Dark Justice (23 page)

There were a few grins, and a few moments later, they were all laughing. Politics and women made for risky conversation starters, Loving thought. But dogs worked every time. “You boys from around here?”

Huey nodded. “Lived here all my life. You?”

Loving knew there was no point trying to bluff a man who’d lived in this tiny burg forever. “Nah. Just passing through.”

Huey nodded. Loving could sense the prickles of suspicion rising. “We don’t get that many strangers through here. ’Cept the ones we don’t want. What’s your line of work?”

“Trucker,” Loving grunted. He thought that would sound convincing; he’d done it for about five years, after all, before he met the Skipper. “Got a load of cranberries. Taking it to market in California.”

“Oh,” Huey said. Loving could sense him relaxing. Being a trucker was okay. Not as good as being a logger, but acceptable.

Huey glanced at his nearest buddy. “He’s a trucker.”

“I heard,” Dewey said. “I’m excited. Gonna be here long?”

“Nah. Just putting up for the night. I was going to drive straight through, but—I dunno. I got curious.”

“Curious?” Dewey said. “About Magic Valley?”

“Oh yeah. Been a lotta talk about this little town.”

He detected a narrowing in Louie’s eyes. “Talk? What kind of talk?”

“ ’Bout that dude who got himself killed.”

Huey nodded. “Dwayne.”

Loving acted surprised. “You knew him?”

“Oh, yeah. We all knew him.”

“Really? Damn.” Loving adjusted his chair slightly. “What happened to him?”

“Goddamn tree huggers, that’s what happened to him.”

“Tree huggers?” He knew the men were watching him, measuring his reaction.

“
Eco-warriors
, they call themselves. People who love Mother Nature but will shoot their fellow man dead in his tracks.”

“I hate that,” Loving said, careful not to overplay his hand. “People should come first, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” Huey grimaced. “But the guy who plugged Dwayne, he didn’t know.”

“I heard the guy got burned up. Like, while he was still alive.”

Dewey nodded his head grimly. “Poor Dwayne. Poor, poor Dwayne.”

“Damn. That’s rough. The guy have a wife? Kids?”

“Yeah. He had a little boy. And … Lu Ann.” A look passed from Dewey to both of the other men.

“Lu Ann?” Loving tried not to seem too eager, even though he was finally moving the conversation to a topic the Skipper had particularly wanted him to investigate. “That his wife?”

Dewey nodded.

“Man, that’s sad. She must be pretty torn up.”

Another look passed among the three men. “You can check that out for yourself. She’s sitting in the booth behind you.”

Loving looked surprised, and the surprise was genuine. Subtly, trying not to attract attention, he turned till he faced the row of booths in the back.

He knew who they had to be talking about. She had long, wild auburn hair and was dressed in a tube top and tight white jeans. She wasn’t crying, but the man she was with nonetheless appeared to be offering his comfort.

“Shouldn’t she be, like … in mourning or something?” Loving asked.

“Lu Ann isn’t the mourning type,” Louie said—another curt pronouncement of wisdom from the senior team member. “As you can see, she has a busy social calendar.”

Loving looked away. “Even before her hubby got charbroiled?”

“Long before. It was what you’d call a troubled marriage. Because she was what you’d call trouble.”

She was what he’d call trailer trash, Loving thought. Or out here, maybe it should be treetop trash. “She have anyone special?”

Huey shrugged. “From time to time. Till the next one came along.”

Loving watched surreptitiously as Lu Ann’s escort’s hands groped for the most accommodating parts of her anatomy. “Who’s she with now?”

“Fella called Doug Curtis.”

“He a logger?”

“Yeah. Well, not exactly.” Huey corrected himself. “Used to log. Now I understand he works for a man called Slade.”

Is that a fact? Loving thought.

“Why are you so interested in Lu Ann, anyway?” Dewey asked. A sharp line formed across his forehead.

“Oh, I’m not really.” Loving turned quickly. Obviously, it was time to cool it. “Or maybe just a little. Like any other rubbernecker.”

“Dwayne’d been actin’ some kind of funny for several weeks, up until the burnin.’ That woman had him on the ropes.” Louie shook his head. “Well, less said about that the better.”

“Agreed,” Loving replied. He knew he couldn’t push any harder without arousing suspicions. “You boys ready for another round?”

A quick glance, a shrug, a
why not?
, and another round was ordered. And Loving knew that once he paid the tab, their newfound friendship would be sealed.

An hour and a half later, Loving was buying his sixth round, and everyone at the table was beginning to act more than a little toasted—including himself. Truth was, he didn’t drink that much anymore; he was getting too old for that nonsense, and besides, it was making him fat. He wasn’t used to this level of consumption and it was making him woozy.

“Whad I don’t unnerstand is how these tree huggers get away with it,” Loving said. The word slurring was a nice touch, he thought, and at the moment it didn’t require any acting. “I’d think you boys’d pound ’em into pulp.”

“They hide,” Huey said. He was leaning slant-wise on one elbow, commiserating. “They strike when no one’s lookin’, then run away and hide.”

“Buddow do they know where you are?”

“There’s a leak,” Louie said, making another of the portentous pronouncements of which he was so fond. “Everybody knows it. We just don’t know who it is.

“But when we find out,” Dewey growled, “
pow
!” He brought his hand and fist together and almost missed.

“Who d’ya suspect?” Loving asked.

“We jus’ don’t know. Gotta be one of us, a logger, someone in town. Bud damned if we know who.”

“I can’t believe any one of us would be talkin’ to those damn tree freaks,” Huey said, with ample revulsion plastered across his face. “I jus’ can’t believe it.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Loving said. “Even in a nice li’l town like thisss.”

“Nice little town.” Huey made a snorting, hiccuping sound. For a minute Loving was afraid he was going to barf. “Yeah, that’s Magic Valley—Venom capital of the world.”

“Venom? Whassat?”

“Hot new drug,” said the sage Louie. “It’s all over town. ’Specially in the schools. Some of the kids are hooked on it.”

“It ain’t just kids,” Dewey corrected. “I think some of our cuttin’ pals are samplin’ the junk, too.”

“Yer kiddin’!” Loving said. It was a gruesome thought—some chain saw-wielding logger high on drugs. “Why do you think so?”

“Cain’t say,” Dewey said, obviously taking great pleasure in his secrecy. “But I got my suspicions.”

“But where’s the stuff comin’ from?” Loving asked.

Dewey lurched forward. At first Loving thought the man was going to head-butt him. Then he realized it was just his drunken way of directing Loving’s attention.

Loving twisted around, staring in the direction indicated. He spotted a burly man slunk back in a dark corner. He had long black hair that draped down over his bulging shoulder muscles. Hard to see in the low lighting, but it looked like he had an ugly scar over his right eye.

“How d’ya know?”

“I don’t know for sure. But every time he comes up to one of the boys, it’s the same story. Within ten minutes he wants to talk about drugs. Gettin’ high. Doin junk.” He shook his head. “Word’s out on him.”

Ben had contacted Loving before he’d gone out tonight and told him about his new lead involving a suspected drug pusher. Loving hadn’t seen the picture yet, but judging from Ben’s description, this thug could be the one.

As he watched, the big man slid out of his booth and started peeling bills off a fat wad of money. Loving decided to take the plunge. He knew he’d gotten about as much out of Huey, Dewey, and Louie as he was ever likely to, anyway.

“Pleasure talkin’ to you boys.” He slid out of the bar just a few seconds after his quarry.

The night air seemed cool and bracing—a delight after the smoky, dirty interior of the bar. Loving drank in several good deep swallows, purging his brain. He’d need a clear head if he was going to follow this goon without being spotted.

The man was heading east, back toward the heart of town. Fortunately, Loving had already learned the lay of the town, a task that took about ten minutes. He stayed on the opposite side of the street and held way back, staying as far away as possible without altogether losing the man.

Loving’s quarry seemed to be heading somewhere in particular, somewhere in a hurry. Could be any of a million things, Loving realized. But if he could catch this clown making a drug sale, or better yet, making a drug sale to a logger, maybe someone Gardiner knew … well, he might be able to make the Skipper very happy indeed.

The burly man with the long black hair turned left, heading north. Loving waited until he was entirely out of sight, then crossed the street. He quickened his pace, not making a show of it, until his prey was back where he could see him. Once he had the man in sight, he slowed.

The man paused at a street corner, looking all ways at once, as if he expected to meet someone but didn’t know which way he might be coming from.

That could be a problem. Loving started scanning the streets himself. If the man’s rendezvous was coming from the same direction as Loving, or anywhere close, he’d be spotted. He’d have to pretend to be tying his shoe or waiting for a taxi—and hope they bought it.

Hard as he looked, though, Loving didn’t see anyone. Even drug lords get stood up sometimes, Loving supposed. He turned back toward the street corner where his quarry was waiting.

The man was gone. Somehow, while Loving had been distracted, he’d disappeared.

Loving put his feet into first gear and began chugging across the street and down the sidewalk. Had the man spotted him? He didn’t see how it was possible. Maybe he was just always careful. Maybe that was a smart way to be when your chief occupation in life was peddling illegal designer drugs.

Loving raced down the sidewalk, feeling the weight of every downed beer sloshing in his stomach. He was huffing more than he cared to admit, but he made it in less than thirty seconds.

Not that it mattered. There was no trace of the man. Not on this street corner, not on any street corner. Not that he could see, anyway.

He was about to turn away when he heard the sound. It was a tiny sound, an almost inaudible squeaking, like a door hinge turning, or a sneaker pivoting on pavement. Loving whirled, but he was way too late. Something long and hard came crashing down on his head.

Loving gritted his teeth together, wincing. He fell to his knees, trying to absorb the pain. He raised his hands, trying to stop the follow-up blow he knew would be coming.

But he was not successful. He cracked his eyes open just enough to see what looked very much like a baseball bat crashing down between his arms and cracking ominously against his shoulder at the base of his neck.

He cried out, then fell forward on all fours. He hated just sitting here like some lame animal, not trying to escape, but he couldn’t muster the energy to move. He had to concentrate just to clear away the pain, just to think straight.

Which in the long run didn’t matter at all. The bat came crashing down again, this time square on the back of his head, and after that everything, both inside his brain and out, turned to black.

W
HEN BEN CLIMBED THE
fire escape and entered his office the next morning, he was surprised to find Christina—and Sheriff Allen—already there.

As soon as he passed through the door, the two of them jumped upright. Had they been holding hands? Ben wondered. Surely not. But they were both acting as if they’d been caught in the middle of something.

“Morning, Ben,” Christina said, blowing her hair out of her eyes. “Didn’t expect to see you this early.”

Evidently not, Ben thought. “Did we get the rest of the paper discovery from the prosecutor’s office?”

“Oh. We got it all right. But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

She pointed toward the opposite wall. Seven near-ceiling-high stacks of bound papers occupied almost a third of the tiny office.

“She’s trying to bury us,” Ben murmured. “Give us more than we can possibly sort through before the trial begins.”

“Right. Probably fifty pages of good stuff, buried somewhere in a morass of garbage. But what can you do about it? Complain that the prosecution has given you too much?”

“I could complain that it came too late and ask for a continuance. But from what I hear, Judge Pickens would be unlikely to grant it.” Ben scrutinized the tall stacks of paper. “Any rhyme or reason here?”

“None. Documents aren’t organized or categorized in any useful fashion. Not even numbered. In fact, the pages of a particular document are often scattered through several piles.”

Ben’s lips pressed tightly together. “Granny really outdid herself here.”

“You haven’t seen the half of it yet.”

Ben frowned; that sounded ominous. He took the top document off the stack closest to him. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust before he realized what Granny had done to him.

“Red,” Ben said, throwing down the paper bitterly. “It’s all been color-copied in red ink.”

Sheriff Allen looked a bit perplexed. “You defense types got something against red?”

“It won’t photocopy,” Christina explained. “At least not on your garden-variety copier. Some of the newer color copiers can do it, but of course we don’t have anything like that at our disposal.”

“Which,” Ben added, “since we’ll need at least three copies of any exhibit we plan to use at trial, makes this tower of trash absolutely worthless to us.”

Allen whistled appreciatively. “That Granny. She sure knows her business.”

“That would be one way of putting it.” Ben grabbed his windbreaker. “I’m going to talk to her. Right now.”

“Is there any point?” Christina asked.