elevator to the lobby, he called Böðvarsson.

  “I have evidence that needs to be taken into consideration,” he said. “I’ll bring it to the police station.”

  “What evidence?” The detective’s tone said he was skeptical
. “Did you discover where Billy Weston is staying?”

  “Not yet. But I’ll know soon. This is different. I’m catching a cab and will meet you at your office.” Hawke stepped out of the elevator and walked to the desk. “Could you call a ride for me?”

  “Where do you wish to go?” the woman at the desk was new.

  “The police station.”

  She studied him before picking up the phone and talking into it. Replacing the phone, she said, “You will have a ride in five minutes.”

  “Thank you.” He walked out the double doors and stood in front of the hotel, waiting for his ride. A glance at his watch revealed it was too early to ask Katrín if she’d come up with where Billy was staying.

  A car pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down. “You going to the police station?”

  “Yes.” Hawke grabbed the back passenger door and slid in.

  The driver tried to make conversation but gave up when Hawke ignored his questions.

  At the police station, Hawke paid the driver and entered the building. From his previous trips, he knew where to find Böðvarsson. Walking down the hall, his name was called out. Before he spun around, he knew who it was and wondered why she was here so early.

  “Sigga. Didn’t expect to see you here this morning.” Hawke remained glued to the spot.

  “If, like you think, we need to get this solved before the conference is over, I figured I needed to be here rather than taking in a class.” She strode down the hall toward him. “Ari said you were coming in.”

  Hawke groaned inwardly and motioned for her to lead the way to the detective’s office.

  In the office, he noticed a large pile of files on the man’s desk. Böðvarsson motioned for them both to take a seat.

  “Are all of those files for Nonni’s case?” Hawke asked, avoiding the reason he came here.

  The detective put his hand on the stack. “Not all of them. I did pull files on people who have had a grudge with Einar. Thought we might try that angle since we aren’t getting anywhere with people who were angry with Nonni.”

  “We know Billy Weston had a beef with him. And he is here. When I brought up I was here for the SAR conference, he became cautious. He even said he’d heard we’d found a body.” Hawke thought back to the conversation. “He said it almost with a touch of pride. I think he is our best suspect at the moment.”

  “Is that what you wanted to tell me this morning?” Böðvarsson asked.

  Hawke slid a sideways glance at Sigga and peered at the detective. “I had a letter dropped off at my hotel last night.” He pulled the envelope out of his pack and slid it across the desk. “I only touched the top right corner of the note.”

  Böðvarsson opened the letter by squeezing the ends as Hawke had done the night before. He grasped the note the same way and pulled it out. He read the line and his gaze shot to Sigga.

  “What?” she asked, rising out of the chair.

  Böðvarsson knew the woman better than he did. He’d let the detective inspector handle this as he saw fit.

  “This note suggests Hawke look into the men in your life.” Böðvarsson’s tone had an inflection of reprimand in it.

  Sigga stared at the detective and slowly melted into the chair. “I see.”

  “Did you sleep with Largess to get your hands on his keys?” Hawke asked, trying to keep his distaste for her sleeping around out of his voice. “And who were you sleeping with that you asked someone to kill Nonni?”

  “I didn’t do any of that!” She glared at him.

  “Why would someone suggest your sleeping around had anything to do with Nonni’s death?” Böðvarsson asked, more diplomatic than Hawke.

  Her face turned red. She didn’t look at either of them.

  “You weren’t fooling around with Nonni, were you?” Hawke would lose his respect for the woman and the young man if that were true. She was nearly twenty years older than the murder victim.

  “No. He was a boy. A boy who didn’t understand that sometimes a marriage needs to be spiced up.” She glanced at Böðvarsson and then back at her hands in her lap.

  “You and Einar?” the detective asked.

  “When? Did Nonni know and he threatened to tell his mother?” Hawke could see the young man everyone admired for his truthfulness not withholding his father’s affair. “Was that why you had him killed?”

  “I didn’t have him killed!” Her hands clenched and she stared daggers at him. “Yes, he threatened to tell his mother. But I would never kill him for that or any reason. It was Einar’s problem, not mine.”

  Hawke latched onto, ‘Einar’s problem.’ He glanced at Böðvarsson. “You know the family better than I do. Would Einar wish to keep his affair quiet from his wife?”

  The detective ran a hand over his face. “I thought I knew the man, but he has been acting out of character since Nonni’s death.”

  “So, we can’t rule out the father,” Hawke said.

  “No. Einar would never end his son’s life. He nearly fell apart after Halldór’s death.” Sigga sat up straight and searched their faces.

  “Who would he be more likely to let go? His wife or his son?” Hawke asked. Would the man be so desperate to keep his wife that he’d kill a son?

  His phone buzzed. Katrín.

  “Hello?”

  “Hawke, Valdís sent me the address for the man last night. Do you wish us to go talk to him?”

  “No. The address is all I need. You and your friends need to stay away from him.” He had a thought. “Could you ask Ásta if she would have time to have lunch with me today? I have questions I would like to ask her.”

  “I will tell her. Where would you like to meet?” Katrín’s tone sounded as if she were used to making appointments.

  “I’ll text her. Text me the address.”

  “I will.”

  He hung up and his phone dinged. He held the phone out to the detective. “This is where we will find Billy Weston.”

  The man stood. His gaze landed on Sigga. “I suggest you go with us, since we don’t want you reporting what we know to Einar.”

  “And take her phone,” Hawke added.

  Böðvarsson held out his hand.

  Sigga glared at Hawke and handed her phone over to the detective.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The house Böðvarsson parked in front of was compact and on a bit of a hill. Hawke glanced at the number of the house on his phone. They were the same. He had expected to see apartments like Tinna had lived in.

  “He’s renting a house? That has to be expensive,” Hawke said, as Böðvarsson and Sigga exited the vehicle.

  “He’s renting the basement. The kj after the number is short for kjallari, which means basement.” Böðvarsson walked to the front door and knocked.

  “Hállo?” a man in his sixties answered the door.

  The detective talked to the man in Icelandic. The man waved to the side of the house and after a quick exchange of good-byes, Sigga and Böðvarsson, with Hawke in tow, walked to the side of the house.

  “It was as I thought. Billy is renting the basement apartment for two weeks. He has been here a week, staying out late at night and coming in early in the morning. But the man says he is quiet when he is here and he is respectful.” Böðvarsson stopped at the door with entry to the basement and knocked.

  “This may be too early for him to rise and shine,” Hawke said, standing behind the other two. He didn’t want the man seeing him and not opening the door.

  The door opened and the woman, Valdís, stood in the opening. “Yes?”

  “Is Billy here?” Böðvarsson asked.

  “Yes. He is still sleeping. You can come back.” She started to shut the door.

  “We can’t come back later.” To his credit, Böðvarsson stepped toward the woman.

  She backed into the apartment. Sigga followed the detective, and Hawke walked in and closed the door.

  From the shape Valdís had been in the night before, Hawke dou
bted she would remember him.

  “Billy doesn’t like being woke up before noon,” the woman insisted.

  “We don’t have time to wait till noon,” Hawke said, scanning the small area and figuring out where the bedroom was located. He took a step that direction.

  Böðvarsson put out an arm. “Sigga stay with her.” He walked ahead of Hawke toward the door that had to be the bedroom.

  Inside the room, they found a double bed with sheets and blankets wadded in piles. Billy was spread out across the bed on his belly. His mouth hung open. Low snoring vibrated the air.

  “Billy Weston?” Böðvarsson questioned loudly.

  The man didn’t move.

  Hawke walked through the room to the next door. The bathroom was cramped, but it had a cup. He filled the vessel with water, walked into the bedroom, and threw it on the sleeping man.

  “What the fuck!” Billy shot to his hands and knees. “Valdís, why—” His mouth clamped shut as his gaze locked onto Hawke and the detective.

  “Billy Weston?” Böðvarsson asked again, this time not as loud.

  “Yeah. Who are you?” A hostile glare narrowed Weston’s eyes as his gaze lingered on Hawke.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Ari Böðvarsson of the Reykjavik Police. We’d like to ask you a few questions.” Böðvarsson grabbed the only chair in the room, dumped the clothing off of it, and sat, facing the bed.

  “Who is he?” Weston sat up, revealing he had nothing but the sheet on. He grabbed a handful of the bedding, pulling it over his lap.

  “I’m Oregon State Trooper Hawke.”

  “Why are you here?” He swung his arm back and forth between them. “Both of you?”

  Hawke refrained from jumping in. This was Böðvarsson’s jurisdiction, not his.

  “We were wondering the same about you?” the detective asked.

  Weston stared at Böðvarsson like he’d just sprouted Viking horns. “Me? I’m here on vacation. Why else would I be here?”

  Böðvarsson shrugged. “Perhaps to settle a score?”

  “Settle a score? I don’t have any—” He stopped and stared at Hawke. “You think I killed the guy who drowned in a mud pool?”