Leaning Land (22 page)

Spurlock edged his cup to the side of the table so Paula, appearing with her steaming pot, could refill it. He told Wager, “You better let me handle this—I want to talk to Nichols without getting him riled up.” He watched Paula top off his cup. “He’ll be more likely to talk to me than to you.”

“You sure you want to be the one to ask him questions?”

The sheriff eyed Wager over his coffee cup. “Meaning you think I won’t ask him any hard ones?”

“Meaning I don’t need his vote next election.”

“Well, Officer Wager, I think you mean that kindly. I think. But I figure if I do my job, the votes will take care of themselves.”

“Fine with me. But you ought to know that Durkin’s going to be talking to the supply sergeant sometime today—he’ll probably say something about Nichols being the last one to be issued demolitions.”

“Yeah. I better see him right off.”

“Tell me, Morris, was it possible that Del Ponte learned about the C-4?”

“Now dammit, Wager—”

The deputy shrugged. “I don’t think so. He had nothing to do with the National Guard unit. And I don’t know anybody who’d tell him anything about it—everybody knew who he was working for.”

“What about any enemies Nichols might have? Somebody who might want to get him in trouble?”

Both Spurlock and Morris looked at him. “Bradley’s stepped on some toes.” The deputy spoke slowly, thinking. “He’s got a mean mouth sometimes and don’t mind using it. But only the people in the Guard unit would be likely to know about the C-4, and there’s none of them Nichols has any real problems with, I don’t think.”

Still, Del Ponte could have received the information in a roundabout manner. And suppose he had tried to use it to blackmail Nichols? “Was Gordon Hunter part of Nichols’s demolition platoon?”

Morris shook his head. “He’s in motor transport. A driver.”

“Are he and Nichols good buddies?”

“I’ve never seen them together much. At Guard meetings, Hunter’s usually driving or doing vehicle maintenance. Why?”

“He found Del Ponte’s body. Maybe he knew where to look, maybe not.”

“Well, let’s not go chasing all over hell and gone when we got enough to worry about right here, Wager. I’ll talk to Nichols and see what he has to say. And the both of you keep quiet about this.”

Back in his room, Wager once more tried the tribal police number. This time he was put through. “Ray, have you found out anything about who gets Rubin’s land?”

“It all depends on whether there’s a will or a trust somewhere. Was one filed?”

“No. Was Sharon Del Ponte listed as part owner of the land?”

“Nope. Tribal records show just Rubin’s name. Without a will, it looks like it goes to Luther. He’s the closest registered relative, and that’s what the tribal law says: intestate property goes to the closest relative who’s registered. A registered relative who no longer lives on the reservation has first claim but has to come back and live on the property. If he doesn’t, it goes to the next closest relative who lives there.” That called for explanation. “That’s a new tribal law that went into effect after Rubin inherited his land, but it wouldn’t have applied to him anyway; you can still leave your land to someone off the reservation if they’re named in your will.”

“Have you talked to Luther yet?”

“Haven’t had a chance. Probably not until tomorrow. You want to come along when I do?”

“I sure do.”

Wager should have gone out and interviewed Gordon Hunter—he had planned to, despite Sheriff Spurlock’s caution against casting too wide a net. But his head still hurt—was worse, in fact, maybe from all the coffee he’d drunk to cut through the haze—and breakfast rode uneasily in his touchy stomach. Symptom of concussion, maybe. He felt as if he had been hit hard enough and often enough last night to be concussed. He was sleepy, too, which was another sign, and he still felt too groggy and disconnected to trust himself behind a steering wheel for very long. So he settled at the small writing table in his motel room to wait for his system to get over the effects of the beating. He jotted notes to himself, fragments of things he remembered and bits of ideas those things generated, and he forced his mind to be focused and alert to the differing possibilities and relationships of the case. But his eyelids kept closing and a rushing sound kept filling his ears until he jerked awake over words that scrawled into illegibility. Finally, sometime before noon, he gave up and stumbled toward the bed and was asleep before he hit its surface.

When the rattle of his telephone pulled him from the depths of a numb sleep, the unshaded window was gray with dim light. He muttered hello and glanced at the glowing numbers of the clock: 6:45.

“Gabe? Did I wake you?” Liz’s voice. “What are you doing sleeping so early?”

Early? He stared at the clock’s numbers. Early meant it was evening, right? “I—ah—I was up late.”

“Oh.” Then, “Are you all right? You sound funny.”

He felt funny, too. A lot of the soreness of his body had congealed into stiffness from lying so long without moving, and the sharp ache of his head had been replaced by a cottony, punchy feeling that told him he wasn’t thinking too clearly—concussion for sure. “Yeah, fine, I’m just … . Is it morning or evening?”

“Evening! Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m OK, Liz. How about you? You doing all right?”

The line was silent for a few seconds. “You don’t at all sound like you’re OK.”

He made an effort to seem perky and happy. “I really am fine. Just waking up.” Or trying to—the surging pull of drowsiness had subsided but not gone away, and he vaguely remembered something about the dangers of a concussion slipping into a coma. But he did feel better than he had when he’d fallen asleep—the nausea was gone, the headache less. All he needed was a little more sleep. “What’s going on?”

“I wanted to tell you that Evelyn Litvak has filed for a change in venue. She’s asking for some neutral site for the hearing.”

“Good idea.” Something … what was it? He groped through the fuzziness, then ran down the almost illegible notes and came up with it. “If she doesn’t get the change in venue, tell her to ask for a continuance—try to delay the hearing for a couple of weeks.”

“Why?”

“I can’t give you any details yet—I haven’t come up with much evidence. But her ex might be involved in this case I’m working on.”

“Oh? A felony charge?”

“Would be, if the suspicion proves true.”

“When will you find out?”

“I don’t know, Liz. Things are still pretty muddled.” Both inside and outside his head.

“Do you have anything at all she can take to the judge to support her request for a continuance?”

There would be something wrong with that and he concentrated hard to figure out what. “Not right now, no. I wouldn’t want Litvak or his buddy to learn anything about my investigation yet. But it shouldn’t be more than a few days.”

Another pause. When Liz’s voice came back, it was sharper. “It’s Evelyn’s child, Gabe. Her daughter. The hearing is scheduled for Monday unless the change in venue is granted. And even if it is, the date for the new venue might not be changed—they’ll look for a docket that’s not crowded.”

What was today? What the hell day was it? “I’ll call you as soon as I can, Liz. If my suspect slips out of this because he hears about it through Litvak, there won’t be any conviction, anyway.”

That made sense to him, which, given his state of mind, wasn’t saying much. It didn’t convince Liz. “The court will demand a reason for issuing a continuance.”

“Tell her to get sick—have her grandmother die. Liz, until the evidence is gathered, I can’t take the chance of tipping my hand to anyone, including Litvak.”

“You can’t take a chance on a case, but you’re asking Evelyn to take a chance on losing her daughter?”

Put that way, it sounded pretty bad. “All right, suppose she can’t get a change of venue or a continuance, suppose the child is awarded to her husband, if he’s convicted of a felony, she can sue to get her daughter back.”

“After how long? And after how much damage to that child? And suppose he’s not convicted? Your case is not more important than a child’s welfare!”

“The child’s welfare might depend on this case, Liz. Or it might not—the guy could be innocent. I don’t know yet.”

She interrupted him. “It’s a gamble with a child’s life.”

He kept talking as if she hadn’t spoken. It was a little trick of his that really irritated her, but between the returning intensity of his headache and the struggle to find words in a woolly brain, he was careless. “What I do know is that three people have been killed, that a close friend of Litvak might—just might—be involved, and that if he is, I do not want him warned off.”

“Three people killed?”

“Yes. Probably four, and some bombings as well. But it’s not clear yet. Nothing’s clear yet. If my suspect is arrested and charged and Litvak is named as an accomplice, the court should grant an automatic continuance pending the outcome of his trial. I will do what I can as fast as I can to see if the facts call for that. But I won’t endanger my case by tipping my hand to Litvak too soon.”

“Three homicides and bombings—good lord, that man can’t be allowed near that girl!” When she spoke again, her voice had lost its combativeness. “All right. I’ll tell her to try for a delay. And I’ll have her tell the judge that you can’t talk about an ongoing case, but that her husband may be involved.”

“Not even that—the judge would have to pass it on to Litvak’s lawyer. She’ll have to come up with some other reason to ask for a continuance. I know it’s a gamble, but it has to be that way to protect the case.”

“You really don’t want me to say anything about it.”

“Nothing.”

She shifted topics to get away from an outcome that didn’t satisfy her. Her tone told Wager that although she acquiesced, she wasn’t convinced. But she was not going to waste any more time or energy on that issue right now. “Here’s something else, then. You wanted me to talk to Evelyn about her husband and his friends, remember?”

Not clearly, but he said, “Yes.”

“Well, apparently he’s been coming to Denver regularly on business. Evelyn said he’s been to visit their daughter several times in the last month, and at first she thought it was just so it would look good to the judge in the hearing. But the last time he told her about some deal he’s involved in. He said it was going to make him so rich he’d be able to do things for his daughter that Evelyn could only dream about.”

“That doesn’t mean the court would award him custody.”

“No. But it’s enough to worry Evelyn even more—which, of course, he wanted to do. That’s why what you tell me about his involvement in your case is so important. For Evelyn’s sake.”

“It’s not ‘involvement,’ Liz. It’s only possible involvement—and a damn slender thread to hang any hopes on.”

When he didn’t say anything more, she continued, “Anyway, whatever he’s up to ‘involves’ a meeting with McGraw, of all people. The last time he was here, he told Evelyn that he was going to lunch with some fat cat investors, and the name he mentioned was Weldon McGraw.”

“He’s fat?”

“I don’t see how he can be skinny—not the way he must feed under the table.”

Wager tried to see some sense in that. It connected with nothing, but he noted it on his paper memory anyway. “Could you find out a little more about that?”

“I’ll see.”

“And check out a license number for me? Or ask Max Axton to run it?”

“Sure.”

He read the letters and numbers from his sheet of jottings. The party-and-plate inquiry could, of course, be run through Spurlock’s office, but the sheriff might want to know why, and Wager wasn’t certain he wanted the man to know everything he was doing. Especially since the sheriff had shown tender concern for Nichols’s feelings. “It’s a new Lexus. I’d like the name and address of the registered owner.”

“Is it important? You want me to get right back to you on it?”

“When you can. It’s more curiosity, right now.”

The faintly crackling line was silent for a long moment. “Gabe? You sound as if you’re ready to pass out. Are you sure you’re all right?” Concern had replaced anger.

“Just sleepy, Liz. I was banging around pretty late last night and got up early this morning. It’s nothing a little sleep won’t take care of.”

“I’d give you a back rub if you were here.”

“That would be great!” He could almost feel the warmth of her small, strong hands gently digging into the taut muscles of his neck and shoulders. He enjoyed rubbing his fingertips deep into the yielding flesh of her back, too. It was an intimacy they hadn’t shared in a long time, something that had been almost forgotten, sacrificed to the competing demands of their busy schedules. But he realized now how much he missed it. “I’d like to rub you, too.” And that led to oblique statements of what each of them would like, and somewhere in the soft exchanges of how they felt he vaguely remembered saying good night and hanging up, and then falling immediately into darkness.

W
HEN HE OPENED
his eyes, the unshaded window had the same tint of grayness as when he’d fallen asleep. But the clock said 5:52. Wager, feeling turgid from too much immobility, clicked on the radio to lie half awake and listen to the nasal voice of the local announcer run through stock and grain prices and finally declare the end of the morning farm report. Morning. He’d slept without waking through the night—he hoped it was only one night—and, stiffly, he hauled himself to the shower to steam some life and alertness into his flesh and mind.

Starving, he felt saliva squirt into his mouth at the thought of eggs and hash browns and hot, juicy sausages, and his hand quivered weakly as he carefully scraped off his two-day growth of whiskers. The television had replaced the radio, and he heard a hearty voice tell the world good morning, it was seven-thirty, Thursday, April 6, and here were the stories News Center Nine was following. Thursday … . He paused, razor held just off his soapy chin and stared without seeing himself in the steamy mirror. Liz—he’d talked to Liz and made a promise … . Monday court date, that was it: Evelyn Litvak’s daughter. See if Litvak was involved in any way in the bombings and killings. And now he’d lost a day—an entire day gone. A lost day of his life because of those two yahoos, and that made him angrier than being hurt.