Yellow-Dog Contract

Chapter Thirteen

Detective Aaron Oxley of the Metropolitan Police Department’s homicide squad couldn’t think of anything to charge me with except a felony that could, he said, get me five to ten years in Lorton. The felony that Detective Oxley had in mind was my failure to report a felony. The felony that I had failed to report was Max Quane’s murder, but my lawyer, Earl Inch, pooh-poohed that as only a $100-an-hour lawyer can; with magnificent derision and chilling disdain. Detective Oxley took it well enough because he really didn’t seem too interested in charging me with anything anyhow. What he was really interested in was why I had thrown the empty pint bottle of Old Overholt. And Murfin. He was interested in Murfin, too.

“These two guys with ski masks,” Oxley said. “They both had guns, right?”

“Right.”

“And one of the guys—”

“The one in the blue mask,” I said.

“Yeah, the blue mask. Well, he goes into what you call the FBI crouch—”

“You know,” I said, “like on television.”

“Yeah,” Oxley said, sighed, and perhaps even shuddered a little. “Like on television. Well, the guy in the blue mask has a gun and the one in the red mask has a gun, but that doesn’t bother you any. You pick up an empty pint bottle and pop the guy with the blue mask on the arm with it just as he’s about to shoot the Raines woman.”

“Obviously, Mr. Longmire was trying to prevent a cold-blooded murder,” said Earl Inch, earning his $100 an hour. “I think he should be commended.”

“Congratulations,” Oxley said to me. “I think you’re wonderful.”

“Thank you.”

“Now tell me again why you threw the bottle.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It seemed like a good idea. At the time.”

“You didn’t think that, well, maybe these two guys with the guns might get just a little offended? You know, a little pissed off at you and maybe even get it into their heads that they oughta plunk a few shots your way?”

“Mr. Longmire was obviously willing to risk his life in order to save that of another,” Inch said and sounded as if he almost believed it.

“Mr. Inch,” Oxley said. “I know you’re here to represent your client and all of us really appreciate your efforts. We really do. Honestly. But when I ask Mr. Longmire here a question I’d appreciate it if you’d just let him answer it and then, if you don’t like his answers, well, you can sort of patch them up afterwards and tell me what it was that he really meant to say. Okay?”

Inch smiled. It was a cool, smooth smile that exuded the kind of confidence that comes from having an ego that’s in tip-top shape. “We’ll see how it works out,” he said, committing himself to nothing.

Detective Oxley sighed again. “Okay, Mr. Longmire, tell me what you really thought about when you picked up that bottle and threw it.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“If I’d thought about anything, I wouldn’t have thrown it. If I’d thought that I might get shot, I certainly wouldn’t have thrown it.”

“Why didn’t you think you’d get shot?” Oxley said, springing his trap if, indeed, that’s what it was.

“I didn’t think that I would or I wouldn’t. I didn’t think about anything. I just threw it and when the man in the blue mask pointed his gun at me, I wished that I hadn’t.”

Oxley leaned back in his chair staring at me with his icy blue eyes that looked as if they had been lied to a lot, but were finally getting used to it. He and Inch were about the same age, in their early thirties. Oxley wasn’t too tall and carried enough weight around to make him seem almost dumpy. Inch, on the other hand, was well over six feet tall, lean, carefully barbered, or more accurately, coiffed, and had the smooth, fluid movements of a trained athlete, perhaps a tennis pro, which was a profession that he had once given serious consideration.

We sat there in silence for a while, Oxley glum and almost brooding, Inch serene and apparently delighted, although with what, I couldn’t tell. Oxley ran a hand through his longish thin hair that was the nothing color of old chewing gum, gave his holstered .38 a tug to make it ride more comfortably on his hip, and then took a sheaf of notes from his desk drawer, placed them carefully in front of him, and gave them a significant tap with his forefinger.

“That’s quite a story you told us, Mr. Longmire, about how you got yourself involved in the Arch Mix disappearance and your sister and everything.”

“I think I’ve told you all I know,” I said.

“Yeah, we got that all down on tape,” he said. “These here are some notes that another officer took down from what Mr. Murfin had to tell us. You happen to know what Mr. Murfin used to do before he went with the Vullo Foundation?”

“He was involved in a number of political campaigns.”

“And before that?”

“He worked for a couple of labor unions.”

“And before that.”

“I think he was in the entertainment business.”

“He never was a cop, huh?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Tell me again how you’d describe the two men in the ski masks.”

“Well, they were a little over average height, about average weight, and they moved as if they were in pretty good shape so I’d say that they weren’t too old.”

“What were they wearing?”

“Ski masks. A blue one and a red one.”

“Besides that?”

I shook my head. “I really don’t remember.”

“Let me read you how Mr. Murfin remembers them,” Oxley said. He started reading from the notes in front of him. “‘Witness said that perpetrator in red ski mask was a male Caucasian, five feet ten or ten and a half, weighing approximately a hundred and sixty-five or a hundred and seventy pounds, wearing long-sleeved blue sport shirt buttoned to throat. Witness further states that person in red ski mask wore pre-faded blue jeans with flared bottoms. Shoes, according to witness, were white Converse sneakers with three red slanting stripes. Witness not positive whether socks were black or dark blue. Thinks black. Weapon employed by person in red ski mask, according to witness, was thirty-eight caliber revolver with six-inch barrel. Witness is of opinion that revolver was S and W.’” Oxley looked up at me. “S and W,” he said. “That’s Smith and Wesson.”

“I see,” I said.

“It gets better,” Oxley said and went back to his reading. “‘Witness states that perpetrator in blue ski mask was also male Caucasian, six feet tall, possibly six feet and one-half inch, weighing approximately a hundred and fifty or a hundred and fifty-five pounds, wiry build. Person in blue ski mask, according to witness, wore dark green, long-sleeved sport shirt, buttoned to throat, light tan corduroy slacks, flared bottoms, Levi brand.’”

Oxley looked up at me. “You wanta know the reason why he says he knew they were Levi’s?”

“Why?”

“Because when the guy turned around Murfin saw that little red tab on the back that all Levi’s have.”

Oxley shook his head as if able to appreciate a true marvel when he ran across it and went back to his reading. “‘Shoes, according to witness, were crepe-soled desert boots, probably Clark brand. High tops made it impossible for witness to specify color of perpetrator’s socks.’”

Oxley stopped reading and looked up at Inch and me.

“It goes on for a little while more but you get the idea,” he said.

“Mr. Murfin seems to have a true eye for detail,” Inch said.

Oxley shook his head again, a little tiredly this time. “I’ve been in this business twelve years now and I never heard of any witness who apologized for not being able to tell you the color of the socks of some guy who’s pointing a gun at him.”

“You should see him count a hall full of people,” I said.

“Good?”

“Better than good,” I said. “He’s perfect.”

This time there was a kind of weary disbelief in the shake that Oxley gave his head. “And you’re sure he’s never been a cop?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Well, he certainly was helpful.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“He even came up with a clue. At least that’s what he said it was, so maybe it is.”

“An important one?”

“How the fuck should I know if it’s important? But just in case we might miss something, Murfin went up to the room that the Raines woman had rented and sort of poked around before we got there. You know, just to make sure that we wouldn’t overlook anything. Well, he comes up with this clue of his.” Oxley looked at me. “What does Chad mean to you besides being a country in west central Africa and a man’s first name?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Nothing at all?”

“That’s right,” I said. “Nothing at all.”

They let both Murfin and me go after I told them one more time about the man with the caterpillar eyebrows who I had seen coming down the stairs from Max Quane’s apartment just as I was going up. It had happened the day before, but as I told it again it seemed as though it had happened last year. Early last year.

Afterwards, Murfin, Inch and I had a drink in a small bar not too far from police headquarters. I let Inch buy because he probably was still charging me $100 an hour for the privilege of drinking in his company. While we waited for the drinks I excused myself and went back to the rear of the bar where the pay phone was.

The phone rang three times before Slick answered. After he said hello I said, “Sally Raines was shot to death this afternoon. I saw it happen.”

There was a pause and then Slick said, “I see.” Then he said, “I’m sorry,” but that was only a mechanical response because Slick had known Sally Raines only slightly. “Is Audrey all right?” he said and this time there was real concern in his voice.

“She and the kids have gone out to the farm.”

“Good. Can you tell me about the Raines woman — how it happened?”

I told him and when I was finished I said, “Slick?”

“Yes?”

“This whole thing is getting too close to home — to family. I’m worried about Audrey. She apparently told Sally something that Arch Mix had told her. Sally told Max Quane. Max is dead and so is Sally.”

“But Audrey doesn’t know what it is that she told Sally?”

“Not yet. But she might remember. Sally wasn’t supposed to know what Max was up to either, but she must have put it together. Sally was smart. Very smart. Well, Audrey’s not exactly dumb either so whoever killed Max and Sally just might decide to make it a clean sweep.”

“Yes,” Slick said, “I follow your reasoning. It’s quite logical.”

“Let’s take my logic a step further,” I said. “You told me there’s a chance, a tiny one, I think you said, that Arch Mix is still alive.”

“Yes.”

“If Mix shows up, he can clear up this whole mess, can’t he?”

“So I should think.”

“All right, Slick, when?”

I could hear him sigh over the phone. “I really shouldn’t have told you, dear boy.”

“But you did.”

“Yes, I did.” There was another silence and then he said, “Forty-eight hours, Harvey. We should know within forty-eight hours whether he’s alive. But I must caution you — no, I’m going to warn you — that if you mention this to anyone, you’ll probably put Mix’s life in grave jeopardy.”

“You mean if he’s alive, he’s in real bad trouble? Or as you say, grave jeopardy, which sounds even more ominous.”

“That’s really all I can tell you.”

“Okay, Slick. Forty-eight hours. If nothing happens by then, I’m going down to police headquarters and tell one Detective Aaron Oxley of homicide that you have certain information about Arch Mix that might lead to the solution of the murders of Max Quane and Sally Raines. You’ll like Detective Oxley.”

“If nothing happens in forty-eight hours, dear boy, I’ll go calling on Detective Oxley myself.”