A Blind Eye (5 page)

“’Cause of the freeway?”

She turned toward Corso. “That’s what everybody thought.”

Another silence settled over the room. “Interesting little mystery,” Corso commented. “Somebody could make quite a name for themselves…”He let it hang.

“Probably get somebody reelected,” she said.

“Several times.”

“Ten years anyway.”

A bright metallic click was followed by the whoosh of the door. Richardson held his hat in front of himself with two hands, like he was protecting his crotch. “If you two are finished commiserating—” He paused. “Folks are getting real restless out here.”

T
wo cops. Wisconsin State Patrol. One in uniform. One in a gray suit. Sporting the last two Marine Corps flattop semper fi haircuts in America. All spit, polish, and reptile eyes. Five minutes of introductions and small talk about the weather before the shorter of the two motored his suit over to the wall and tried to push the bed out, so he could slip between it and the windowsill. Wanted to have Corso surrounded, if he could. Suit used his hip on the bed, but the locked wheels refused to roll.

“Leave the bed where it’s at,” Corso said. “You wouldn’t want to affect my delicate medical condition, now would you?”

The two cops shared a look. Suit ambled back over to his partner. “Seems like Mr. Corso’s a bit testy this morning,” suit commented.

“Must be that long Texas vacation he’s got coming,” said his partner. His salt-and-pepper eyebrows were thick and had grown together into a single questioning line across the center of his forehead.

Suit moved in closer, rested his hand on the edge of the bed. Guy had nostrils big enough to hide a quarter in. Kept flaring them, as if testing the air for carrion. With the other hand, he unbuttoned his jacket. “What can you tell us about the bodies in the shed?” he asked.

“Same thing I told Sheriff Trask. I was ripping up floorboards when I saw a big plastic bundle. Thing was all taped together with duct tape. I was curious. Pulled off a piece of the tape, and next thing I knew I was staring at a skull. Guy came along in a road grader. I sent him for the cops.” He looked from one cop to the other. “That’s it.”

Suit leaned in so close Corso could smell his breath mints. “So…”he began. “You’re telling us it was just the luck of the draw.” He sneaked a peek at his partner. “Famous guy like you…makes a living making the police look stupid…and we’re supposed to believe you just stumbled onto a pile of bones.”

Corso picked up his pen. Thumbed his journal open. “You can believe whatever you want. I was just trying to keep from freezing to death. I’ve never been here before. Never even heard of this place before last night. You want to make some sort of conspiracy out of it…feel free.” He went back to writing.

“So…”Uniform began, “you’re saying you had no prior contact with the Holmes family whatsoever.” His eyebrows seemed to have a life of their own. Moving around on his brow like a hyperactive caterpillar.

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“You’re sure of that?”

Corso looked disgustedly out over the top of his journal. “What’s the alternative, fellas? You think I murdered that family and then waited fifteen years to come back to the scene of the crime? In the dead of night? In the middle of a blizzard?” A tight smile crossed his lips. “’Twas a dark and stormy night…” he intoned in an English accent.

They were not amused. “Man with a pair of felony assault convictions really ought to be more helpful,” Uniform said. “Kind of snotty attitude like that could lead a body to thinking somebody had something to hide.”

“Think whatever you want,” Corso said.

The door eased open. Sheriff Trask stepped into the room. She held a thick manila envelope in both hands. It hung down to her knees as she leaned back against the wall. Her knuckles were white. Her face was the color of oatmeal.

Corso closed the journal on his thumb. Smiled at the cops. “The brass sent you down here, didn’t they?” The cops did a Mt. Rushmore impression. Corso emitted a dry laugh. “They want to make sure I’m not writing a book, don’t they? The idea that I might be mucking around in something that may make them look bad was just more than they could bear, wasn’t it? So they sent you boys down here to make sure this whole mess isn’t going to end up in print.”

The cops shifted gears. “We ran your name through the computer,” Suit said.

“Got your rap sheet,” Uniform added.

“I’ve been rehabilitated,” Corso said with a smile.

“Got a couple of hits from Interpol.”

“I’m published in thirteen languages.”

“You come up as an associate of Anatol Kalisnakov.”

“I know Mr. Kalisnakov.”

“In what capacity?”

“I hired him to teach me self-defense.”

“You hired a former KGB assassin to teach you self-defense?”

“His résumé was impeccable.”

The pair traded looks again, and then, out of the blue, Suit asked, “What do you know about an organization named Melissa-D?”

Corso pretended to think it over. “I know a woman named Melissa Duncan,” he offered. “Lives in Sand Point, Idaho.”

“Not a person,” Suit snapped. “An organization. Melissa-D.”

Corso used his right hand to pull an imaginary chain. Lightbulb on. He kept his voice steady and his expression flat. “Melissa-D is an urban legend. It’s something reporters talk about when they’ve had too much to drink, which is frequently. It’s just a story. It doesn’t exist. It’s apocryphal.”

“Is that so?” Uniform looked over at his partner. “Apocryphal, he says.”

“Big word.”

Corso spelled it for them. Neither bothered to write it down.

“Our information is that this Melissa-D is a worldwide information resource organization. Supersecret. Superexpensive. Only got a dozen clients.”

“One of which is you,” Suit added.

“I told you. It’s a myth,” Corso said with a wave of the pen.

“Supposed to have hacked into virtually everything,” Suit went on. “Police departments. Every government agency in the world. The State Department. The FBI. You name it, they’re supposed to be on the inside.”

Uniform jumped in. “Rumor is that for the right price, they can provide you with just about any kind of information or documentation you might need.”

“I told you,” Corso said, “it’s just a story. There’s no such thing.”

“According to Interpol, there is,” Uniform said. “And they list you as a regular customer. They say Mr. Kalisnakov is probably the person who put you on-line with them. They think that’s where you keep coming up with information that nobody else has access to. The stuff you put in those books you write.”

“What do you say to that?” Suit demanded.

Corso shrugged. “Apparently stupidity doesn’t honor international boundaries.”

“So they’re just making it up. That what you’re telling us here?”

Corso’s voice began to rise. “Maybe they’re confused. Maybe the conversion to the euro has addled their minds. Maybe they lead rich fantasy lives. How the hell do I know?” Corso reached over, grabbed Suit by the wrist, and removed his hand from the bed. “Why don’t you two kiddies take a hike,” he said. “If you’ve got any more questions, talk to my attorney.” Corso recited Barry Fine’s address and phone number. They didn’t write that down either.

Suit rolled his shoulders and smirked at Corso. “You enjoy your little Texas vacation now, Mr. Corso. Who knows, given enough time, maybe those southern folks can teach you a few manners.”

“A little antebellum gentility,” Uniform added.

Corso smirked back. “Lordy be,” he drawled, “now wouldn’t that be somethin’?”

They took their time leaving the room. Sort of sidled out in that “we’re in no hurry” cop way, nodding at Sheriff Trask and casting smug looks back Corso’s way, until finally the door hissed and they were gone.

The sheriff bumped herself off the wall and walked over to the side of the bed. “You’re right,” she said. “The big boys are terrified that you’re going to write a book and make us all look like a bunch of hayseeds.” She took one hand off the envelope and ran it through her thick hair. “All of a sudden I’m on everybody’s speed dialer. I’m hearing from people who generally don’t return my calls. Got a call from the commandant of the State Patrol. Got a call from the lieutenant governor.” She smiled at Corso. “Not to mention a number of
prominent
local men.” Corso smiled. She went on. “Seems like everybody’s got their panties in a wad over what we might’ve found out at the Holmes place and what you might be fixin’ to write about it.”

“Only thing I’m fixin’ to do is cool my heels in a Texas jail.”

Sheriff Trask brought the envelope up to eye level. “Got something you can ponder while you’re cooling your heels,” she said.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“She’s not in there,” the sheriff announced.

“Who’s not in where?”

“We just got the preliminary report from the lab boys. Three skeletons. All males. Eldred and the two boys. No Sissy.”

“No shit.”

“They found this in the bundle with the bodies,” she said jiggling the manila envelope. “Sealed up in its own Ziploc bag.”

Corso watched as she reached in and extracted a baby blue photo album. “Family Album” was embossed on the cover in gold. Black smudges all over the cover. Fingerprint powder. Corso opened the book. As advertised. Family photos in more or less chronological order. Smudges all over everything. Eldred Holmes, looking mostly goofy and confused. The boys stopped Corso cold. They could have been Hawaiian. Could have been part African-American. Could have been Heinz 57. Very interesting-looking kids. The sheriff read his mind.

“Kinda makes you wonder about Sissy’s genetic makeup, now don’t it?”

“Sure does,” Corso said.

“Caused a lotta talk in town. Had some folks thinking maybe she wasn’t white at all.”

Corso turned the page. The house, inside and out. The farm. Pictures of the freeway project as it cut through the hillside above the house. Sissy Warwick was in about two-thirds of the pictures. At least that was the presumption. Somebody had carefully scissored out the face in every photo of Sissy, leaving only an anonymous, faceless form adrift amid the mundane images of everyday life. Corso leafed all the way to the back and then handed the album back to the sheriff. “They get any usable prints?” he asked.

“Nary a one,” she said. “It was completely clean. Photos and all.”

“Very meticulous,” Corso said. “Almost psychotic.”

The sheriff closed the album and slid it back into the envelope. Her expression said she wished she didn’t have to do whatever came next. “Those Texas boys are getting impatient, Mr. Corso. I don’t think they like the weather.” She shrugged. “I’ve held ’em off as long as I can. They’re in a hurry to get back home, and the doctors say you’re fit to travel, so I guess you better get dressed. It’s too damn cold out there for a hospital gown. You’ll freeze your butt off.” She stood for a moment staring down at Corso. “If I had my druthers,” she began. “I wish I could—”

“I know,” Corso said. He managed a small smile. “Me too.”

She started for the door. Stopped. Turned around. “Your friend Ms. Dougherty wants to say good-bye before she goes. I’ll wait a few minutes and then—”

Corso cut her off. “Send her in,” he said. “She’s seen it all before.”

The sheriff had her hand on the door handle. “I’ll leave you a little time to visit and get packed before I come back with the Texas boys,” she said. “Sorry it had to be this way.” She gave him a little two-fingered salute and then disappeared.

Corso sat back in the bed and waited for several minutes. When Dougherty failed to show, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed and set them on the floor. The cold tile sent a shiver up his legs as he slowly levered himself off the mattress. He felt weak and slightly off balance as he stood unsupported for the first time in nearly three days.

Half a dozen shuffling steps toward the closet and his legs began to come around. Before opening the door, he stretched and groaned and rolled his neck in a circle. He pulled open the door. His Gianni Versace overcoat lay huddled in the corner, wrinkled and streaked with dust. The rest of his clothes hung haphazardly from those hangers that don’t come off the bar. His head swam as he bent to pick his suitcase up. He leaned against the doorjamb before continuing.

He rested the suitcase across the arms of the nearest chair, popped the brass latches, and began to poke around inside. A blurred picture of his mother flashed on a screen inside his head. A moment later, her voice filled his ears.

He listened, hoping to hear her again. Instead the voice was Meg Dougherty’s.

“Your ass is hanging out, Corso.”

“Yeah” was all he said as he pulled on a change of socks and underwear.

He found a pair of jeans and then turned to face her. Her hands were no longer bandaged. They hung from the ends of her arms like boiled fish. She was wearing her brave face and her “fit in” clothes. The face, smiling but rigid, was the one she put on when things got out of control and she didn’t want Corso to know she was terrified. The clothes, a long-sleeved black-and-white flannel shirt over a pair of black jeans, were the ones she wore when they were working someplace where the vampire princess act just wasn’t going to float.

“How’re the hands?” he asked as he buttoned his jeans around his waist and then dragged the hospital gown over his head and dropped it to the floor.

She managed a wan smile. “A little tender, but otherwise okay.” As if to prove her point, she held them up and flexed her fingers several times.

He rummaged around in the bag. Produced a black T-shirt. Wiggled in, one arm at a time, and then slipped it over his head, pulled it down, and tucked it into the jeans. Beneath the winged Harley-Davidson logo, big white letters,
Smoke em till the wheels fall off
. He hiked up his pant legs, stood on one foot at a time, and pulled on a pair of black cowboy boots. He stomped his feet until he was satisfied with the fit.

“That what they’re wearing in jail these days?” she asked.

“I’m going for the ominous look.” He gave her a little grin. “As I recall, about the time I get to Texas, my wardrobe choices are gonna be limited to something in the area of bright orange coveralls and flip-flops.”

“Be sure to tell them that orange is definitely not your color. You’re a winter. Orange is definitely a fall color.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He chuckled under his breath and then pointed toward the bed. “The keys to the new rental car are on the nightstand there. It’s that green Expedition down in the lot,” he said, nodding toward the window. “Hertz says we should try not to total this one.”

She retrieved the key and dropped it into the right-hand pocket of her jeans. Her brave face was slipping. Her voice was tinged with concern. “You sure there isn’t something I can—”