Читать книгу Fatal Judgment - Andrew Welsh-Huggins - Страница 18

11

“ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?”

“I’m fine.”

“Fine? You can’t even stand up. Who was that? What’s going on?”

I tried to disprove the statement by standing. Mistake.

“Fellow birder,” I said, taking a breath. “We were having an ornithological dispute.”

“Bullshit. I’m calling the police.”

“Please don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Just give me a minute, OK?”

She was midthirties, with short brown hair and glasses, wearing the olive-green uniform of a park employee of some kind. She helped me to my feet and sat me on the bench. She pulled a water bottle from someplace, let me drink, then splashed the remainder on her hands and wiped my face with her fingers.

“So,” she said. “Police?”

“Not yet.”

“Why?” She took a step back. “Are you the bad guy here?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then why wait?”

“I need to look at something.”

“Like what?”

Without replying I opened my left hand. In it sat Tear Drop’s wallet, which fell onto the observation deck after I tore open his pants pocket. So at least that was something.

HER NAME WAS DEANNA Fleischer. She was a state wildlife biologist with a wetlands specialty. I knew this because she told me, but also because she handed me her card, after I handed her mine.

“What’s a private detective doing in Mendon Woods?” she said, suspicion back in her eyes. “Whose side are you on?”

“Side?”

“The lawsuit?”

“Neither, as far as I know. Also, I’m an investigator, not a detective.”

“In that case, what are you investigating? And who was that?”

“I don’t know. I came up here on a job and he attacked me.” I decided not to mention the knife. That might override my lack of interest in involving the police.

“What kind of job?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t really know what it is.”

“You’re not making much sense. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Right as rain,” I said, doubtfully.

“So why not call the police?”

“I don’t have time.”

“Don’t have time? What’s the big hurry?”

I didn’t respond. I was preoccupied now, going through the contents of the blue nylon wallet. There wasn’t much. A little money, mostly ones and fives, and a lone receipt from the day before from Down Home Buffet, a country-cooking restaurant in a place called Mohican Township whose phone number indicated it was closer to Cleveland than Columbus. Oddly, the wallet also held two driver’s licenses. The first belonged to Tear Drop, who apparently was someone named Gary Phipps of Springfield, Missouri, when he wasn’t a knife-wielding would-be assassin.

The second license belonged to Laura M. Porter.

“YOU’RE SURE YOU’RE OK to drive?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure?” Fleischer asked. “Maybe you should get yourself checked out first.”

“I keep aspirin in my van. And some superhero bandages from when my kids were little. The Spiderman ones usually do the trick.”

We were back in the parking lot after a slower-than-normal walk up the trail. She had agreed, reluctantly, not to call the police, at least not right then.

“I’ve never heard of a private eye driving a Honda Odyssey,” she said. “My husband always says they look like they’ve got a big butt.”

“What can I say? My Karmann Ghia’s in the shop. Plus you wouldn’t believe the gas mileage. And you can fit a decent-sized magnifying glass in the glove compartment.”

“Where are you going now?”

“I guess I’m going to find some country cooking.” I explained about the receipt. “I’m overdue for some biscuits and gravy.”

“Isn’t that a bit, I don’t know, dangerous?”

“Maybe. But my cholesterol’s pretty decent. I eat a lot of fruit and vegetables—”

“I mean just going up there, without any idea who that guy is or what’s going on?”

“It’s what I do, I guess. And it beats finding lost puppies. Usually.”

“I hope you’re right. And I hope your job works out, whatever it is.”

“Me too.”

I opened the door to the van. I stopped and turned around.

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For showing up when you did.”

“My pleasure, I guess.”

“Mine too. Because there’s a good chance I would have been fish food if you hadn’t stopped by.”