A Far Gone Night (31 page)

“Three Philosophers?”
I asked, standing.

“Never tried it.”

“I’ll get you one.
More to follow.
If you don’t like it, I’ll drink it and get you a Sam Adams.”

Payne nodded. I fetched the ale for him and a tall glass half full of Jameson’s Irish
Whiskey
over ice cubes for me. Harmon sipped the dark ale, looked thoughtful, and took a drink. “That’s good.”

I smiled and sat down with my Jameson’s.

“I need to talk to you, Thomas.
Straight up.
No bullshit.”

“Fine.
Off the record?”

Payne made a face, nodded his head, said, “Off the record, dammit!” and took another drink.

“I know you and Moon and Dominguez went up to Minnesota and blew up the Pony Club, killing Ted
Hornung
in revenge for whatever role he had in Moon’s niece’s murder. I know that.”

“No, you don’t. That’s not true.”

“Okay, okay. Then somehow
you
were involved in the blowing up of that joint.”

I shook my head. “I wasn’t even there.”

Payne gave me a cautious look. “Then, somehow, Moon was involved in the blowing up of the Pony Club.”

“He wasn’t there, either.”

A light went on in Payne’s eyes. “Then, somehow, Clancy
Dominguez
was involved in the blowing up of the Pony Club.”

I said nothing.

“I
knew
you brought that sucker into my county for a reason other than old time’s sake! Where is Dominguez now?”

I looked at my watch. “London? Kenya?”

“
Sonuvabitch
!
So, how can I get in touch with him?”

I said nothing. Payne knew nothing about Clancy except his name, what he looked like, and that he had somehow been involved. He would never find him. And if he did, he wouldn’t get a word out of the man.

Payne said, “Thomas, the state’s Major Crimes Unit is on my ass about this, and they’re going to meet with me at my office at ten tomorrow morning. It won’t be pleasant. I don’t know what to tell them, but you could help me. They’ll probably want to talk to you and Moon.
And Dominguez.”

“Tell them the rules about jurisdiction.”

“They’re already aware. They’re in contact with the Minnesota BCI and the
Chalaka
Police Department. This is not going to be a fun interview.”

“More like an interrogation, I’d say.
Same agents from last week?”

“Yes.”

I sipped some whiskey and leaned forward and said, “Harmon, they will
never
solve this one. They won’t. They’ll get nothing from me, or Moon, or Clancy if they ever find him, which is unlikely. If they get even
close
to him, and I suppose it’s possible, he’ll disappear until they get tired of looking for him. Besides, they won’t go to the trouble of extraditing him from whatever country he happens to be in at the time.”

“Thanks for that. But there’s the other thing on my butt, and it
ain’t
going away, Thomas.”

“
Doltch
?”

“Right under my nose.
My own willing ignorance, refusing to believe.”

“Welcome to the human race, Harmon. It’s icky most of the time.
Our sin nature, man.”

“And there’s the other thing, even worse, personally.”

“You and
Altemier
.”

“Yes.”

“That was weak, Harmon, but you’re not the first man to fall for a pretty young thing, especially if she comes on to you, which I suspect she did, and especially if the man is twice her age. What’s her problem, anyway?”

“She has abnormally strong urges, is all I can think.
Oversexed.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s bad enough that I slept with a woman under my professional authority. That’s despicable. But the fact Olivia found us together is more painful than you can imagine.”

“I’m pretty good at imagining pain. But why in the world, if you and Olivia were going so well, would you jeopardize that for
Altemier
? I don’t get it.”

“There was an opportunity for sex and I took it. I haven’t exactly been a monk since Pam divorced me nine years ago.”

“But didn’t you and Olivia, I mean…?”

“No need to go there, Thomas. Olivia and I never slept together. She would be strong, and when she wavered, I would be strong. She is a virtuous woman.”

I thought it would be wise to move on.
Quickly.
“So, Harmon, what are you going to do?
About all this?”

“When we conclude all of these investigations, the murder of Cindy, the disappearance and likely murders of the Prentice and Julia, the
Chalaka
business, I’m going to take professional leave for three months and see if I can, or even should, continue as Sheriff of
Rockbluff
County. I need to get away to think it through. Deputy
Altemier
has resigned to take another position back home in Dubuque. She’s a good kid, Thomas. What happened was my fault as much as hers.
Just an old man wanting to feel young again with a mere girl.”

“An old, old story.
At least you’re not wearing neck bling, or unbuttoning your shirt three buttons down to expose your tanned, hairy chest. But for what it’s worth, I think I’d like to have you as my Sheriff for a long time. For what it’s worth,” I repeated.

“I appreciate that.” Payne finished his Belgian ale, smacked his lips, and remarked that he would be a regular imbibing that brand from now on.

“Who’s going to take over during your absence as Sheriff?”

“
Landsberger
.
I have no qualms about him. I’ve often thought he’d succeed me when I retire someday. This will be good experience. If I come back, he’ll be okay with it. If I don’t, City Council will likely promote him, with my full recommendation.
Doltch
is going to prison.
My fault.”

“Not your fault. He made his own decisions.”

Harmon and I both stood up. I took his empty glass while he slipped on his coat. He turned to leave, paused,
looked
me in the eye. “It’s Olivia, isn’t it?”

I knew what he meant. I said, “Yes.”

Harmon Payne’s eyes went sad. He nodded his head slowly, looked away,
looked
back. And then he turned and let himself out and slogged across the snow to his cruiser. The sound of his tires crunching on the white gravel under the white snow was a lonely sound there in the darkness of an Iowa December night in rural
Rockbluff
.

M
onday morning broke lonely, austere, bleak, and bereft of joy. Liv was not beside me when I woke up at 7:30. What woke me up was Gotcha having a dream, yelping and crying and snorting. Maybe she was dreaming that Liv was gone, too. But my reality was greater than her dream.

I sat up in bed. The movement woke up the Bulldog and she came around to me with a sheepish look on her face, as if she were ashamed of her dreaming out loud. I roughed up her
goozle
and gave her a kiss on top of her blunt skull and eased to a standing position with minimal discomfort. I looked down at my bandages. The one on my left passion handle had fallen off, revealing a nearly-healed scab. I fought the urge to scrape off the itchy thing, but decided to engage self-restraint and let it fall off on its own. On my right, the bandage was there, but there had been no blood ooze.
Progress on both sides.

I left the bed unmade, perhaps in some vain hope that Liv Olson would come hopping out of the shower and pull me onto the white sheets.

Gotcha followed me to the front door, which I opened for her. She trotted out and I closed the door, set the coffee pot going, pulled down some Baileys from the cabinet. Even though I had heard snowplows last night on the blacktop at the foot of my gravel driveway, I decided not to run. I was too tired, grumpy, depressed, and irritable to do anything constructive. No Olivia.

For a change, I wasn’t interested in cooking a real man’s breakfast. I could survive without protein for a while, or at least until I could eat lunch at The Grain. I decided on the spur of the moment to treat myself to the delicacies from the bakery of Holy Grounds.

I let Gotcha back in, dipped a soup spoon into a jar of natural peanut butter, slipped her meds into the middle of the gooey mess, folded the spread over, and held the spoon for her while she licked it clean. Then I fed her, enjoying the fervor and ferocity with which she attacked her breakfast. I watched her eat. Finished, she looked at me, belched softly, and plodded into the living room and jumped up on her preferred recliner, pushed it back into a nearly-prone position, stretched out, and looked at me. Then she plopped her tongue out to facilitate better breathing, and fell asleep.
A lot to like about that dog’s life
, I thought. I went back into the kitchen.

After I showered and inexpertly replaced the old bandage with a new one, I dressed in jeans, black t-shirt, black sweatshirt with gold I-O-W-A letters across the chest, slipped into heavy socks and hiking boots, and sat down to a cup of coffee. I selected my big Harley-Davidson mug, filled it one-third with coffee,
then
topped it off with some Baileys. I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble since they do have good coffee at Holy Grounds, but I thought they might object to my BYOB—Bring Your Own Baileys. I drank coffee, my mind on Liv Olson,
Chalaka
, what we had done at that abandoned farm, whether we would ever be caught. I had a second cup, buttoned off the Mr. Coffee machine, and headed for the front door after giving the Bulldog a small Milk Bone to help assuage her separation anxieties upon my leaving. I had to wake her up to give it to her, she was so troubled.

Outside, I couldn’t help but notice Liv’s tire tracks, and also Harmon’s, and how their paths were no longer parallel. Bad luck for Harmon.
Great favor for me.

I stepped into my truck and started up. The information center on the dashboard revealed that it was eighteen degrees, colder than I thought. I tuned in the local radio station and headed for town, learning along the way that one of the stolen cars from last Friday, belonging to an Iowa farmer, had turned up in
Chalaka
. Also in
Chalaka
, another car had gone missing Saturday morning and was recovered last night near Des Moines. No suspects have been identified yet, the reporter said before moving on to the local Help Your Neighbor club dedicated to helping your neighbor advertise overpriced items they didn’t want. I nearly called in to buy an eighteen-inch ceramic King Kong sculpture, but I didn’t have my cell phone. I knew it would get snapped up before I could get to a real telephone, and that made me even grumpier.
Nothing like booze and a King Kong statuette to get a guy through a tough night.

I thought some more about Liv and realized I needed her. I didn’t know if she needed me, or ever would, which makes for worry lines around my mouth and eyes that will go away as soon as I order Pierre’s Anti-Aging Cream from the Home Shopping Network. Second jar is free if I order quickly.

Driving by
Arvid’s
house, I noticed him face down in a big snowdrift in his front yard, just a few feet from his steps leading up to the porch. I honked and proceeded without any acknowledgement from the Lutheran Brotherhood Insurance man enjoying his performance art. On into downtown, I crossed over the iconic bridge and refused to look at the river, turned right, and parked in front of Holy Grounds. Inside, I took up residence in a booth near the kitchen so I could enjoy the smells of bacon cooking and delicacies being baked. Holy Grounds had a good crowd, especially considering the storm, with conversations buzzing, an occasional loud laugh, the sounds from the kitchen wafting out onto groups and individuals enjoying the fragrant ambiance and promise of nectar and ambrosia, Iowa style.

Margo, my favorite waitress, came over to take my order, greeting me with a “Good morning, Thomas!
Great day to be alive in the Lord.”

I nodded in a desultory way and ordered coffee, wishing that, even as I felt the Baileys easing into my system, I could still benefit from more caffeine. I ordered two bear claws, an
asiago
cheese bagel, and four fruit-filled doughnuts—two lemon and two
blueberry
.
Fruit servings for my nutritional balance.
Carbo
loading for my afternoon workout.

While I was waiting for Margo to come back, I looked around the place and noticed, with a bit of a start, two men looking at me. They were my friends from the Iowa Major Crimes Unit, Special Agents Kelvin Massey and Hector Ortiz. Our eye contact lingered, and I observed their lack of smiles while they observed my sullen visage. Ortiz got up and came over to my booth. He did not sit down and I was fine with that.

“Special Agent Massey and I would like to see you in Sheriff Payne’s office this morning at ten.” Ortiz stood over me like a suspicious schoolteacher.

“And a top o’ the morning to you, sir!
Thanks for your kind and warm and heartfelt greeting this fine Iowa
mornin
’,” I said in my best Irish brogue. “But I believe you’re interviewing the good Sheriff at ten, also. You really
must
get yourself a Blackberry to organize your schedule, Special Agent Ortiz.”

He frowned. “You can wait.”

“And you can kiss my ass.”

“Oh, my!”
Margo said, her face almost as red as her hair as she appeared at my place. “Excuse me. I’ll come back when you two gentlemen are through talking.”

“You’re fine, Margo,” I said. “Special Agent Ortiz was just now heading back to his booth where I hope he’s drinking a cup of hemlock.”

“We don’t have that kind of coffee here.”

“Indeed, this is Holy Grounds, is it not?” I said. She placed my order in front of me and scurried away.

“Make it ten-thirty then,” Ortiz said. He turned away and walked back across the room, shaking his head. He forgot to say “please,” but I decided not to hold it against him. And I felt a little bit sorry I’d told him to kiss my ass, a reflection of my snippy mood. It was Olivia’s fault for not staying over last night. If I had awakened next to her, I would have been nicer to everyone.
The ripple effect of inter-personal harmony.

Massey and Ortiz left and I settled into my high-carb breakfast, enjoying every bite. When I finished, I left a nice tip for Margo and paid at the cash register. She said, as she always does, “Have a blessed day.” With some people, that’s just a rote expression to let you know they’re spiritual. In Margo’s case, it always feels heartfelt.

Outside, it was still bitter cold, and an hour before my meeting with Ortiz and Massey, if I decided to go. I walked a few yards and entered
Bednarik’s
Books. The little bell over the door tinkled, and somehow that delicate sound helped calm me down.
That and the world of books I had just entered, sanctuaries against the vicissitudes of life.

“
Mornin
’, Thomas O’Shea!” Boots said. “And look who’s here to greet you, other than myself!”

Suzanne
Highsmith
turned around and smiled. I smiled back, surprised to see her. She was lovely as always, but somehow a little off. Her makeup was missing, her long braid appeared to have been done quickly, and she was wearing frumpy clothes—faded blue jeans, scuffed cowboy boots, and a gray sweater. No accessories, either. She came to me and gave me a brief, hard hug.
Which hurt.
I yelped.

She stepped away quickly, startled, her head cocked and a quizzical look on her face. “Are you okay, Thomas?”

“I am,” I said, “but I pulled a small muscle in my back when I was working out last week. It’s getting better, though.
Still a little tender.”

“I have some Advil in my purse,” she said, turning toward the counter where Boots watched us with genuine interest.

“I do, too, but not in my purse,” Boots said.

“I just took some at home,” I said, and they both stopped their searches. “So, Suzanne, what are you and Boots cooking up this morning?”

“Well,” she said, smiling conspiratorially at Boots and then me, “we’re going to have another book signing for
Something’s Rotten in
Rockbluff
now that it looks like something
else
is rotten in
Rockbluff
. I’m referring to the dead girl in the river.”

“Cynthia Stalking Wolf.”

“Yes, Cindy. Anyway, we think that will generate some more sales of my book.
Aaaaand
,” she said, drawing it out and smiling over her shoulder at Boots, “I’m going to do a short reading as a teaser for my novel.”

“What novel?”

“The novel I am writing right now, a thriller based on what’s happened here over the last month. I realized that I’m not getting anywhere with Cindy’s case—no suspects, no action, no arrests, no help from you or Harmon or Moon, so I’m just going to make it up on the fly.”

“And how is that different from your first book?”

“
Oooh
!
Mean-spirited! The first book was truthful. That’s called non-fiction. This one will be fiction; that is, I’ll
make up
the story based on what little I know about Cindy’s death. Unless you want to pry open the real story that’s going on, which I must say, is fucking
impossible
to get to.”

“You sound frustrated.”

“I am.”

“I’d like to help you, but I don’t want to. And won’t. If that case is ever solved, and I doubt it will be, you’ll be the first to know about it, I’m sure. So, why are you so irritable this morning, Suzanne?” I wondered how she hadn’t connected her worries with the story breaking just north of us.

She made an angry face.
“Any idea where your friend, Clancy Dominguez might be?”

“I have a general idea. He’s probably not in this hemisphere. Why?”

“You know why. We had a wonderful time together. He promised we would continue to have a wonderful time together.
Into perpetuity.
All over the world—Cannes,
Puerta
Vallarta, South Beach.”

“You didn’t hold out for two weeks in Strawberry Point?”

“I haven’t seen him since last Tuesday. I haven’t even
heard
from him. No phone call, email, text.
Nothing.”