Authors: Frank Hughes
“Please call me Nick.
And I don't agree. Truly obnoxious people are obnoxious from the start,
otherwise they're just posers.”
“Then you are no poser.”
“Thank you.”
She opened the top of
the tea pot and idly dunked the bag. “You know, a guy with two first names has
nothing to brag about.”
“Please, it's a grand
old Irish name, from County Tyrone.”
“Hence the corned beef.”
She looked over the rim of her cup. “The name was my father's idea. He was a
cop. In Chicago.”
“How did you end up out
here?”
“After one too many
shooting incidents, he pulled the pin. Got restless after two years of
retirement and found a job out here as a one man police force.”
“That explains the
caps.”
“What? Oh, yeah.” She
looked at the cap. “He stole the design. I admit it.”
“Yeah, that's the thing
about the Windy City. Can't tell the cops from the cab drivers, 'til they hit
you with their nightsticks.”
“You don't like cops,
Mr. Craig?”
“Nick. And I love cops.
I married one. I was one.”
“Why'd you stop?”
I grinned at her.
“You're right,” she
said, laughing. “Silly question. And I've only known you five minutes.”
She poured a cup of tea
from the pot. While she added sugar and cream, I leaned over the table and
looked down.
“Excuse me?” she said,
raising her eyebrows.
“Just looking,” I said,
settling back in my seat. “Wheel gun, huh?”
“Yes,” she said slowly,
sipping her tea.
“Big N frame, isn't it?
A twenty-nine?”
“No, it's a Model 28.”
“Three fifty-seven. Good
gun. Haven't made those for quite a while.”
“It was my father's.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Ease off on the gas
there, Dr. Freud. My Dad didn't trust automatics in the cold weather.”
“Smart man. What’s he
doing now?”
She looked at her tea.
“He's dead.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. He had a long,
interesting life and he went very peacefully.”
“We should all be so
lucky.”
There must have been
something in my tone. She looked at me sharply before returning to her tea.
“So, Mr. Craig, how can
I help you?”
“As I said, I’m looking
into the fire at The Retreat.”
“What exactly is your
interest?”
“I'm sure you understand
I am not at liberty to say without my client's permission.”
“Is that client a person
or an insurance company?”
“Why would you ask if it
was an insurance company?” I said.
“You're asking about a
fire. Seems logical.”
“As I said, I can't
confirm that.” It wouldn’t hurt to let her think I was an insurance
investigator. “However, let's talk about the fire.”
“It was an industrial
accident.”
“You investigated it?”
She shrugged. “Not in my
jurisdiction.”
“Whose jurisdiction is
it?”
“That’s not entirely
clear. Spanish Mountain is within the town limits, so it’s mine, but The
Retreat and that part of the mountain are county, and the fire scene may also
touch on land that is BLM’s responsibility. Our fire chief did insist on an
inspection, and he examined the scene a couple of days later. He concurred with
their explanation.”
“A couple of days? They
didn't fight the fire?”
“They aren’t equipped
to. It was way up the mountain. There is literally no way for our engines to
get there. Verdugo has its own firefighting equipment on site for just that
reason.”
“What if it had gotten
out of hand?”
“It didn't. If it had,
well, it would have been fought like any wildfire, by the Forest Service.”
“Still, it seems it was
worth investigating. My understanding was witnesses reported explosions.”
She poured a little more
tea into her cup. “If you were a cop, you know as well as I do that
eyewitnesses are unreliable. There is a lot of wind up there. A flare up could
look like an explosion to someone down here.” She raised the cup to her lips.
“We’ve been told some
witnesses heard gunshots.”
“Have you ever been near
a forest or lumber fire, Mr. Craig?”
“Nick. No, I can’t say I
have.”
“Wood sap boils and
pockets of it explode, sounding very much like gunshots. Live trees have been
known to blow up like bombs. It doesn’t surprise me that these witnesses,
whoever they may be, thought they heard gunshots and explosions.”
Just then, Cheryl
arrived with our food, skillfully balanced on her left arm. She distributed the
plates with the deftness of a blackjack dealer.
“There ya go! Anything
else I can get for ya?”
“Nothing for me.” I
turned to Masterson. “Cat?”
“I’m fine,” she told
Cheryl, glaring at me.
“Great! Enjoy!” She
hurried off to another table.
The food may have been
expensive, but there was lots of it and it was good. The corned beef hash was
homemade, the eggs just right. The Sheriff clearly agreed. I'm no slouch at the
table, but she ate like a truck driver. I wondered where she was putting it.
After a few minutes, she
slowed down a bit and looked over at me. “So, tell me why your client is so
interested in our fire.”
“We've received some
credible information that the fire was arson, an act of terrorism by a fringe
environmental group. Like the Vail fire some years back.”
She sat still and stared
at me for a moment. “Seems a little farfetched.”
“So did 9/11.”
“Can’t argue with you
there.” She picked up a slice of toast and spread marmalade on it. “Why would
the resort cover up a terrorist attack? Why claim it was an accident?”
“Oh, any number of
reasons,” I said, not wasting the opportunity to reinforce her insurance
investigator fantasy. “They might be worried it would scare off investors.
Also, insurance policies have all sorts of clauses about acts of war or
terrorism, especially since 9/11. If that fire was arson, and the arsonists
were officially considered terrorists by the U.S. Government, they might not be
covered. An accident on the other hand…”
She smiled in a faintly
superior way. “These people are first rate, Mr. Craig. I doubt they’ve left any
bases uncovered.”
“Then maybe they’ve got
something to hide.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, but I do
know some of the people involved with this resort, and they’re pretty
unsavory.”
“Well, I know them, too.
And I don’t know you.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’ve seen
this town get up off its knees because of what’s happened here.”
“Yeah. And Mussolini
made the trains run on time.”
“What a charmer you are.
Did your credible source supply names, by any chance?”
“Yes, he did. The FBI
identified the leader as a key figure in domestic terrorism incidents going
back to the Vail fire. Other members of the team – we think there were at least
five of them - were a 17 year old girl named Julie Nesbitt.” I paused. “And a
young college student named Kenneth Boyd.”
“Boyd?” Her fork stopped
halfway to her mouth. “Ken Boyd? Not Jeffrey Boyd’s son?”
“One and the same.”
She dismissed the idea
with a wave of her fork. “That's ridiculous. He’s a very nice kid.”
“So you know him?”
“Of course I do. His
father I know quite well. He's a major stakeholder in the resort here.” Her
eyes narrowed. “Have you talked to Ken about this?”
“He’s unavailable.
Disappeared, I am told, just before the fire.”
She sat back and did not
speak for several moments. “I see,” she said, finally. “What about these other
people. Have you found any of them?”
“Julie Nesbitt
disappeared the same time as Ken and is still missing. I did find Roger.”
“And?”
“He told me a detailed
story about the arson, and its aftermath.”
“I’d like to talk to
him.”
“He’s dead. Someone shot
him a few days ago.”
“What? Where?”
“In Vermont.”
“Vermont? Seems to me I
saw something on the news about a sixties radical being killed.”
“Yes, the man who led
the attack on the resort was killed with him.”
“So there is no one to
corroborate your story.”
“I’m thinking that was
the idea.”
She grunted. “Have you
talked to Jeffrey Boyd?”
“I’ve tried calling him,
but I haven't been able to reach him,” I said, again shading the truth just
enough to avoid an actual lie.
“He's here. At his home
I mean.”
“Really?”
“Some detective you are.
Yes, he is.” She took a dainty bite of toast. “It's almost Christmas, in case
you've forgotten.”
“Of course I haven’t.
Mrs. Claus and I have a thing every year while hubby is out of town.” I scraped
up some shreds of hash with my fork. “I guess I should give Boyd another call.”
“He's probably dodging
you. Perhaps your reputation precedes you.” She looked at her mannish wrist
watch. “I have duties to attend to.”
Just then, Cheryl
appeared. “Can I get you folks anything else?”
“Just the check,
please,” I said.
“Got it right here.” She
laid a leatherette folder on the table. “Anytime you’re ready.”
“Anything else you need
from me?” said Catherine.
“Just a minute more.
Anything unusual happen in the past couple of months?”
“I’d ask you to define
unusual, but I am certain I don’t have time for the list.” She put her cap on
and placed both hands palm down on the table, preparing to rise.
“Any strange deaths?
Unusual accidents? Murders?”
She gave me a pitying
smile. “I realize you’re from New York and all, so you might not be familiar
with normal America. We’re just a nice quiet town where people come to have fun
and spend money.”
“And nobody dies?”
She sighed. “Yes, they
die, Mr. Craig.”
“How about Patrick
Madigan? Anything odd there?”
“As you obviously know,
he fell asleep at the wheel and went off the road into a gorge.”
“Nothing suspicious?”
“It’s winter, Mr.
Craig,” she said. “In the mountains. Shit happens.”
“You investigated?”
“That was outside of
town on a state highway. State police handled it.”
“But, one of your people
was there, an Officer Schecter.”
“It’s just over the
line. He heard the call and went to assist.” She shook her head. “Patrick owned
a couple of businesses, Mr. Craig, and he wasn’t very good at either of them.
He worked long hours and I’m not surprised the lack of sleep caught up with
him.”
“During the funeral his
home was burglarized. His video equipment and computer were stolen.”
“Burglars follow
the obituaries, Mr. Craig. It ain’t pretty, but it’s a fact of life.” She
zipped up her coat with finality. “Thanks again for the food. Maybe I’ll see
you around town.”
“I’d like that.”
“That makes one of us.”
She smiled to take the edge off the remark.
I watched her until she
left the restaurant, before pulling out my dwindling roll and peeling off some
bills, including a large tip for Cheryl. The information gleaned was hardly
worth the damage to my funds, but it never hurts to get a reputation as a good
tipper.
A petit woman in a white
down parka entered the restaurant. Gloved hands reached up to peel back the
fur-fringed hood and reveal the expressionless face of Isabella Ricasso. Feral
eyes searched the room until they spotted me. She made a beeline to my table.
“Why Miss Ricasso,
how nice to-”
“Mr. Boyd will see you.
Now.”
She spun around and
marched towards the door. I took my time getting my jacket on before following
in her wake. She was standing a little ways down 2nd, by the door of a black
Range Rover.
“Get in.”
“I have my own car,
thank you.”
“Where?”
“In the municipal lot.”
“We can collect it for
you.” She pointed at her watch. “Tick, tock.”
“Where is he?”
She pointed up the
mountain.
“I’m good with that,” I
said, and stepped into the Range Rover.
This time the gates of
Diablo Canyon opened for me, or rather for Ms. Ricasso, who sat stoically next
to me in the back seat. A quarter mile in we stopped at another stone wall. The
gate here was solid metal and looked like it could stop a tank. About fifteen
feet in front of it was a fat little box set on a post, just the right height
for the Range Rover. The driver pulled up next to it and ran a white card
through the slot in the side. A door popped open to reveal a keypad. He punched
in a code. The big green gate slid open with nary a sound, revealing even more
security. K-rails lined each side of the road for about fifty feet, where there
was another wall. This wall had no gate, just an open arch blocked by three
bright yellow security bollards. Next to the arch was a guard shack.
Once the gate behind us
slid closed, a man walked out of the shack carrying an under vehicle inspection
tool. He wore an orange parka like Günter’s and had a tactical holster strapped
to his right thigh. He reached the Range Rover and peered in through the
driver’s window, looking from one face to the other. Without speaking, he
consulted a smart phone, clicking through a series of files. When he was
satisfied the guest list was correct, he had the driver pop the lift gate.
After rummaging around in the cargo area, he gave the underside of the Range
Rover a complete inspection. When that was done, he waved to the shack. The
three bollards sank flush with the road, and we drove on. Once we were through,
the bollards rose back into place. The guard who searched our car watched us
until we rounded a curve.
We crossed a single lane
bridge that spanned a thundering stream, after which the road turned to the
right and wound gently upwards. An unnatural looking slope, devoid of
vegetation, rose steeply on the left hand side, the snow barely hiding deep
fissures in the soil. A drainage ditch at its base was choked with rocks and
debris from above. Midway along this eyesore we crossed another bridge, where
the stream seemed to come right out of the hillside. Looking up I glimpsed the
wall of a weathered building, then we were back in virgin woods, climbing at a
steeper angle.
Two miles later the road
leveled and entered a wide valley. Dead ahead was the ugly, narrow wound of
Diablo Canyon, the entrance guarded by a skeletal steel tower. In the darkness
of the canyon a yellow ball of light was descending.
The road curved away
from the mountain and I saw the airfield, its perimeter marked by a cyclone
fence topped with razor wire. The single runway was snow free. A little yellow
tractor was towing a white and blue G5 towards one of the two hangars. Next to
the control tower was a four door garage containing enough snow removal equipment
for a small city.
The road turned away
from the airstrip, back towards the mountain. Half a mile later we stopped in
front of the cable car station, a modern concoction of glass, native stone, and
gleaming Glulam beams. The central part of the roof angled up towards the
mountain. Three cables ran to the first tower and beyond. The ball of light I
had seen in the distance was now recognizable as a cable car.
It was about thirty
degrees colder than in town. I zipped the parka all the way up and pulled on my
ski gauntlets. Everyone seemed to be waiting for me to do something, so I
trotted up the stone steps to the door. That short journey reminded me I was
not yet used to the altitude. I was huffing and puffing while I held the door
for Ms. Ricasso, who passed through without a thank you.
The waiting area boasted
a cocktail lounge worthy of a country club. The front wall was glass, providing
a spectacular view of the canyon and the cable car, which was now passing the
first tower. Rather than the traditional rectangle I associated with Alpine
ropeways, this car was round, with a flat bottom and convex roof. A brace or
bumper of silver pipe surrounded the lower portion of the cabin, intersecting
near both ends with identical pipes that looped around vertically.
“This way,” said Ms.
Ricasso.
I followed her into the
loading area and we waited in silence, watching the cable car approach at what
seemed an alarming rate of speed. When it was about thirty feet out, the hum of
the hauling machinery slowed and the cabin slowed smoothly, covering the
remaining distance almost daintily. The cabin settled into its berth with a
muffled thump. The whirring died to a whisper and the thick haul cable stopped
moving.
I had no idea what to
expect. An angry Jeffrey Boyd? A rush of armed goons? Herr Kohl in full SS
Regalia? I braced myself.
The doors of the cabin
purred open and I was blinded by a flash of light. Through the blue dots
swimming before my eyes, I saw a tiny woman exit the cabin holding a digital
camera. The flash went off again. When my vision cleared, the first thing I saw
was a dazzling smile.
“Hi! You must be Nick.
Welcome to Diablo Canyon,” she said. “I’m Cory.”