Boobytrap

9

I wanted to talk to one or both of the Judsons first, then Fred Dyce, but it was a while before I got to to the resort and an even longer while before I got to Dyce. Less than three minutes after I left the Ostergaard cabin I rounded a bend in the road and came on Marian Dixon walking toward me along the shoulder. She stopped when she recognized my car, waited for me to pull up alongside.

“I’m on my way to see Callie,” she said. Her eyes were sad, empty of their usual animation. “Mrs. Ostergaard. Is that where you’ve been?”

I said it was. And that I was sorry I hadn’t stopped by and asked her to come along with me but that I’d been distracted.

“It’s all right. How is she?”

“Bearing up. Her daughter’s with her now. And a woman named June.”

“June Adams. Good — Callie shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.” She brushed strands of hair away from her eyes and cheeks; the wind was up and it immediately blew the hair back across her face, so that she seemed to be looking at me through a screen of tattered yellow silk.

I said, “Hop in. I’ll drive you.”

Marian came around and slipped in beside me. When I had the car turned and moving in the opposite direction, she said, “I keep having trouble believing Nils is gone. He was such a presence here, such a good friend to everyone.”

Except one person, maybe, I thought. But I kept the thought to myself; there was nothing to be gained in sharing my suspicions with anybody other than Callie Ostergaard at this point. Instead, I gave voice to a platitude: “At least his death was quick.”

“And relatively painless. I called Rita Judson and she told me what happened.” A couple of beats, and then she said, “Thank you for sending Chuck home to tell me.”

“I thought it’d be better if he didn’t hang around.”

“Yes, and I’m grateful.”

“He handling it okay? He and Nils seemed pretty fond of each other.”

“They were. He wouldn’t talk about it, wouldn’t come with me to see Callie, just shut himself up in his room. He’ll be all right. I think, but I wish Pat was here. He responds more readily to his father than he does to me. The male bond. I suppose.”

“Have you talked to Pat yet?”

“Yes. I called his office after I spoke to Rita and he’d just come back from court. He was very upset. He’s known Nils ever since he was a boy.”

“Does he know yet when he’ll be driving up?”

“No. It may not be until Wednesday.”

“Anything new on the bombings, did he say?”

“Forensics is nearly finished examining and comparing the evidence from the two crime scenes. They should know whether or not there’s a signature match within twenty-four hours.”

“That’s something, at least.”

“Yes. Something.”

We were at the Ostergaard cabin; I stopped at the head of the drive to let Marian out. Before she shut the door, she said, “Would you mind if I asked a small favor?”

“Go ahead.”

“Could you stop by later and talk to Chuck? He likes and respects you, and you’ve had so much experience with… well, you know. It might be good for him right now.”

“Well…”

“I don’t mean a father-son kind of talk — Pat will be here soon enough. Just… man to man. But if you’d rather not…”

The look on her face made me say, “All right, I’ll give it a try. No promises, though.”

“None expected.”

She thanked me, went on down the incline. And I drove away, thinking: Talk, listen, provide the interim male bond, the voice of experience with… well, you know. Sure, why not? I was good at that sort of thing, wasn’t I? Large part of the job, wasn’t it? I was not just a skip-tracer, a keyhole peeper; I was also a priest, a therapist, a teacher, a grief counselor, all too often a sin-eater, and yes, by golly, a surrogate pop now and then. Come one, come all, unload your woes on me and I’ll chew them and swallow them and regurgitate comfort and strength and wisdom that’ll lighten your burden, make your life and the lives of your loved ones easier, more relieved. A spiritual leader, that was something else I was supposed to be — the wise old charismatic bellwether guiding the lost and the hurt and the damaged and the innocent onto the path of righteousness, redemption, true understanding. Like a poor, pale-imitation Jesus, with bonded license and .38 Colt Bodyguard instead of rod and staff, with heart full of love and head full of sagacity and belly full of… well, you know.

I shook myself, shook away the bitter thoughts. Now where had all that come from? All she’d asked me to do was talk to her son.

No, it was more than that — it was a gesture of faith and trust in me, a man she hardly knew, offered as so many others had offered before her. Faith and trust were two names for it; another was shifted responsibility, the kind that I didn’t always want and too often didn’t deserve because I couldn’t live up to it, couldn’t be or do any of the things that were expected of me.

Just say no. That was a nice little slogan, the perfect panacea. Too bad I was one of those who had never learned how, even to save my wise old charismatic psyche another bruise or two. The word simply wasn’t in my lexicon. Hell, I could not even say no to myself.

Rita Judson was manning — womanning? — the grocery counter when I walked in. Through the archway I could see Mack and a few other men clustered near the bar; I detoured over that way for a better view. They were holding a private wake for Nils, the way it looked, their faces solemn and what conversation there was uttered in low voices. Fred Dyce wasn’t among them. Neither were Strayhorn or Cantrell.

I went on to the counter and commiserated with Rita for a minute or so before I asked my questions. Drawing her out about the three other newcomers wasn’t difficult; she didn’t mind sharing what she knew, though it was not much about any of them. When I left her, this was what I had:

Fred Dyce. He lived in the San Fernando Valley, not L.A. proper — Van Nuys. Sold used cars and drove one himself, a Jeep Cherokee with vanity plates: LKYDYCE. Marital and family status unknown; he wouldn’t talk about his personal life. Or explain what had brought him all the way up to Deep Mountain Lake from Southern California. He drank a lot, mostly sour-mash bourbon with beer chasers, but so far he’d kept it and his hostility under control. His cabin was number eight, on the north side lakefront.

Jacob Strayhorn. Born and still lived in Stockton. What he did for a living was uncertain; he’d told Mack that he was in the manufacturing business, but he’d been reticent about what it was he manufactured. Kept to himself and volunteered almost nothing of a personal nature, beyond the fact that he was divorced. Drove the beat-up Chrysler I’d seen on my way to Two Bar Creek yesterday morning. He wasn’t staying at the resort; he’d rented one of the smaller private cottages downshore — not far from the Stapleton property.

Hal Cantrell. Real-estate broker in and resident of Pacifica. Married a dozen years to his second wife; two grown children from his first marriage, none from number two. Rita’s take on him was the same as mine: shrewd and sly. “I wouldn’t want to buy a house from him,” she said, and even though she’d laughed, I had the feeling she meant it. He took annual one-week fishing vacations by himself, each year to a different location. But he didn’t do much fishing, mostly just sat around and drank beer and schmoozed with whoever happened to be handy. He occupied cabin one, on the south side lakefront. Which meant that his transportation was a four-by-four Chevy Tracker; I could see it parked in front of number one when I came outside.

I went that way long enough to make a mental note of the license plate number, then walked back and across to cabin eight. No sign of the Jeep Cherokee. And no answer to my knock. Each cabin had a tiny porch tacked onto its lake side; I moved around to this one’s, climbed three steps onto its weathered boards. A plastic picnic cooler sat in the shade against the wall, but there wasn’t anything inside except an inch of melted icewater. The curtains were partially drawn across the window, so I put my nose up to the glass and peered inside. That didn’t buy me anything, either. The interior was messy, the bed unmade and clothes and fishing equipment strewn around. Dyce was a slob; so what? There was nothing out of the ordinary that I could see.

I kept my hand off the handle on the porch door. Too early in the game for illegal trespass without provocation, even if the door happened to be unlocked. Instead, I went down and wandered along the narrow strip of beach that ran behind the cabins.

Hal Cantrell was sitting on the porch of cabin one, feet propped on the railing, a bottle of Beck’s sweating in one hand. He waved the bottle as I approached and called out, “Hey there. Come on up and join me.”

I did that. Next to his chair was a table that held a bucket of ice and more beer, and a pair of six- or seven-power binoculars with a worn leather strap.

“How about a cold one?” he asked.

“Little early for me.”

“Me, too, if I weren’t on vacation. Might as well live it up. You never know, right?”

“About what?”

“How long you’re going to be around. One day you’re above ground, the next you could be under it.”

“Like Nils Ostergaard.”

“Like him. Hell of a thing, wasn’t it.”

“Hell of a thing,” I agreed.

“Nosy old bird, but I liked him.”

“So did I.”

Cantrell tilted his head back to get a better look at me from under the brim of his canvas fisherman’s hat. “You really think it was an accident?”

“Why? Don’t you?”

“Everybody seems to read it that way. But you were asking a mess of questions before the deputies showed up.”

“Just my nature. I’m a professional skeptic.”

“So am I, when it comes to John Q. Public. Can’t survive in my business if you’re not.”

“Mine, either.”

“That fellow Strayhorn,” he said. “What’s his problem?”

“Problem?”

“The way he kept needling you. Plain he’s a got a bone on where you’re concerned. How come?”

“He doesn’t approve of my fishing methods.”

“No, huh?”

I shrugged. “You know anything about him?”

“Not much. Makes pipe down in the Central Valley.” Cantrell grinned, winked. “Me, now, I’d rather lay pipe on the coast.”

“What kind does he make?”

“Sewer pipe, I think he said.”

“Have his own company?”

“Could be. Didn’t tell me if he does.”

“You spend much time with him?”

“Nope. He’s not the social type.”

“Neither is Fred Dyce.”

“Hell, no. He’s got a bone on for everybody.”

“Give you any trouble?”

“Not me. I steer clear of guys like him when they’re boozing.”

“Any idea what put that chip on his shoulder?”

“Nope, and I could care less.”

“Not much of a fisherman,” I said, “even though he pretends to be. Doesn’t seem to know a dry fly from a housefly.”

“You can say that again.”

“What do you suppose he’s doing here, then?”

“Trying to learn how to be what he says he is.” Cantrell gave me another head-tilted look. “You seem pretty interested in Dyce.”

“I’m interested in everybody. Another part of my nature.”

“You go around looking in everybody’s windows, like you were doing over at Dyce’s cabin?”

I didn’t answer the question, watching him. His expression didn’t change; his eyes remained friendly, guileless. Pretty soon I said, “Nice pair of binoculars you’ve got there.”

“Had ‘em twenty years. Can’t beat Zeiss.”

“For what? Spying?”

He grinned, put his hand over his heart the way he had at the gas pumps yesterday. “I am not a spy. Or a Peeping Tom. Just a guy with a nosy streak, like you and Ostergaard.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I happened to be scanning around, and I swung the glasses over that way and there you were, up on the porch. So I kept watching. What were you looking for in Dyce’s cabin?”

“Nothing in particular. Just looking.”

“Wouldn’t be because you think Dyce had something to do with the old man’s death?”

“No. We all decided it was an accident, remember?”

“Oh sure, I remember.”

“I understand Ostergaard had a little run-in with Dyce just after he arrived.”

“Is that right? About what?”

“Him pretending to be an expert fisherman. Nils didn’t like people who weren’t what they claimed to be.”

“Who does?”

“You get to know him at all?”

“Who? Ostergaard?”

“Ostergaard.”

Another grin. “Now we’re around to me. I’m on the list, too, huh?”

“What list is that?”

“The suspect list.”

“There is no suspect list,” I said. “I wasn’t implying anything, Cantrell. About you or anybody else.”

“Just asking questions to pass the time of day.”

“More or less.”

“Okay, here’s my answer. No, I didn’t know the old man except to say hello to. Didn’t exchange more than fifty words with him, most of those the day I got here. He was active and I’m lazy as hell — no common ground.” The grin had become a smirk by this time. “Sure you won’t have a beer?”

“I’m sure.” I pushed away from the railing. “I’d better be moving along.”

“Come back any time.”

“Maybe I’ll do that.”

“Meantime, good luck with your fishing,” he said as I stepped down off the porch, and when I glanced back at him, he winked again. Broadly. To let me know he hadn’t meant the sport.

Nobody was home at the cottage Jacob Strayhorn had rented, a bungalow-style A-frame crowded by dogwood bushes on its west side and fronted by a stubby platform porch. Out in a boat somewhere. I thought. Nosed in between the bushes and the porch was his ten-year-old Chrysler, its low-slung tan body disfigured by dings, dents, and paint scrapes. I noted the license plate number before I drove on.

At the Zaleski cabin I keyed open the door, took half a dozen steps along the hallway — and froze in place with the skin bunching and rippling along the saddle of my back. It was not anything I saw or heard, it was something in the air: emanations, vibes, whatever you want to call it. You get feelings like that when you’ve been a cop of one kind or another as long as I have and you learn to accept them without question.

Somebody’d been in the cabin since Chuck and I had left this morning. Not the boy and not his mother — somebody who didn’t belong.

Still here? It didn’t feel that way, but I went straight to the fireplace and caught up a chunk of firewood. The irony in that stayed with me, a bitter taste, as I made a quick search through the rooms.

Long gone. And nothing disturbed or missing that I could spot on a second, more careful check. My fly case was where I’d left it, my underwear and socks and shirts were as I’d arranged them in the dresser. I’d neglected to lock the closet door, but when I looked inside I found that the gun cabinet was still secure, the rifle and shotgun untouched.

Well? A daylight B&E just for a look around?

Except that it hadn’t quite been a B&E. There were no signs of forcible entry on the front door lock, on any of the window latches or on the sliding-glass door to the deck. Had I forgotten to lock something besides the closet and he’d just walked in and then secured the place before leaving? Not much sense in that. Let himself in with a key? That was more likely; Nils Ostergaard may have had one and it could’ve been lifted off him sometime after he was dead. But that still didn’t explain the intruder’s motivation.

I slid the deck door open all the way, opened a couple of the windows for cross-ventilation, and switched on the ceiling fan — mostly to get rid of trapped heat, partly to banish the bad air the intruder had left behind. Then I washed up, made a sandwich I didn’t much want, popped a beer I did want, and put in a collect call to Tamara at my office.

“Yo, chief,” she said. “Checking up on me, huh?”

“No way.”

“How’s Deep Mountain Lake?”

“Peaceful,” I said, which was not quite a lie.

“How many trout you murdered so far?”

“Only one. The reason I called—”

“Not much happening here,” she said. “I finished the Dalway skip-trace, no problem. Oh, yeah, Bill Gates called, wanted us to handle security for Microsoft at three mil per year. I told him we were too busy and besides, you think computers’re tools of the debbil.”

“Soul-stealers, right, so you better watch out. Listen, I need you to do something for me.”

“Sure, what?”

“Background checks on three men. ASAP.”

“Hey, what’s this? You working up there?”

“No. Doing a favor for a friend.”

“Uh-huh. Heard that one before.”

“Tamara—”

“How extensive? The checks, I mean.”

“Depends. What I’m looking for is anything out of the ordinary, anything crooked or shady or even antisocial. Criminal records or ties. Mental problems. Like that.”

“How come? Who are these three guys?”

“Two of them are probably average citizens. The third one… well, he may be mixed up in a felony.”

“And you don’t know which of ‘em it is.”

“That’s it.”

“Why not let the local fuzz handle it?”

“It’s not an official case. Not yet.”

“Okay. Names, addresses?”

“No street addresses; all I’ve got are cities.” I gave her the information I’d gathered on Dyce, Strayhorn, and Cantrell.

“Not much to work with,” she said.

“It ought to be enough. Anything you find out, call me right away,” and I added the phone number.

“I’m on it right now. You want me to keep working after five? Double-time if I do, remember.”

“You won’t let me forget. You mind?”

“Money’s one thing I never mind.” She paused and then said, “Tell you something.”

“What’s that?”

“Man, you work too hard, you know what I’m saying? One of these days you really ought to take a vacation.”