Big Sick Heart: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery (13 page)

“No way. I bring a nutjob like you into my church,
they’ll run me out of the stake.”

“Okay, then what are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to do absolutely nothing.”

“And that’s gonna help me, how?”

“I’m not going to ask for a new partner. I’m not
going to tell the chief you’re late all the time and you get drunk every night
and you piss on me and my family and my church. I’m going to do nothing. We’ll
stay partners. We’ll become friends. You’ll begin to trust me, and I’ll trust
you. We’ll make mistakes, we’ll annoy each other occasionally, but we’ll keep
trying to do better. I will love you, and you will love me.”

“What the hell planet are you from?”

“The same one you’re from, Karen.”

“How exactly is that gonna help me?”

“I’ll tell you—exactly. You’ll see that people
love you. That you are worthy of being loved. And you will learn to love
yourself again. And then the perfect life you once had? You will have it again.
It will happen.”

I put down my knife and fork. “You know, you’re
out of your mind.”

“No, I’m not, Karen. You are. Just like you said,
two minutes ago. And I’m right, now, when I tell you you will get better.”

“You gonna guarantee it?”

“I’m not going to tell you Who guarantees it. I
don’t want to freak you out worse than you already are. Let’s just say, count
on it.”

I looked at him, feeling the attraction of his
warmth, his self-confidence, wanting to be pulled in, to believe him. But I
knew that believing a twenty-eight year old’s wisdom about life made about as
much sense as believing an eighteen-year old’s promise to love me forever. “All
right, partner,” I said, placing my hand on his. “It’s not like I’ve gotten a
lot of better offers lately.”

And that much, at least, was true.

*  *  *

I was feeling a lot better
about things when we left the restaurant and headed back to headquarters. I had
shown him this morning that I was a walking train wreck, so I’d earned the
humiliation at lunch. I deserved it, and much more. In a way, I was glad I’d
fallen apart at the pizza place. It was possible—barely possible, but
technically possible—that Ryan would turn out to be a friend, even though he
was way too young, way too male, and way too religious for my tastes.

He had every right to be furious with me, but the
way he let out his anger, then listened to me—he seemed to really listen—was a
wonderful surprise. If he had turned out to be the kind of hardass who ratted
me out to the chief because I was super high maintenance and he didn’t have to
put up with that, I’d be feeling like shit, plus unemployed. And unemployment,
I assumed, probably wouldn’t make me feel less like shit. Now I just felt like
shit, which wasn’t bad, considering how the day had begun.

Except for the Louis Prima, which was a sack full
of nuts and bolts in my stomach, I concluded that I was feeling a lot better
than I had any right to.

Ryan held the door for me as we entered
headquarters. I didn’t like that—after all, opening doors was still something I
could accomplish, most of the time—but I didn’t see any reason to bring it up.
Maybe it was his way of showing me he was done being mad at me. Or that I was a
woman, or a woman older than he was. Or maybe it was just the way he was
raised. Or maybe I should stop thinking so much about myself and get back to
work. Yes, I remembered that, for the moment, I still had a job. I was a
detective. Someone had been killed a couple of nights ago. I was supposed to
figure out who did it.

As Ryan and I walked past the front desk at
headquarters, the receptionist, a mousy girl named Crystal, called out,
“Detectives.” She motioned for us to come over to her. She spoke in a low
voice. “You missed all the excitement. A couple of detectives were here—from
Maui.”

“Maui?” I said.

“Maui,” she said, nodding her head to emphasize
how unusual that was. I’d never seen her so excited.

“What for?”

“They arrested a guy who worked for Dolores
Weston.”

“The state senator?”

“That’s the one,” she said, excited to have the
opportunity to tell the story. “You know that parasailing accident, where her
husband falls out of the sky?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Seems it wasn’t an accident.”

“Really?” I said.

She looked to her left, then to her right. “The
guy just happened to travel from Rawlings to Maui and start working on Weston’s
boat, even though the regular crew lives in Maui all the time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. That night, after the accident, the guy
gets into a fight in a bar in Maui, after drinking and buying some coke. The
cops pat him down, he’s got a thousand bucks and this folding knife on him. The
knife’s got some fibers jammed into the handle. The fibers match the harness on
the parasail. Couple hours later, he flips on Dolores Weston.”

“Wow,” I said. “He say why she hired him?”

“Said he didn’t know. She never told him. That’s
all he’s saying. That plus he’s sorry he got mixed up with it.”

“Yeah, I bet he is,” I said. “Is this public?”

“News at 5:30,” she said, nodding her head.

“Thanks for the heads-up, Crys—”

“One more thing, Detective …”

“The other gunman, from the grassy knoll in
Dallas? He stop by?”

She looked confused. “No, it’s about the Hagerty
case …” She bent her index finger, gesturing for me to lean in. “There’s
someone here to talk with you.” She looked down at a pad. “Says he’s Timothy
Sanders.” With her eyes, she signaled that he was sitting on the couch twenty
feet away. I nodded thanks. “Good luck,” Crystal said, giving me a Mona Lisa
smile.

As Ryan and I approached the man, he seemed
perfectly ordinary, except he was dressed better than just about anyone with a
Montana license plate. He looked maybe fifty, with thinning blond hair,
carefully trimmed and groomed, and a full beard. His blue eyes followed us as
we approached him.

He was wearing a black turtleneck shirt I could
have sworn was silk, or at least a silk blend. His black and white herringbone
jacket was well tailored, with black leather buttons and soft shoulders. The
slacks, black wool, set him back at least a hundred bucks. On his feet were
oxblood tasseled loafers. He sat in an erect position, his hands folded in his
lap, one leg crossed over the other.

I held my hand out. “Mr. Sanders, Detective Karen
Seagate. My partner, Detective Ryan Miner.”

He rose to shake my hand, his face contorting into
a grimace, his eyes closing, his jaw muscles flexing and unflexing
spasmodically as if he were in terrible pain. I thought maybe he was stroking
out. “P-P-P-P-leased to m-m-m-meet you, De-e-e-e-tec-t-t-tives.” He was
breathing heavily, his neck getting all blotchy and pink from exertion or
embarrassment, or both. Then I felt the blood rise to my own face, too. I’d
never had to talk with someone with such a horrible stutter.

Ryan stepped in, thankfully. “Mr. Sanders, why
don’t we go inside and talk?” Sanders gestured for us to lead the way.

I wondered how we were going to talk with this
guy. When we got to our desks in the detectives’ bullpen, Ryan pulled up a
chair next to our two desks and gestured for him to sit. He did, crossing one
leg over the other, straightening the crease on his slacks.

“I tried to reach you this morning,” Ryan said,
“but didn’t have any luck.”

I dreaded what would happen next. Sanders opened
his mouth, the spasmodic jaw clenching, the grimace on his face again. “You’ll
ha-ha-have to excu-cu-cuse me.” He paused to catch his breath. “I-I-I-I
th-th-th-think I no-no-no-notice one of-of-of-of us ha-ha-ha-has a s-s-s-slight
stu-u-u-utter.”

I looked at Sanders, unsure what to do. Suddenly,
he smiled a forlorn little smile, and I realized this was his way of breaking
the ice. I said, “I hadn’t no-no-no-noticed.” Immediately, I realized what I’d
done, and I felt the heat rise to my cheeks. “Oh, my God,” I said, my hand
coming up to my mouth.

“Th-th-thank goodness,” Sanders said, “it’s
n-n-not me, it’s y-y-y-you.”

“I am so sorry, Mr. Sanders,” I said. “I’m just
nervous. I wasn’t trying to make fun of you or anything. Please believe me.”

“That’s qu-qu-quite all r-r-r-right,
Detect-t-tive. That someti-ti-times happens.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sanders, for being so
understanding. I’m very sorry.”

“You will n-notice that I b-b-beat my fi-fingers
wh-when I-I talk.” I looked down at the desk. He was tapping along to the
rhythm of his speech. “It h-h-helps me.”

Ryan said, “Yeah, I’ve read about that. If you can
kind of sing it rather than say it, you can prevent the stuttering, or at least
reduce it.”

“Ex-Exactly,” Sanders said, his four fingers
tapping out the first syllable, his thumb the double beat at the end of the
word.

Thank goodness for Ryan, I thought. I decided it
was time to get into the interview before I did anything else embarrassing.
“Well, Mr. Sanders, we want to offer our condolences on the passing of Mr.
Hagerty.” I wanted to see how Sanders would spin the fight over Soul Savers, or
whether he would mention it at all.

“Th-Thank you, Detec-tective. Ar-Ar-Arlen is in a
b-b-better place, now.”

“Yes,” I said, “yes, of course.” I never knew how
to respond when someone played a religious card so brazenly. I didn’t like it.
If Sanders thought everyone shared his religious beliefs, he was dumb, which he
obviously wasn’t. If he was merely making a tactical move, he was being
patronizing, daring me to counter it gracefully. In fact, I was so tired and
fed up with myself from all the crap that had gone on this morning I decided to
just file the information and let him think whatever he wanted.

“I ca-ca-came as s-s-soon as I h-heard about the
tra-tra-tragedy,” he said, tapping on the desk.

Ryan said, “How well did you know Mr. Hagerty, Mr.
Sanders?”

Sanders said, “Q-Q-Quite well, Detect-t-tive. When
I stepped down as p-p-president of Soul Savers, he succeeded m-m-me. Therefore,
we ne-ne-necessarily c-c-communicated extensively, especially during that
p-p-period a number of years ago.” His fingers were working out some polyrhythm
only he understood.

I said, “Did you get to know him personally?”

“N-N-No, I c-c-cannot say I knew him on a
p-p-p-personal level. He had already m-m-m-met and m-m-married Margaret. They
were in-in-inseparable.”

“I see. Did you know the Hagertys had each been
married before?”

“I b-b-believe I had h-h-h-heard that, though I am
not aw-w-ware of the particulars. It is indeed a b-b-blessing when two people
can f-f-f-find love later in life.”

“Yes, it certainly is.” How about that? Margaret
Hagerty believes young love is beautiful; this guy believes old love is
beautiful. For your consideration now, ladies and gentlemen, a lovely set of
bookends, each made of primo horseshit. “What did you think about the debates
that Mr. Hagerty and Mr. Ahern did?”

“W-W-Well, debating has never been my f-f-favorite
means of c-c-c-communication,” he said with his understated smile. I admired
some of his rehearsed lines. No getting around it: he was pretty suave dealing
with the stutter. “But I th-th-think the debates were an ef-f-fective way to
publicize the organiz-z-z-zation and get our m-m-message out.”

I said, “You’ve met Mr. Ahern, I take it?”

“Oh, yes, s-s-several times. I never so-socialized
with him, as Arlen di-did, you underst-st-stand. But he seems like a perfectly,
a per-r-fectly fine man.”

“Do you know someone named Connie de Marco?”

“C-C-Connie de M-M-M-Marco,” he said, his brow
furrowed, his eyes drifting up toward the ceiling for divine inspiration. “No,
I’m not familiar with that n-name. Who is s-s-s-she?”

Ryan said, “She was Mr. Hagerty’s assistant, when
they traveled.”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Sanders said. “Yes, I ha-ha-had
heard he had an assis-s-stant. I did not re-re-recognize the n-n-name.”

I said, “I take it you came to town to console
Mrs. Hagerty.”

“Yes, indeed. That was the m-m-main purpose. In
ad-d-dition, I wi-wished to meet with D-D-D-D-Dolores Weston on behalf of the
B-B-B-Board.”

This time it was me who looked confused. “Dolores
Weston?”

“The s-s-state representative from R-R-Rawlings,”
Sanders said. “Arlen was g-g-going to meet with Representative Wes-s-ston to
discuss the m-m-m-matter of the pharmace-ce-ceutical company. Unfortunately,
that m-m-m-meeting never took p-p-place.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. I had no idea what he
was talking about. Five minutes ago I learn her husband’s swan dive was no
accident, and now I hear something about her, a pharmaceutical company, and a
relationship to Soul Savers. I made a quick decision not to telegraph my
ignorance to Sanders. There were enough discrepancies between Sanders’ story
and the Archbishop’s that I didn’t want to reveal any more than necessary. I
knew Ryan and I had more investigating to do. “One more thing we’d like to ask
you, Mr. Sanders.”

“Of c-c-course.”

“Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Mr.
Hagerty?”

“That is ab-b-bout all I have been thinking about
s-s-since I heard the n-n-news early this m-m-morning. I can-n-n-not imagine
Margaret or Mr. Ahern was involved in any way. My g-g-guess is it w-w-was
s-s-someone who op-posed the philosophy of S-S-S-Soul Savers. I a-a-assume you
are pur-pursuing that angle?”

“Yes, we are, Mr. Sanders. We’re trying to pursue
all angles we can think of. Well, sir, thank you very much for stopping by. Can
I ask you how long you plan to stay here in Rawlings?”

“I’m n-n-not really s-s-sure, Detective. I
purchased an o-o-o-open-ended return ticket this m-m-morning in W-W-Waco.”

“I only mentioned it to invite you to get in touch
with me here if you think of anything else that might help us with this
investigation.” I handed him a card from a holder on my desk. “Are you staying
at the Courtyard with the others from Soul Savers?”