Читать книгу Deadly Grace - Taylor Smith - Страница 17

Havenwood, Minnesota

Thursday, January 11, 1979

Cruz knew a brush-off when he heard one. He and Berglund were at the Havenwood police headquarters, standing outside the low-slung stucco building. Cruz was hungry and tired, and his feet and hands were freezing. The sun had set while they were inside the hospital at Montrose and now, a bitterly cold night wind was whistling through the empty baseball diamond across the road. Under his shoe, Cruz felt the crackle of thin ice on the asphalt lot, which was empty, except for one other police cruiser besides Berglund’s.

“Why don’t you leave it with me?” Berglund told him. “Once Jillian’s back on her feet, I’ll ask her about that visit she made to England—who she talked to over there, whether she noticed anything out of the ordinary. Whatever. You can leave me a list of questions, if you want, and I’ll get back to you on it. God only knows when that’ll be, mind you, the way she looks now. Meantime, seems to me there’s not much point in you wasting your time hanging around here.”

Cruz studied the ground as he kicked tiny fragments of ice and sent them skidding across the parking spaces. They had driven back from Montrose along a rural secondary road—a shortcut, Berglund said, although to Cruz, the black void they’d traversed had seemed grim, forbidding and endless. For the entire length of the trip, they’d seen exactly one other vehicle, a pickup traveling in the opposite direction. No one else. No roadside service stations, no call boxes, no lonely farmhouses. After the first few minutes of passing nothing but pale, twin slivers of potholed road flying by on either side, dimly lit by headlights that obviously needed cleaning, Cruz had had the anxious sense he was losing his eyesight.

Berglund had uttered hardly a word since leaving the psychiatric ward. Now, the two men stood face-to-face in the parking lot, illuminated by a single sodium floodlight mounted high on a weathered pole that threw long shadows and cast a jaundiced light on the deputy’s broad face. His breath plumed around his head in the cold night air like smoke from a locomotive getting ready to shove off. Clearly, Cruz thought, there would be no invitation to come inside. Berglund was done playing host.

“I’ll give it some thought,” Cruz told him. “I might end up leaving those questions with you at that, but we’ll see how things go. Meantime, don’t let me hold you up. I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do without having to baby-sit me.”

Berglund cocked a thumb at the low stucco building. “Got a ton of paperwork to do before I can get out of here.”

Cruz nodded. “You go ahead. Thanks for taking me around.”

“No problem. Are you going to catch a flight back tonight?”

“I doubt it. The last flight to D.C. is around seven-thirty, and there’s no way I’d make it, especially with a rental car to return.”

“Maybe an early-morning connection. Return your car tonight, stay at one of the Minneapolis airport hotels.”

“I could do that, but actually, I was thinking I might stick around here for another day. See how Miss Meade’s doing tomorrow.”

Berglund paused. Lost in shadow under the prominent ridge of his brow, his eyes were totally unreadable. “Suit yourself,” he said finally.

“Can you recommend a hotel?”

“Only two places open this time of year,” Berglund said. “Lakeside Inn and the Whispering Pines.”

“Which is better?”

“Lakeside’s got bigger rooms and a better view, not that it makes much difference at night. It’ll be noisy, though. There’s a steak pit and pub downstairs. Real good rib-eye, if that appeals. The Whispering Pines Motel is attached to that Chevron station half a mile back down the highway, the way you came into town. Rooms are pretty basic, but they’re clean and it’s quieter out there, especially at this time of year. Plus, if you want a decent breakfast for a good price, the café there’s the place. All the truckers make a point of stopping there on their way through these parts.”

“Sounds like it might be the best bet,” Cruz said. “What about you? You interested in grabbing a bite later? Buy you a beer?”

Berglund shifted his bulk from one big leather boot to the other. “Don’t think I can make it. I got that paperwork to do, and then I want to check with the chief’s wife, see how he made out today. And—” He straightened suddenly and pushed his padded nylon jacket sleeve up his arm to check his watch. “Oh, shit! I didn’t realize how late it was. My kid’s got hockey practice in half an hour. I coach his team. Sorry,” he said, shoving out his hand, “I’m gonna have to leave you to your own devices.”

“It’s no problem, I’ll manage fine,” Cruz said as his hand disappeared in the deputy’s maw. “Thanks again. What time are you figuring on heading back over the hospital tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. Hard to say. Depends what else is going on around here.”

“Sure, you’ve got a lot going on. I’ll probably just head over there on my own. Maybe we’ll meet up.”

Berglund was making ready to go inside, but he paused, the shadows on his face spreading as his frown deepened. “Understand, Cruz, our first priority here is to find out what Jillian can tell us about the fire and her mother’s death. Even assuming the doc lets us—lets me—in tomorrow, and that she’s ready to talk, this investigation of yours has to take a back seat right now. That’s why I’m saying you might be better off to leave your information with me, let me get back to you on it.”

“Like I said, it could come down to that,” Cruz conceded. “How about we wait and see what happens tomorrow?”

“She’s going to have a hard enough time dealing with what went down here. I’m going to have to ask you not to distract her with any other outside matters right now. I mean that.”

Cruz nodded. “I understand you’re under a lot of pressure to come up with some answers here, Deputy.”

“That’s right, I am. And who knows how long that’s going to take? The last thing I need is some federal hotshot breathing down my neck while—” Berglund’s frame had shifted until he was looming over Cruz, but he caught himself suddenly and pulled back, exhaling heavily. “Never mind. Sorry. It’s been a rough couple of days. And look, I know you’ve got a job to do, too, but I just can’t be concerned about that right now, you understand?”

“Sure, I understand. No offense taken.”

“I appreciate it. I just hate to think about you hanging around here, wasting your time. I’m sure you’ve got other things to be doing, too.”

“I’ve got a pretty full caseload,” Cruz admitted. “On the other hand, this is what’s on my plate right now, and as long as I’m here, I guess I’ll just push it around a little. But I appreciate your concern for my busy schedule.”

“Suit yourself,” Berglund said. “Let’s just get one thing straight, though—I don’t want you bothering Jillian Meade right now. Clear?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and headed up the walk and into the building.

Left alone in the parking lot, Cruz climbed into his rented Buick and started the engine, cranking the heater dial up to full blast. His shoulders, arms and legs, every muscle in his body, felt as if they were locking up in protest against the cold. He hunkered down in the front seat, massaging his arms and watching the building as he waited for the heater to kick in.

To the right of the glass front door was the window of the chief’s office where he and Berglund had first talked. The lights were off, but the office door was open and through it, Cruz could see the brightly lit squad room beyond. Berglund was in there now, talking to one of his men, the white-haired uniform Cruz had spotted typing reports when he’d arrived. Suddenly, the guy rose and reached for the parka slung over the back of his desk chair.

The deputy chief looked somber as he turned and headed toward the office. He was the very picture of a straight shooter, Cruz thought, a decent if inexperienced small-town cop burdened with the unexpected double load of a murder and the responsibility of command. But if Berglund was as clean as he seemed, why was this knot of suspicion hardening in his gut? Was it Berglund, or was the problem his own, a reaction caused by too many years of looking for and finding corruption behind a uniform? He watched as Berglund flicked on the office lights and closed the door behind him, throwing his coat aside as he reached for the phone.

Movement in the reception area, meantime, drew Cruz’s attention toward the front door. The white-haired cop appeared. Slapping on a police cap, he waved back to someone at the front desk—still the mystery-loving Verna? Cruz wondered, or would she have gone home by now? Outside on the front step, the cop paused at the sight of Cruz’s Buick sitting in the parking lot with its engine running.

It was time to move. Cruz put the car in gear, feeling eyes on him as he pulled out of the lot. At the edge of the roadway, just before turning, he glanced in his the rearview mirror. The uniform was climbing into the other black and white next to Berglund’s. Cruz kept his pace leisurely as he headed down the deserted highway, looking for the Chevron station and attached motel that Berglund had recommended. Watching, too, for the car that he suspected would be on his tail momentarily. Sure enough, a pair of headlights swung out onto the highway a moment later, heading in the same direction he was moving, away from town. In a place this small, there’d be no hiding if Berglund decided he bore watching. All he could do was make the surveillance as dull as possible.

The Whispering Pines Motel, as advertised, stood about a mile outside of town. Cruz pulled into the lot, grateful to be off the highway, where visibility was dropping fast. The weather had taken a turn for the worse in the last while, and icy sleet was whipping across the pavement, accumulating in little drifts wherever it encountered an obstacle like a curb or the base of a tree. The night was dark, the space beyond the service center transformed into a black void, but the lot itself was illuminated by floodlights mounted on tall poles affixed to the roof at either end of the long, low building. Gusting snow performed under the spotlights, spinning an energetic dance in midair. Pretty to look at, Cruz thought, but nasty weather to be stranded in.

All the rooms of the motel fronted onto the parking lot, lined up behind a homey-looking café. The Chevron service station attached to it had a couple of open service bays and was connected to the café by an adjoining office that seemed to do double duty for the garage and the motel behind it. A red neon Vacancy light was lit next to the front door. A couple of big rigs were lined up in a side lot and the café looked moderately busy, but the parking spaces in front of the motel rooms were all unoccupied.

A bell over the door tinkled as Cruz walked into the office. The place smelled of machine oil, French fries and coffee, the latter scents drifting in from the café through an open inner connecting door between restaurant and office. Cruz saw a solidly built, middle-aged waitress balancing three plates on one arm, her free hand gripping the handles of three white ironstone mugs as she headed for a trio of men sitting at a corner table. Cruz’s stomach grumbled. He hadn’t eaten a thing except Verna’s cookie since the rubbery eggs and rock-hard roll served on his flight from D.C. that morning.

“Evening,” a voice behind him called.

He turned to see an older man with a thick head of slick-backed hair and wearing a grease-stained blue jumpsuit leaning on the office counter, gnawing thoughtfully on a yellow wood pencil. An old-timer in a red plaid jacket and green John Deere cap stood across the counter from him. The two had been shooting the breeze when Cruz walked in, but they paused now to study the newcomer, taking his measure. The blue jumpsuit—the owner, Cruz guessed—pulled the pencil out of his mouth and nodded a welcome, but the grizzled old guy turned away, ignoring Cruz as he resumed their conversation.

“You gotta wonder what she needed it for, is all I’m saying.”

“Be with you in a minute,” the man behind the counter called over the old guy’s head to Cruz, before turning back to his customer. The red-trimmed oval at the breast of his jump-suit read “Norbert.” “Uh-huh,” he told the old-timer, although whether he agreed or was just filling dead air was hard to say. He reached for a pile of invoices and started flipping through them, then withdrew one and ran an oil-encrusted index finger down the page. “Anyway, Henry, I replaced her muffler and wheel rim right enough. Had to order a replacement for that tail pipe bracket, though. Kind of jury-rigged the old one so it’ll hold you for now, but a guy wouldn’t want to give odds on how long she’ll last.”

“So I gotta bring her back in, then?”

“You bet. We don’t change out the bracket, she’ll be draggin’ her ass inside a coupla weeks—especially the way you drive,” he added, grinning and throwing a wink in Cruz’s direction.

The old guy, Henry, ignored the gibe. “How long’s it gonna take to get here, then?”

“Week, ten days. Won’t take long to weld her on, though.”

“Humph! So what’s this gonna set me back?” He pulled a bulging, worn leather billfold out of the back pocket of his rumpled green work pants.

“Call it a eighty bucks.”

“Includin’ the bracket?”

“No, not includin’ the bracket, but I threw in the tow. Bracket’s gonna set you back another ten or twelve—say, twenty with the labor, but we’ll wait on that till it gets here.”

“Geez, Norbert, you’re killin’ me!”

As reluctantly as if it were a layer of his own skin, the geezer peeled a bill from a fat wad in the wallet. He slapped the bill down on the counter, and Cruz saw Ben Franklin’s features on its worn, wrinkled face. Like Cruz’s own father, Henry here obviously distrusted banks, preferring to guard his money himself.

“I told you not to take that old beater off-road, didn’t I?” the garage owner said as he palmed the bill and rang up the sale on an ancient cash register. “You’re lucky you didn’t rip off the whole underside.” The register pealed and the cash drawer popped open.

Henry waved a dismissive hand. “She’s got plenty of life in her yet.”

The mechanic lifted the pile of twenties and slid the hundred underneath, then pulled a twenty-dollar bill off the top of the pile. “Sure she does, Henry,” he said, grinning as he slammed the drawer shut and handed over the change. “You just keep tellin’ yourself that. It’s good for business.”