The Zen Man (33 page)

I vaguely recalled Laura talking about this window sticking, complaining she couldn’t get a handyman to fix it before the CrimDef party. I reached up, opened the latch, pushed—it wouldn’t budge. Pushed again. The window stubbornly skidded in the track a few inches, then whoosh—opened all the way. A chilly wind blasted in. Shivering, I stepped on top of the toilet and looked out the screen.

Not much to see but the vast, dark skies. But I knew the ground radically sloped below this window to a hiking trail, probably the same one Garrett had scampered down that fateful night, too paranoid to socialize and risk being nailed while on his candyland adventure. Laura and I had walked the trail once right after we’d moved in, but it’d been a pain to navigate its narrow, meandering path and steep dips, taking us twice as long to reach the parking lot as when we walked down the winding cement path and steps at the front of the lodge.

My teeth chattering, I checked the size of the window, guesstimated it to be thirty-six inches wide, twenty-two inches high. A man or woman, even with some extra weight, could make it through here. I checked the frame for any unusual dirt, fresh scrape marks, fingerprint smudges—anything to indicate someone had stood right where I was, forcing open the window three weeks ago, but found nothing unusual.

I looked at the screen. Pressed it in the center. There was some give. Checked the latches. All in place, intact.

Then I saw it.

A dent in the screen frame, so small I almost missed it. The metal hadn’t split, just bent. Could be old, or more recent. My gut said recent.

I shut the window, stepped down, crossed to the sink. Leaning against it, I checked out the room, imagining a crying, dramatic Wicked in here, not knowing these were her last minutes of life. Pulling out my cell, I rotated through the numbers recently called, found the one I wanted, punched Talk.

The remote phone rang several times before someone picked up.

“Odd time for a social call, Mr. Levine.”

“Hello, Iris. Wanted to wish you a happy new year.” My words echoed in the empty bathroom.

“What do you want?”

“I need your help.”

“It’s late, I’m tired, and you’re—”

“Desperate. True. Prelim hearing is in thirteen days.”

Silence.

“I’m in the bathroom where you consoled Deborah the night of the retreat. Remember?”

After a moment, she said quietly, “Of course.”

“Did she share with you if she was afraid of anyone or anything?”

“I already answered this. She was afraid of you.”

“C’mon, Iris, you know Deborah had a talent for high-drama, especially when it came to railing about me. What happened between us in the kitchen that night was silly, not dangerous, but no way she was afraid of me.” A picture of Wicked when she’d first arrived at the lodge materialized in my mind, that flash of fear I’d seen in her eyes. “However, I think she was afraid of someone else at the retreat. Any idea who that might have been?”

“Sometimes…before the retreat…I thought something was wrong, but…we didn’t talk that way anymore…”

I waited, hoping she’d continue, but no such luck. I listened intently to the background, didn’t hear the clinking of ice cubes, crowd noises from a TV show, nothing. New Year’s Eve and silence? I checked my watch. Eleven-fifty.

“How’re you bringing in the new year, Iris?”

“I’m drinking Yerba Mate, enjoying the light of a candle.”

“Sounds…healthy.”

“As are you, too, right Mr. Levine? No alcohol, even on New Year’s Eve?”

“That’s right, baby.” I caught myself, cringed. Calling Iris “baby” was like calling Attila the Hun “sweetie.”

To my surprise, she chuckled. “Haven’t been called that in a while.”

The photo of Wicked in her bathing suit materialized in my mind. “Since Deborah said it?”

“She…told you?”

“In a way.”

She choked back a laugh. “I’m afraid she didn’t return my feelings.”

“Sorry.”

“Thank you.”

Maybe Iris and I would never be best pals, but our balance of power had shifted in this conversation. I sensed she was open to hearing me out.

“Listen, I have a theory. I think the real killer was waiting outside in the dining area while you two were inside the bathroom. He—maybe she—was watching Deborah that entire evening, waiting for the opportunity to get her alone. Do you recall seeing anyone heading into the bathroom after you and Deborah left?”

“What would it matter if they were heading into the bathroom?”

“Because I believe the killer exited through the bathroom window, knowing he could take the path below to the pools and cabins without being seen.”

“So you think it’s a man.”

“I’m leaning that way.”

“I think so, too. A woman would never have…” After a pause, she continued, “There were so many people congregated in that dining hall, many within feet of the bathroom…I don’t recall clearly who might have been heading in…”

“Where did you go after you left the bathroom?”

“To the foyer. I wanted some quiet. Sat there next to that table that looks like a dinosaur mouth, flipped through brochures.”

“Before that, as you left the bathroom, maybe somebody walked passed you with a distinctive laugh, style of dress, perfume—”

“Yes. Artificial smell. With a lot of…lemon. No, maybe incense…gardenia. Sorry, that’s the best I recall.”

“Man?”

“I vaguely recall a man, yes, but there were so many people, difficult to know if the man passing me was even headed toward the bathroom. Maybe he was going toward the kitchen. I don’t know.”

“Well, if there’s anything else you remember, please call me.”

“You know, when Deborah and I were together, she was so real, so vibrant.” Iris cleared her throat. “Good night, Mr. Levine.”

“Happy New Year, Iris.”

The greatest action is not conforming with the world’s ways.
—Bassui

A
t ten-fifty
A.M.
on New Year’s Day, Laura left in her Durango to meet Brody with several feds sequestered in the back. Quinn hadn’t discussed it with me, of course, but I knew the area around My Brother’s Bar would be a cluster fuck of feds. Nobody would know they were there until the smack down—and then they’d descend like a warring tribe of cleaned-up, Constitutionally correct Dirty Harrys.

I’d been warned to stay behind, and I’d promised to do just that, but as soon as the lodge cleared, I split.

At eleven-fifteen, I parked in the hidden lot behind the Zen Dog Pet Boutique on Platte Street, a few blocks from My Brother’s Bar. After pulling a knit cap down to my brow, I got out and ambled down Platte Street, crossed 15
^th
, and headed to My Brother’s Bar. On its front door was posted a sign—”New Years Day: Private Party”—which I already knew from calling ahead.

The inside hadn’t changed in years. Moody lighting, dark wood, the ever-playing classical music. A twenty-something kid with short, spiky hair and a dagger-and-roses tattoo on his neck greeted me. “You here for the Huttner party?”

“No, Jim asked me to come in today, check the kitchen.” I was taking a chance that the owner, Jim Karagas, wasn’t in today. “Here’s my card.”

The kid read it, looked back up. “Jim didn’t mention an exterminator coming today.”

I shrugged as though I could care. “Told ‘im I’d come in during regular hours, but he wanted an estimate by tomorrow. Guess there’s been some complaints of mouse droppings in food. Don’t worry, I’m not sprayin’ or anything today.”

He looked a little sick. “Yeah, sure, go ahead.”

I followed a waitress into the kitchen, who announced to no one in particular that she felt like boiled shite after ringing in the new year. After half-heartedly tossing some rolls into a basket, she headed back into the restaurant.

I pretended to check the floor behind several gargantuan stainless steel refrigerators while I got the lay of the land. The place smelled of grease, meat, and bleach. Opposite me, two short order cooks—one thin and nervous, the other dumpy and emphatic—stood at the grill, arguing over the number of burgers to grill. Pots, pans, and kettles hung over their heads. A long, worn chopping counter and containers of condiments, stretched to their right. At the far end of the refrigerators, I spied a doorway that looked vaguely familiar.

I headed toward it, ready to spill my exterminator pretext if stopped, but the cooks were too embroiled in their meat-counting crisis to interrogate. The entry opened into a small, darkened room. I paused for a moment, let my eyes adjust.

Under a casement window sat an old metal desk littered with dirty coffee cups, an in-out box stuffed with papers, scattered pens and wads of paper. Next to it, a bookcase stuffed with folded linens and miscellaneous appliances. Through the window, a stream of dusty light illuminated a patch of the linoleum floor—beige with green, black and red geometric shapes.

I cranked open the window, enough to get a clear view of the parking lot, empty except for the Durango. From this distance, I couldn’t see through the windshield, but knew Laura was sitting in the driver’s seat, waiting. I hated the feds for putting her through this. Hated myself more that my past caused this mess.

Last night, after the feds and Cathy had left, Laura had filled me in about her bad-girl past at nineteen. She’d hooked up with a biker named Charlie, developed a daily cocaine habit. One night, drunk at a party, she swung a switch blade at a guy making a pass. After she’d spent a sleepless night in jail, and the guy had sobered up, he dropped charges.

I didn’t care she’d once stumbled. Made her more human in my eyes. Besides, I was the last person to pass judgment on anybody.

My thoughts jerked to the present as I watched Hughes’ Land Rover pull up and park next to the Durango. I eased in a thin stream of air and reached into my pocket for Brianna’s loaded .38.

Laura got out of the Durango, headed to Hughes as he exited the Rover. They met just outside his driver’s door. He looked as though he were dressed for church in his slacks and long brown coat. Didn’t trust that coat—could conceal a gun. Laura wore tight jeans and a long black sweater, no jacket. Their words buzzed in the distance, nothing distinct.

She handed something to him, which I knew to be the flash drive. After accepting it, he barked a laugh. Pissed me off.

I adjusted my grip on the handle and aimed at Hughes’s head. I watched the front site hard, saw every little scratch in the machining on its surface.

Just one wrong move and I was ready to roll the fucking trigger…

Hot pain shot through my skull. I fell against the desk, the gun clattering to the floor. I was grappling for a hold on the chair when the second blow hit.

The linoleum floor rushed up to greet me, swirls of green, black, red…

Then only black.

Tommy
: Say, I’m getting out of here.
Nick Charles
: No, you stay here.
Tommy
: If I stay, I know I’m gonna take a poke at him.
Nick Charles
: Then I insist that you stay.
—The Thin Man

I
squinted at the clock on the nightstand. Twelve-thirty. On the top of the clock sat a two-inch high plastic Triceratops. Back in their day, these squat dinosaurs had weaponized heads weighing a thousand pounds. Kinda like how my head felt after being sapped by a fed nearly an hour ago. The throbbing had subsided to a dull whump, so I shoved off the ice pack.

“Maybe you should keep that on,” said Laura, sitting on the bed next to me. She wore no make-up, just a slash of red on her lips. Her dark hair fell in soft, loose waves to her shoulders. I thought she’d never looked more beautiful.

“I’ve had it on long enough.” I looked over at Quinn and his fed-cohort, the two of them looking out the window at the lodge grounds, talking in low tones. Quinn looked his usual too-together self. Cohort wore jeans that looked as though they’d been ironed, a checkered cowboy shirt so new it still had creases, and a pair of beige Sorel boots. He looked like a gay cowboy from Maine.

The parking lot meet-up had been a bust. Brody had obviously known he was being recorded, said nothing incriminating, pretended the flash drive was a surprise gift. Feds had had no grounds to arrest him.

“I’ll go up to the lodge,” Laura said, “bring back some of our things.”

On the drive back here, as I had sat nursing a killer headache in the passenger seat of Quinn’s vehicle, he’d explained that for security reasons, he and the Maine Cowboy were moving into the main lodge while Laura and I stayed in cabin five. I’d hurt too bad to argue. As though it would’ve done any good, anyway.

As Laura headed to the door, I sat up, rolled my legs over the side of the bed. “Quinn,” I rasped, “c’mere a minute.”

He walked up to me, stopped. “Feeling better, Levine?”

I looked up at him and smiled. “Prefer you call me Rick. Hey, do me a favor?”

His head dipped closer. “What?”

I threw a wild swing. He feinted, but my fist smacked the side of his jaw. He staggered back, both fists up.

“Rick!” Laura yelled.

“Don’t,” Quinn barked at Cowboy Maine, whose hand hovered over his weapon. He turned back to me, rubbed his jaw.

I kneaded my smarting knuckles. “
Now
I feel better. Thanks for asking.”

He dropped his hand, gave me an odd look. “It’s time for a truce. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

My insides clenched. “What?”

“Your friend, Brianna Shephard, was found dead this morning. Apparent suicide.”

I felt dizzy, almost sick.
Brianna
.
Dead
. “What happened?”

“She was found in her Jeep, in her garage. Carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“Where’s the child?”

Quinn frowned. “What child?”

“A little girl, five years old, name’s Rose.”