Читать книгу Drago #2a - Art LLC Spinella - Страница 6

After Bosch picked up the bones on Tuesday, Sal and I spent the next couple of days putting our respective houses in order before Cookie and Tatiana headed out. I had a Honey Do list a mile long with a growing number of “reminders” including feeding the cats, leaving left-over pizza for Lilly the raccoon (there is no left over pizza when Cookie’s gone. Scratch that one.), changing the bed sheets at least once a week (fat chance) and throwing away any Chinese-food containers after three weeks.

Then it hit the fan on Thursday.

That’s when the Western World newspaper is published and the front page was totally devoted to “Tree Man” including Karl’s three photos as well as lengthy speculation about the link between Jake’s killer and the fact he cut down the Madrone with the encased skeleton. Some fool was quoted as saying the skeleton was a Native American and this was retribution for disturbing a hallowed grave. Chief Forte was quoted as saying it was too early to make such statements and that Sal and I were working to uncover the true nature of both the Tree Man and Jake’s murder and if they were even remotely connected. The spokesperson for the Consolidated Tribes of Siletz, of which the Coquilles are a part, explained there was no record of any of such ritual remotely resembling encasing someone in a tree.

My cell phone buzzed.

“Drago.”

“Nick, Forte. Just got the autopsy report on Jacob. Single shot to the back of the head, which we knew. A .22, it appears. From a semi-auto, not a revolver. We ran it through the data base and found a test bullet that matched. A Phoenix Arms Deluxe Rangemaster model HP22A.”

“Small gun.”

“Real light weight. Lots of noise, not a lot of accuracy over 30 feet. Okay for concealed carry, but usually a hip pocket or purse weapon.”

“Any registration on it?”

“Nope. We know that it was sold through a gun shop in Eugene in 2002 but the shop is gone and the buyer died three years ago. The family says they think the owner turned the gun over to the Eugene cop shop just before he passed away, but the department doesn’t have any record of that. No family connection to the coast or Cobb, as far as we can tell, but Eugene is looking into it for us.”

“Could have been bought at a gun show along the way. Isn’t worth much on the used-gun market. Less than a hundred bucks, I’d guess, so just about anyone could afford it.”

“Have you heard yet from Bosch?” Forte asked.

“Nary a word. Didn’t expect much right away.”

“Yeah, he’s the lonely ranger ‘round these parts,” Forte said with a bad impression of a Texas drawl.

“Chief…”

“Yeah, Nick?”

“Don’t do that again. ‘Kay? You sounded really weird.”

The phone clicked off without a goodbye.

I filled my mug with some Colombian and moved to the deck. The fire had long been out. Sal crunched through the woods just as I sat down.

“You have radar or something? You always seem to know when I’m about to chug some brew out here.”

“Wave length, Nick. We’re on the same one.” He plopped into the chair across from me, put his travel mug on the table and added, “Besides, that Artemus guy from Homeland Security never took his bugs back.”

I looked under the table just to make sure Sal was only tugging my leg. He was.

Sal took the information just received from Forte and I could see him processing it. Slipping his iPhone from his jeans, he punched in Phoenix HP22A and came up with a photo of the gun. Nickel-silver body; black plastic grips; black hammer and trigger.

“Cute. Not my style,” I said when he showed me the photo.

Guns are personal like cars and clothes. I like wheel guns. Revolvers, like Harleys and the Crown Vic have a fundamental and useful look.

Semi-autos are Sal’s preference. He relishes the intricacy of the mechanism, the core complexity. His three-dimensions versus my two.

I also like heft, but not weight. A .50 cal Desert Eagle is way cool. Big. Brawny. And at 6 pounds, heavy. I always feel I should be carrying it in a suitcase rather than a holster.

Then there’s the issue of what I call “gloveness.” Some cars have it. All Harleys. Some guns. It’s the ability to feel comfortable, familiar, regardless of model. A Porsche is a Porsche is a Porsche. They fit you like a glove. My Taurus Magnum is like that. When I pick it up, my hand goes to all the right places and every muscle is at its own comfort level, own tautness.

Another buzz in my pocket.

“Drago.”

“Good morning Nick.” I winced at the salutation but recognized Bosch’s voice. “I’ve got some news on the bones.”

“Sal’s with me so I’m putting you on speaker.”

“They’re of a white male, about 75 years old. Stood 5-foot-5. Now he could have been part Native American. There are some skull anomalies that could indicate one parent was Caucasian and the other Indian. That’s a wild-ass guess, though. I’d also say he was probably a farmer by the density of his hand and wrist bones. Both left and right were about the same so he wasn’t someone like a blacksmith who used one arm significantly more than the other. At least he worked with his hands most of his life.

“Lots of calcification, so he was suffering some pretty severe arthritis. A few broken bones that had healed but whoever set them wasn’t likely a doctor. Back then, he may well have wrapped a splint in some bandages and let it heal on its own.”

I could hear him turn some pages of what I assumed was a report. “There are a couple missing which are probably still in your fire pit. A clavicle and a small toe.”

“We’ll check.”

“I’d appreciate it. Might as well rebuild this guy with all his parts. Let me know if you find ‘em. Other than that, I’m going to glue the pieces together and send the skeleton to Salem for more eval. Call me on those missing bones.”

Clicking off, “Well, shall we go on a treasure hunt?”

Sal and I each grabbed some gloves from my work shed and began sifting through the comfortably warm ashes. It didn’t take long digging through the fine powder to find the missing clavicle. Setting it aside, we each began looking for toe bones. We’d spent 20 minutes or so in pursuit when my hand came up with what looked like a mud egg about twice the size of a golf ball.

Holding it up between my thumb and forefinger, “Looky here, Sal.”

“An Easter egg hunt long forgotten?”

I carried the find to the deck, set the ball on the table and pulled off my gloves. I gently shook it and heard a definite clunk.

“Hello,” Sal said. “A bauble.”

The exterior of the shell was smooth with a small ring at what I assumed was the top as if it were supposed to hang from a jewelry chain or thin leather thong.

“My guess is it was hanging from the neck or wrist of the Tree Guy,” I said.

“Fair guess, I would say. Shall we open it?”

“Let’s get some pictures first.” Sal complied by using his cell phone camera to get close ups and medium-distance shots for size comparison.

I pulled out my pocket knife and scored a line around the egg’s equator.

“Looks like clay. Hope we didn’t burn off some design or words.”

I continued scoring the same line over and over, slowly working deeper into the ball. My goal was to cut through the shell and have two intact halves.

“Almost there,” Sal watched closely, alternating between sips of coffee and stroking his beard.

I nodded just as the knife’s blade broke through a portion of the egg. Slowly working my way around what now looked like a seam the two parts finally were held together by a scant eighth-inch bridge which easily and cleanly popped apart.

Like the yoke of an egg, a large gold sphere rolled out of the shell and onto the table.

“Holy crap,” Sal whispered. “Wouldya look at that.”

It was mesmerizing. About three inches in diameter and polished like glass, the gold ball rested on my half of the table top reflecting the blue sky, trees and our faces as if it were a mirror. Perfectly round it rolled effortlessly toward Sal when I touched it lightly with my fingernail, stopping only when it hit the white ledge of the metal frame that supported the glass top.

“Should I pick it up?” Sal asked.

“Did you wash your hands after using the bathroom?”

“Funny.”

“Let me get some cheesecloth first.”

I went to the workshop, pulled open a cabinet and grabbed a new package of the material. Ripping it open on the way back to the table, I stopped at the sound of tires on the gravel road then pulling into my driveway. Forte’s cruiser came to a stop and he climbed out of the car.

“Hey Nick. Why do you look like that?”

Speechless, I merely waved him to follow me which he did looking puzzled. Sal was still staring at the gold ball, eyes mere inches away from its glowing surface.

“Uh, guys,” Forte said, “What are you doing? Trying to move the pretty ball with your mind?”

Not getting the expected smart-ass response from either Sal or me, Forte took a second and closer look.

Then it dawned on him, his eyes first turning to slits then opening like one of those time-lapse videos of a flower.

“Are you kidding me? Is that what I think it is? Is that gold?”

“We’d have to get it assayed to be sure,” I said, “But it sure as hell looks like it to me.”

I opened the package of cheesecloth, knifed off a wad and carefully picked up the ball, resting it in a nest of material.

“And it is truly heavy. A couple of pounds. Maybe more.”

“At the price of gold today, around 60 grand,” Sal calculated. “As an historically significant artifact, what, a hundred times that?”

Forte and I fell into chairs, passing around the ball, each of us in awe of the seemingly flawless finish.

“Who would you trust to assay it?” Sal asked.

Stumper. Bandon had some fine jewelry makers who could tell us if it were gold or not, but none of us was sure they had the capabilities to provide a true assay that would define its purity without destroying at least part of it.

“Send it to the state assay office?” Forte suggested.

“They’re morons. They’d cut it into pieces,” Sal responded.

“Sal knows some Federal types.”

“They’re bigger morons,” the big man responded almost instantly. “I’m hesitant to suggest this, but I do know a guy who is in the exotic metals and jewelry business, has the equipment to test it without destroying it, and we can watch while he does the assay. Besides, he loves Nick.”

“Oh, Christ. Bo,” I said.

“And he owes you big time,” Sal added.

Shaking my head, “Not Bo. Please. The guy makes me crazy.”

“Bo the weird? Any better suggestions?” Forte asked.

He never got a chance to hear my answer.

The first shot caught him right below his badge sending him backward and to the deck. The second entered Sal’s bicep and instantly erupted into a massive spurt of blood. The third whistled past my ear, a bee buzz I’d heard too many times before.

Hitting the ground, I crashed through the slider, tore open the kitchen drawer next to the sink and pulled the Taurus Magnum from the mish-mash of kitchen utensils. Popped the slide. Took a quick look out the door. Saw a figure wearing a hoodie and jeans 50 feet away partially hidden by a Douglas fir, silver handgun aimed toward the deck. I let off four quick rounds. The magnum’s voice a baritone that rattled the windows. Pieces of bark exploded. Return fire sounded light. Nothing hit. Nothing gained. Weak compared to the Taurus. From the corner of my eye, Sal was scrambling behind a bush, belly to the ground, the sleeve of his shirt soaked in red. Forte shook his head, spun to his knees and simultaneously pulled his Glock, saw where I was aiming and let off eight shots.

The hooded assassin disappeared into the brush.

I yelled, “Sal!”

“Mosquito bite. Okay.”

“Chief!”

“Vest. No harm, no foul.”

I let out a long exhalation, dropping my arm to my side, the Magnum’s weight a comfort. Forte stood and gave a deep sigh, refusing to holster his gun, cradling it like a new-born baby, dropping the clip, checking the number of bullets remaining and slamming it back home.

Sal sat up, “Could one of you get me a Band-Aid? Please?”

Scooping up the gold ball and shoving it into my pocket, Forte and I pushed Sal into the passenger seat of his cruiser and I followed in my Vic. The hospital was barely seven miles away and they quickly patched up the big man. The slug ripped some of his abundant flesh, but damaged nothing of importance.

Tatiana would not be pleased. And Cookie would rip me a new one.

An hour later, Sal and I left the Bandon hospital and climbed into the Vic. The Chief left us at the hospital and was busy at Willow Weep with a crew of deputies and the county sheriff looking over the crime scene.

“You okay?”

“Nick, this is not the first time I’ve been with you and gotten shot. I’m fine. But that may be the pain meds talking. Ask me in the morning.” He leaned back in the seat. “How ‘bout a donut?”

We drove to Bandon Bakery, picked up some cinnamon rolls -- enough for us and the boys back at Willow Weep – and headed home.

On the way, my cell phone rang.

“Drago.”

“Hi sweetie,” Cookie’s voice. “Whatcha doin’?”

Sal’s cell rang.

“Hi sweetie,” he mimicked. I couldn’t hear Tatiana’s part of the conversation, but I was catching snippets of Sal’s responses.

“Not much,” I told Cookie.

“Not much,” Sal said.

“Anything new there?” Cookie asked.

“Nope. Just Sal and me playing with our guns.”

Sal followed my lead, “Just Nick and me goofin’ around with our guns.”

“Sounds dirty,” Cookie said.

“I accidentally shot Sal,” I responded. “Just getting back from the hospital with cinnamon rolls.”

Sal grinned and told Tatiana, “Nothing important. Fell off the deck chair and punctured my arm on a gorse bush. I keep telling Nick to rip those damn things out. Needed a couple of stitches, is all.”

“Tatiana and I heard about a new shop in Salem,” Cookie said. “We’re going to spend the night and get back in the morning.”

“Have fun,” Sal said.

“Have fun,” I said.

We both clicked off.

And laughed all the way home.

The cops were nearly done at Willow Weep. Forte was sitting on the deck waiting for us.

“All okay?” he asked.

We nodded, passed into the kitchen and pulled three beers from the fridge, returning to the deck and pulling up chairs. I put the donuts on the table and yelled an offer to the cops on the ground.

To Forte, “What’d you find?”

“Spent casings.22s. Obviously from a semi-auto,” Forte explained, taking a long pull from the Dos Equis. “Found some footprints. Could be size nine or so. A piece of fuzz stuck to the tree, probably from the hoodie. Nothing else.” Another pull. “Dug out two slugs. One from my vest, in bad shape, another from your siding. Not so good shape, but better than mine. Sent them to the lab in Coos Bay for ballistics match, but I don’t think we’ll need the report. Same as the slug from Jacob.

“Had some of my men talk to your neighbors. No one saw anybody so the shooter probably hustled back through the woods to Randolph where he left his vehicle. The neighbor directly behind you said he was pulling into his driveway and saw a four-door sedan, silver or white, parked in front of the volunteer fire station. Nothing outstanding about the car so he didn’t pay it much attention. Said it could have been a Toyota or Honda, but he wasn’t sure.”

Looking at me, “What’d you see, Nick?”

Closing my eyes, turning the images slowly through my mind’s eye, “Man, medium height, silver gun. Probably that Phoenix 22. Mask. Actually a blue polka dot bandana covering his lower face. Dark eyes. Not blue. Not certain, but gray hair. I could see a bit of it under the hoodie. Left handed. He was standing on the right side of the tree, from my view, and using his left hand to fire. White guy. No gloves so I saw his skin.”

I continued running the images. “A ring. Third finger left hand. Wedding band, maybe. Gold color. And glasses. He was wearing glasses. Light gray tint, maybe. Could have been the shadows, but I don’t think so. That’s about it.”

“Okay, then. I’d better get back to the office and file a report or something.” Forte climbed from his chair, finished his beer in a single pour and said, “Still going to show that golden ball to Bo?”

I nodded. “Almost forgot about it.” Pulling it out of my pocket, still wrapped tightly in cheesecloth, I held it up. “I’ll put the clay egg in a box so we can take a closer look at it, too.”

Forte bobbed his head and walked toward the driveway and his cruiser.

Sal and I sat quietly, reflecting on the close call. But not for long. The cell buzzed in my pocket.

“Drago.”

“Nick, it’s Karl. At Western World?”

“What can I do for you Karl?”

“I hear there was a shooting at your place today. Care to tell me about it?”

“Nope.”

“Come on, word is already all over town that you gunned down an assassin.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Karl. No one was gunned down. We were cleaning guns when one went off accidentally and nicked Sal. Nothing more.”

Karl laughed. “Don’t go all Nixon on me, Nick. Does this have to do with the Tree Man?”

I gave it some thought before answering. “Okay, here’s the deal. You’re not on deadline because the paper only comes out on Thursdays…”

“Wrong, Nick. The Oregonian has hired me as a freelancer to write daily reports on this story.”

“Good grief, The Oregonian?”

“Big time, Nick.”

“They get it wrong more often than you guys do. Give me a break.”

“They get things wrong because people like you don’t tell them the truth in the first place,” Karl retorted. He had a point. A small one, but a point.

“Here’s the deal. Meet me tomorrow afternoon and I’ll tell you what I can. Has to be after 1 p.m. though.”

“I’m supposed to file notes at 2 for re-write.”

“Not my problem, Karl. After 1. Best I can do.”

The silence was brief. “Deal. Where?”

“Eatin’ Station.”

I clicked off. Sal started to say something, but I raised a hand to stop him and dialed Bo’s number.

“Nick!! You’ve only called me twice in my entire life! Geeze, this is great! So you killed an assassin! What a guy!”

“Bo, no one got killed, but I do need to see you in the morning. I’ve got an official job for you, but you have to promise me it remains a secret until I tell you otherwise.”

“Secret job! This has to do with Tree Man, doesn’t it Nick. Sure, my lips are zipped. Really.” His voice lowered into a conspiratorial tone. “No one gets anything out of me. Promise, Nick.”

“We’ll meet you at Eatin’ Station at 10. How’s that?”

“I’ll be there, Nick. I’ll be there. Lips sealed.”

But someone’s lips were hardly sealed. When Sal and I sat in our customary booth at the restaurant, a constant flow of Bandonians came by to give a thumbs up, pat on the back or ask for details about the shootout. No matter what we said, everyone left convinced some foreign nationals were trying to get even for the Russian-thing that happened two months back.

At precisely 10 a.m., the voice.

“Hey Nick!” Bo scurried to the table. “Wow, you’re the man. You’re better than that Jack Reacher guy. Well, maybe. No offense. Big gun fight at the ranch, huh? Shot up the place! Saved the Chief’s and Sal’s lives! Wow, Nick. That’s cool!”

All ears in the restaurant were tuned into the conversation. “Bo, Jack Reacher isn’t real. He’s the figment of Lee Child’s imagination, okay?”

“You’re wrong Nick. I know a guy whose cousin knows a guy who actually met Reacher in Texas! They had coffee in some diner together. He’s real, Nick. Really.”

Sal couldn’t help himself. “Listen Bo, if Reacher and Drago had to fight to the death, Nick would be the one walking away.”

Bo looked at Sal and mulled it over. “He’s pretty tough, Sal. Pretty tough. I’d bet on Nick because he’s my friend, but I don’t know. It’d be close.”

“Guys, listen to me. Jack Reacher is not real, okay? He’s a character in a book. I know. I’ve read all the Child books.”

With a straight face Sal said, “You’d whip his ass.”

Bo, trying not to offend me, changed the subject. “We gonna meet, Nick? Now, huh?”

“I wasn’t quite expecting all these folks listening to us, Bo, so let Sal and me finish breakfast and meet you at your office in, say, an hour?”

The small man bounced his head up and down then to Sal, “That Reacher guy’s mean, Sal. He might just be able to take Nick.” To me, “Sorry, Nick. But, you know…” He turned away from the table and began walking to the exit muttering, “It would be close. That’s for sure. Real close.”

Sal bent over, put his head down on the table and laughed so hard it splashed coffee from my mug.

I glared at Sal. “Thanks for that, you shlub.”

Between gasps for breath, he said, “The way word travels in this town, it’ll turn into a story that you claimed you could beat Jack Reacher in a fist fight.” Sal laughed even harder. “Bo just turned you into Billy the Kid, Shane and Muhammad Ali in less than a minute.”

“Well, sheet.”