Second Horseman Out of Eden

4

The police finally arrived while we were going through papers in Valley's study, which we'd found on the second floor of the town house. There didn't seem to be much of value in his files-a lot of Jesus White Christian racial smut and creepy apocalyptic literature, including a dozen or so thin but savage tomes by William Kenecky, but no bills, letters, or anything else that might indicate where Nuvironment was storing the hundred tons of dirt Craig Valley had undoubtedly arranged to get for them.

The detective in charge of the investigation was decidedly unhappy; he was unhappy to find us searching the study, and he was unhappy simply to find us-or, more specifically, to find Garth. The detective in charge of the investigation didn't like Garth, and he had reason.

Malachy McCloskey was just under six feet. He was about Garth's age, but looked decidedly older-something he would undoubtedly blame on Garth. His thick hair was steel gray, with an occasional streak of the original black showing through. He had black eyes, acne-scarred cheeks, and features that seemed to be fixed in a kind of permanently brooding expression. For as long as I'd known him, about fifteen years, he had been a slovenly dresser, and he hadn't changed his habits for this occasion; he was wearing green socks and a green tie with a blue suit which looked as if it hadn't been pressed in the decade or so since he'd bought it off some pipe rack.

McCloskey didn't much care for me, either, since I was Garth's brother. Years before, soon after both Garth and McCloskey had earned their detective shields, Garth had turned McCloskey in to Internal Affairs for accepting gratuities from businessmen-free drinks and meals, that sort of thing. It was petty stuff, and Garth had been virtually the only person involved who'd been interested or taken it seriously. McCloskey had been given a mild reprimand and told to go and sin no more. He hadn't sinned again, as far as I knew-but he also hadn't moved up the promotional ladder as fast as Garth had. Naturally, he'd blamed Garth for "putting a blight" on his career-and he still did. Malachy McCloskey was definitely not a man I was happy to see at this time and place, while Garth and I were busily going around disturbing the scene of an investigation.

"The famous Fredericksons," McCloskey said in his gravelly voice, making no effort to hide his disgust as he entered the study, stopped, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his crumpled, coffee-stained trench coat. The dark eyes that darted back and forth between Garth's face and mine were clouded with suspicion and hostility. "I might have known. You two really made a mess of things, didn't you?"

"How so, Lieutenant?" I asked as I straightened up, smiled broadly, and gently pushed a desk drawer closed with my hip.

"For one thing, those Goddamn bloody footprints all over the floor downstairs, and the bloodstains in the kitchen sink, which I assume came off the two of you, and now the fact that you're up here rifling through the victim's possessions. What the fuck is the matter with you two? Don't you know that you're disturbing evidence at the scene of a crime? I have a mind to haul your asses out of here right now, take you to the station and book you."

"There's no crime, Lieutenant," I said. "Not unless you want to charge the stiff in the bathroom with killing himself. Garth explained over the telephone that it was a suicide."

"The police aren't in the habit of taking the word of citizens in matters involving little things like death, Frederickson. You know that, and so does that famous big brother standing next to you. There has to be an investigation and a coroner's report, and we definitely don't like coming to a scene that's been all fucked over by civilians like you. Come on."

Garth and I dutifully followed McCloskey, who was moving as if his back hurt him, downstairs, where a moderate crowd of uniformed police, forensic people, police photographers, and a couple of stray reporters were milling about. We'd heard them come in five minutes before, but had been too intent on looking for some scrap of paper that might tell us where to find Vicky Brown to go downstairs immediately; that little lapse in judgment was beginning to loom as a serious mistake.

The three of us stepped back in the hallway downstairs as two white-uniformed paramedics wearing gauze masks and rubber gloves carried Craig Valley's rubber-bagged body past us on a stretcher. McCloskey led us into the living room, over by the fireplace, then abruptly turned around. Anger had mottled his face, making the acne scars on his cheeks appear white and shiny. "You two are arrogant sons-of-bitches!" he snapped. "For Christ's sake, you had to have heard us come in, and you didn't even bother coming downstairs!"

"Who do you suppose left the door open for you, McCloskey?" Garth asked in an even tone.

"You know that doesn't mean shit, Frederickson!" the police detective shouted at my brother, causing heads in the dining room to turn. "When you were a cop, you'd have flipped if you'd walked into the situation I did!"

"You're right, McCloskey," Garth said in the same even, mild tone. "I apologize for Mongo and myself; we acted improperly. But, when I was a cop, I think the first thing I might have done after walking into this situation is to ask the aforementioned civilians just what the hell they were looking for, and why the man who was just carted out killed himself."

McCloskey flushed, and for a moment doubt swam in his black eyes; it was quickly replaced by renewed anger. "I was getting around to that, Frederickson, so you don't have to be a smart-ass. The duty officer told me what you said to him over the phone. Now, do you expect me to believe that you were just talking to the man, and then suddenly, for no reason, he jumps up, runs into the bathroom, and sticks two razor blades into his throat?''

"I didn't say there was no reason."

"Then what was the reason?"

"I think he was afraid we were going to force information out of him."

McCloskey was openly incredulous. "And so he killed himself rather than talk to the two of you?"

"That's right. That's how Mongo and I figure it, McCloskey."

"Did you thump him a little bit?"

Garth shook his head. "I ripped his shirt. I think he was afraid I was going to thump him if he didn't tell us what we wanted to know."

"Was his fear justified, Frederickson?"

"I didn't hit him."

"What information were you looking for?"

"Talk to Mongo," Garth said tersely, nodding in my direction.

"I'm asking you."

"Talk to Mongo, McCloskey," Garth repeated, and turned away. "I don't feel like talking to you any longer. Your interrogation technique stinks."

"We're looking for a load of dirt, Lieutenant," I said quickly as the blood drained from McCloskey's face and he took a step toward Garth. My brother's brusque manner could, at the very least, get us a ride to McCloskey's precinct station house, and it was time Vicky Brown couldn't afford for us to waste. "It's why we came here. Valley could have told us where to find the dirt, and when we find the dirt we'll also find a little-"

"What the hell are you talking about?" the detective snapped. "I find the two of you here all covered with blood, and you try to feed me some-!"

McCloskey was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone on the desk behind him. Startled, he jumped back, spun around, and glared at the telephone.

"That could be for me, Lieutenant," Garth said easily. "I'd appreciate it if you'd answer it."

McCloskey did. He listened for a few moments, the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching, then handed the receiver to my brother. Garth turned his back to us, spoke in a low voice, listened. Finally he turned back and hung up the receiver.

"What was that all about?" McCloskey asked curtly.

"Mongo and I burst into the bathroom just after Valley slit his throat," Garth said to the gray-haired police detective. "He'd just made a call on that cordless telephone you found on his chest. I used the redial button and found out that he'd just finished speaking to someone at an outfit called Nuvironment. The receptionist there wouldn't tell me who he'd been talking to, so I just had somebody checking to see if there's any way to trace a call to see what extension is used. There isn't."

McCloskey frowned. "This 'somebody' works for the phone company?"

Garth nodded.

"Did you identify yourself as a police officer, Frederickson?"

"No. I'm not a police officer."

"Then he's a contact-one of your own."

"Yes."

"Give me a name. Who is it?"

"I'm not going to give you any names, Lieutenant. If you want a personal contact at the phone company, get your own."

"I don't need a personal contact there, Frederickson!"

"Take it easy, Lieutenant," I said quietly. The man was working himself up into a real snit. I'd known that McCloskey had resented Garth for years, blamed him for his own poor career performance; but until that moment I had not realized how threatened McCloskey was by Garth-and, perhaps, by me. It could make Lieutenant Malachy McCloskey a potentially very troubling nettle in our sides.

McCloskey ignored me, and kept shouting at my brother. "I'm a Goddamn cop, Frederickson, and I have a legal right to request privileged information from the phone company! You don't; not anymore. Giving out that kind of information to unauthorized civilians can constitute an illegal act."

"For Christ's sake, McCloskey," Garth said with disgust. "I could have told you the call was from my mother. Don't you understand that it's not important? If you'll stop acting like a horse's ass, Mongo and I will tell you what is important."

Garth's manners might leave something to be desired, but I found his description of McCloskey right on the mark. I was getting impatient. The afternoon was rushing on, and we had to go home to change clothes before going on to our next stop. I glanced at my watch-which turned out to be a mistake.

"You two guys really think you're something!" McCloskey shouted. All activity in the other room had stopped, and everyone was staring at us. "The famous Fredericksons! I'm sick of hearing the other cops talk about the two of you all the time, and I'm sick of reading stories about you in the newspapers! I'm here to tell you that I don't believe half of the shit they print about you. Dr. Robert Frederickson and ex-Police Lieutenant Garth Frederickson may be fucking famous, but what you are not is fucking police officers. I am in charge of this case. This is a police matter, and I will not tolerate any more interference from you two-not now, and not in the future. I don't care how many powerful friends you have in Washington. Now, do I make myself clear?!"

Reading us the riot act seemed to mean that he wasn't going to hassle us any more about disturbing the scene of an investigation-which he would have had every right to do. That was good.

I glanced at Garth and was alarmed to see that he was leaning against the mantel in almost exactly the same pose he had assumed while I'd questioned Craig Valley. He seemed very relaxed, almost bored, as he stared out the window behind the desk. In my brother, such exaggerated calmness was a warning sign. That was bad.

"You've certainly made yourself clear, Lieutenant," I said brightly. "We were way out of line. My brother has already apologized for the two of us; I apologize again."

McCloskey grunted. "What the hell did you say you were looking for?"

"Dirt," I replied even more brightly.

Lieutenant Malachy McCloskey studied me, a thoroughly puzzled expression on his face. "What?"

"We're looking for the dump site of a load of one hundred tons of dirt, Lieutenant," I replied. Now that I seemed to have his undivided attention, I let my smile fade. "Valley knew where the dirt had been dumped, and that's what Garth and I were questioning him about when he killed himself."

"You're telling me that a man killed himself rather than tell you where to find a load of dirt?"

"Yes, Lieutenant."

McCloskey glanced at Garth, but my brother continued to stare casually out the window; when the policeman looked back at me, he seemed even more puzzled. I couldn't blame him.

"Why would he do that, Frederickson?"

"I don't know, but I have a strong feeling that the police should take steps to find out. Garth and I really don't care. It isn't the dirt itself that interests us, and Valley knew that."

"Just what does interest you?"

"Why don't you sit down, Lieutenant, and I'll tell you all about it."

He did, and I did.