Devil's Run (15 page)

I slept like a rock that
night and was up by five-thirty. I drove into Purchas and parked at the outdoor
skating rink. It was early yet, so I found a Starbucks. Even at that hour, the
line was long, so I didn’t get back to the rink until after eight-thirty. I sat
in the first row of bleachers pretending my four dollar cup of coffee was a
campfire.

There were only two people
on the ice. The man looked to be in his early forties. Athletic, handsome, with
well-tended dark hair, he stood dead center, watching the woman skate a dance
pattern. She was blonde, rather tall, dressed entirely in black. I guessed
mid-thirties, probably very pretty, but right now her face was set in stern
concentration. She held herself like a ballerina and skated with regal grace,
but she was not an Olympic competitor. There was too much tension, resulting in
movements that lacked the requisite fluidity and confidence. At the start of a
turn, she suddenly broke off the pattern. Head down, hands on her hips, she
skated back to the man.

“You must do the turn.”
He sounded Canadian. I’d know for sure if he said, “Aboot”.

She shook her head. “I
told you. I’m not doing it alone.”

“Catherine, you do the
Mohawk by yourself with no problem. That’s far more difficult than a Three
Turn. You can do this.”

She shook her head
again. “It’s different.”

“I am not teaching you
anything new until you do the turn by yourself.”

“I’m sorry, Claude. If
that’s the deal, we’ll have to stop.”

He sighed and looked at
her in silence for a moment. Then he looked at his watch. “We’re done for
today, anyway.”

“Next week?”

He shook his head
ruefully. “Sure.”

She pulled a folded piece
of paper from her glove and handed it to him. A check, I guessed. They shook
hands before she turned and skated towards the edge of the rink. He watched her
for a moment, and then began practicing some moves of his own. He clearly was
Olympic material, moving with a dancer's poise and the power of a halfback.

I was positioned near
the door to the locker room. The woman skated up to the boards and stepped
through the gate. I got up and she glanced over warily.

“Chief Masterson?” I
asked.

“Yes. How may I help
you?”

“Your office said I
might find you here this morning. I missed you yesterday evening.”

“I find it hard to
believe they told you to approach me here.”

“Let’s say I inferred it
from something I overheard.”

She looked at me for a
moment. “You must be the PI.”

“That’s right. Nick
Craig.” I did the thing with my wallet again. I was getting good at it.

“I know. Come on.” She
motioned me to follow her along the thick rubber mats that covered the walkway.

The locker room was
unisex and sparsely furnished, with a cold concrete floor covered with more of
the interlocking rubber mats. Despite its name, there were no actual lockers. A
single wooden shelf ran around the room at head height. Beneath it were wooden
coat pegs spaced about two feet apart above the low benches that lined the
walls. Hanging from one of the pegs was a well-pressed peace officer’s uniform
and a blue evening dress, both still in dry cleaner bags.

Chief Masterson sat down
and fished a black gym bag from under the bench. While she unlaced her skates,
I gave her a closer look that confirmed my first impression. She was very
pretty, with bright green eyes, clean features, and wide, full mouth. She had
smooth even skin, now nicely flushed from the cold. From the graceful, athletic
way she moved I assumed the figure beneath the bulky fleece top complimented
the parts that showed.

She glanced up. “Have a
seat.”

I sat down across from
her. She finished with one skate, and started on the other. They looked old,
slightly yellowed, and well used. I recognized the little notch below the first
few eyelets.

“Klingbeils,” I said.

She paused in her
endeavors for the briefest of moments. “You a skater?” she asked, without
looking up.

“More of a faller. My
wife was the skater. Ice dancing. I went with her to Queens once and watched
the old man measure her feet for a new pair.”

She looked up at me.
“Was?”

“Was what?” I said.

“You said your wife
‘was’ a skater.”

“She died.”

“I’m sorry.” She turned
back to her skates. “How can I help you?”

“As you know, I’m a PI,
from New York. I’m working on a case that might have a connection to your
town.”

She finished with the
second skate and held it in her left hand while she fished a well-used chamois
rag out of her bag.

“In what way?”

“I’m interested in the
fire at The Retreat.”

She wiped down the blade
of the skate with the rag. “That fire was an accident.”

“So I am told.”

“But you think
otherwise.”

“Always.”

She smiled, briefly, and
I liked the way it looked. She finished wiping the blade, slipped a soaker over
it and put the skate in the bag. She bent over and picked the other one off the
floor.

“Alright,” she said, as
she worked the rag on the second blade, “why don’t we meet at my office in
about an hour? I need to shower and get dressed.”

“I thought I might buy
you breakfast. Surely you haven’t eaten yet?”

She gave me a knowing
smile. “Do you offer to buy meals for all the cops you encounter, Mr. Craig?”

“Only the pretty ones.
Are you hungry?”

She looked me over for a
moment. “I could eat.” She slipped the soaker over the blade and deposited the
skate next to its sister. “I have to shower and dress.” She pointed towards a
door marked ‘Ladies’. “I’ll meet you at a place called Hannigan’s, over on
Third Street, in half an hour.”

“Third Street,” I repeated.

“Think you can find it
alright?”

“Is it the one just
after Second, but before you cross Fourth?”

She picked up her bag
and retrieved the uniform from the peg.

“You’ll need that sense
of humor. And a fat wallet. This town is very expensive.”

“I’m on an expense
account.”

Hannigan's was right on
the corner of 2nd and Main, so it was busy. The crowd of would be diners
spilled out onto the sidewalk. Most were sipping lattes to pass the time and
clutching big square pagers.

I squeezed inside the
packed and noisy lobby and threaded my way to the podium. The perky hostess
handed me one of the pagers and told me the wait was at least twenty minutes
for a ‘short booth’ and forty for a long. I told her short was okay. Fifteen
minutes later the pager shuddered and beeped, but that was near record time
compared to everyone else. Apparently there weren’t many groups small enough
for the short booth, which was right by the entrance to the kitchen.

The place was a little
too cute for my taste. Framed and matted posters of past Winter Olympics were
separated by sets of antique skis, snowshoes, and ice skates. Low walls topped
with brass rails and frilly curtains divided the room into three aisles of
booths with high backs. The food was served on real china by bright,
fresh-looking young women who filled their slightly archaic uniforms with charm
and silicone. A Harvey House re-imagined by Hefner.

As first to arrive, I
took the gunfighter seat and ordered a cup of black coffee from the hostess.
One glance at the menu proved Masterson right. I could have gotten two Grand
Slams at Denny’s for the same price as a bowl of cornflakes. After five minutes
a waitress approached me.

“Hi, I’m Cheryl. I’ll be
your server.” Cheryl was only about seventeen, yet already a prime candidate
for the Girls of Spanish Mountain pictorial. She put a paper coaster in front
of me and set a big mug of steaming coffee on it. “Black coffee, right?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You ready to order?”

“Not yet, I’m expecting
a guest.”

“Okay, just let me
know.”

As she left, two men
entered the waiting area. Something about them made my antenna go up. One was
five-ten, mid-sixties, wearing a charcoal gray overcoat with a velvet collar.
Beneath that he was dressed for Wall Street: Navy blue business suit, snow
white shirt, and a dark red tie with tiny polka dots that weren’t trying all
that hard. The fur ushanka perched squarely on his head made him look like a
KGB colonel. His companion was well over six feet, very fit, and stuffed into black
stretch ski pants. An orange parka with black stripes down the sleeves strained
to contain what looked like a full set of shoulder pads, but was just him. He
looked permanently pissed off.

The older man removed
his ushanka when greeted by the hostess, revealing a full head of well-tended
silver hair. He smiled a mouthful of long yellow teeth and spoke to her. While
he chatted, he also scanned the room. His eyes met mine and stopped. He tapped
his companion and spoke to him briefly. The big man nodded and assumed a
modified parade rest, his eyes locked on me, while the first man came directly
to my table.

I returned to examining
the menu. There was a creak of leather as he slid into the empty seat. I
ignored him.

“Mr. Craig.” A
statement, I noticed, not a question.

I lowered the menu. “In
polite society, we ask before we sit at someone’s table.”

“Forgive me,” he said,
without moving a muscle. “Where are my manners?”

“Perhaps you left them
in your other suit. I’ll wait while you go get them.”

My initial impression of
his age was wrong. Close up I could see he was on the far side of seventy. Skin
the color of fresh pie crust stretched taut across the angular bones of his
face, leaving deep hollows in the cheeks and at the temples. It was a death's
mask rendered even more unnerving by the overly large eyes, whose pale blue
irises were completely surrounded by the whites. If he missed a meal he’d look
like the Crypt Keeper.

“Allow me to introduce
myself.” His speech was formal, with the hint of an accent. German or Polish, I
guessed. “I am Arnold Kohl.”

“Sorry, they don’t serve
miners here.”

The wintry, pasted on
smile was replaced with puzzlement. “Minors? I don’t -. oh, yes, I see.” The
smile was back. “My name. That was a joke.”

“Apparently not.”

“It is not spelled like
the mineral. Kohl. K-O-H-L.”

“Austrian.” I said,
returning to the menu.

He showed surprise.
“Yes, quite so.”

“I’m a man of many
talents,” I closed the menu and put it down. “Why are we dancing, Mr. Kohl?”

“I want to know what you
are doing here.”

“Thinking about ordering
the breakfast special. With orange juice.”

Again the mirthless,
cold smile and nothing else.

“Okay,” I said, “why
should I tell you?”

He leaned forward and
folded his hands.

“This place. I refer to
the town and the resort, of course. This place, we are so very proud of it. It
is a good town, a quiet town. Our guests, most of them very important people,
they come here to escape the troubles of the world.”

“And?”

“And you, Mr. Craig.” He
opened his hands and gave a little shrug. “You appear to be both worldly and
troublesome.”

“I don't know whether to
be flattered or insulted. I'm leaning towards flattered, by the way.”

“Neither, I assure you.”
He leaned forward in what I’m sure he thought was a chummy way. “You are a private
investigator. You are here in our town, apparently in a professional capacity,
yes?”

“I'm curious how you
know so much about me,” I said.

“But, Mr. Craig, you are
making inquiries to the local police and some of our local merchants.”

“Do you have an official
status here, Herr Kohl?”

“Please. Mr. Kohl. And,
to answer your question, not official. I am the general manager of the resort.
The private resort. The Retreat.”

“Nice to know you have
such a good relationship with the police.”

He widened his eyes and
shrugged. “We all cooperate. Share information. It is good for the public
safety.”

“Yeah, there's nothing
like a police state to make you sleep soundly at night.”

His eyes narrowed
slightly. I'd touched a nerve, but what? A grim smile scurried across his thin,
bloodless lips.

“You must understand our
concern. We are anxious to prevent any scandals.”

I looked down at my
coffee. “Scandals? Scandals in Happy Valley?”

He leaned forward and
lowered his voice. “You understand that many important people come here, often
unaccompanied by their spouses, but not without, how shall I say it?”

“Special friends?”

 He sat back, his
face registering approval. “You are indeed a man of the world. And they expect
their privacy to be respected and those of us who serve them to employ a
certain modicum of discretion.”

I gave an airy wave of
my hand to show I appreciated his admiration for my gutter sense, not to
mention his assumption I knew what ‘modicum’ meant.

“When it comes to
matters of the heart, I am very French, Herr Kohl.”

He bridled slightly at
the 'Herr' this time. “And so I ask again, Mr. Craig,” his tone hardened, “why
are you here?”

“It’s possible I’m just
here on vacation.” I took a leisurely sip of my coffee.

 “This, of course,
is a possibility,” he said. “However, one wonders about your inquiries to the
police and so many others.”

“Perhaps I’m thinking of
investing locally. Looks like a boom town.”

Again the smile. “It is
indeed. However, imagine my surprise when no Mr. Craig is registered at any
hotel within thirty miles.”

“Really? I hope they
didn’t give my room away while I was snowshoeing this morning.”

“Mr. Craig, we both know
you are here in your professional capacity. So again I ask, in a friendly way,
why are you here?”

I sipped some coffee
before answering.

“As a man of the world
yourself, Herr Kohl, I am sure you understand my reluctance to discuss
specifics.” He leaned in slightly as I continued. “I doubt the object of my
inquiries is among your A-class clientele, but the canons of my profession, such
as they are, prevent my saying anything more.” I sipped some more coffee. “You
understand, of course. As you said. Discretion.”

He continued to sit
absolutely still for several moments. Finally, his mouth moved.

“I suppose that
assurance will have to suffice. For the moment.”

“It will indeed,” I
said, rising from my seat, “because my guest is here.”

Kohl turned to look.
Chief Masterson had entered the restaurant and was speaking with Kohl's
companion. Her police headgear had a checkerboard band like the Chicago PD. She
saw us, said her good-byes, and came over to the table.

“Mr. Kohl,” she said,
“what a pleasure.”

“Chief Masterson. The
pleasure is all mine.”

He actually took her hand
and kissed it, old movie style. I couldn’t help it, I rolled my eyes. She saw
me and giggled slightly, which seemed to please him.

“I shall leave you in
Mr. Craig’s capable hands. Enjoy your meal.” He turned to me and nodded curtly.
“Mr. Craig.”

“Herr Kohl,” I replied,
punctuated by a click of my heels.

Anger flickered across
his face, quickly replaced by the wintry smile. He turned and walked back past
the big guy in the parka and out the door. He never looked back, but Lurch gave
me a long parting stare I assumed was designed to freeze my blood. Then he too
turned and left. The door slammed hard, briefly lowering the buzz of
conversation.

“That must have gone
well,” Masterson said, watching them go. She turned to me. “You always this
diplomatic?”

“Oh, hell,” I said,
gesturing for her to sit down, “the State Department people have extended me an
open invitation.”

“I’m certain.”

We took our seats.

“What's the story on his
lapdog?” I said.

“What? Oh, Günter? Chief
instructor at the resort. Austrian. Does well with the tourist girls.”

“How about female police
chiefs?”

“He's not my type.”

“And what might that
be?”

“Whatever it is, smart
asses don’t qualify.”

“Touché.” I took a sip
of coffee. “Mr. Kohl seems pretty clued in to what goes on in your department.”

“We cooperate with their
security people.”

“Friendly. No wonder
they named the town after a transaction.”

“These resorts saved
this town, Mr. Craig. Four years ago this was a backwater, with the highest
unemployment in the state. New businesses are flourishing. Three years ago this
place was an old saloon. You'd have been up to your ankles in peanut shells,
drinking dollar beers.”

“This is an
improvement?” Before she could bite my head off, Cheryl bustled up.

“Need another menu?” she
asked brightly.

I passed mine over to
the Chief. “She can use mine. I’ve decided.”

“What are you having?”
Masterson asked me.

“Why do women always
have to know that before they order?”

“It tells us how you
think, which you just did.” She handed the unopened menu to the waitress and
gave her a big smile. “I’ll just have the number four, Cheryl. Scrambled, with
the orange juice and a cup of tea. Wheat toast.”

“Great. And you, sir?”

“I’ll have two eggs over
easy, with the corn beef hash and orange juice. No bread.”

“Great. More coffee?”

“Yes, decaf.”

“Great.” She hurried
off.

“Let me guess how the
food is here,” I said to Chief Masterson.

“Great,” she mimicked,
laughing.

“Truce?”

“Truce.”

I took another sip of my
coffee and used the opportunity to re-examine Chief Masterson. She was more
than just pretty. The only help she'd tossed her natural beauty was a bit of
makeup and a light lip gloss. Unfortunately, the blond ponytail had been
replaced with a bun, done up with bobby pins to corral her hair under the
police headgear.

“What’s the deal with
the Three Turn?” I said.

“I’m sorry?”

“The Three Turn. Back at
the rink.”

“Sorry, you shifted
gears on me.”

“I apologize. If you
don’t want to talk about it.”

She shrugged. “No big
deal. I broke my wrist practicing a three turn. Now I just can’t do it on my
own. It’s stupid, I know. A mental block.”

“I have one with golf,
similar to yours, except my problem is I don’t break my wrists.”

“I don’t play golf, so I
don’t get it.”

“Good for you. One
expensive, frustrating sport is enough.”

The conversation sort of
died at that point and we both spent several awkward seconds glancing around
the room.

“What is in corned beef
hash, exactly?” she said, abruptly. “Besides the corned beef, I mean.”

“Potatoes. Beyond that I
feel it best not to ask questions.”

“I see.”

Another waitress
deposited a china cup and saucer, a little silver pot of hot water, and a
wooden box of teabags in front of Catherine. Then she hurried off without a
word.

“Well, how cute is
that?” I said.

“Yes, I am sure ‘cute’
is very big with you.”

She selected English
Breakfast Tea from the dozen or so varieties in the box and put it in the pot.
While it steeped, she sat back and looked at me.

“How can I help you?”

“Well, first off, your
name. Is it really Catherine?”

“Yes,” she said, with a
wary look.

“Catherine Masterson?'

She shook her head.
“Don't go there.”

“Are you kidding? A
police chief named Cat Masterson? That is so cool.”

“And so original. You know,
I've never heard that before.”

“Well, it's not every
day you run into a guy as clever as me.”

“Clever as I. And
usually, Mr. Craig, people wait to get to know someone before they act all
obnoxious and familiar.” There was no heat in her tone, just casual
observation.