Devil's Run (18 page)

A servo whined, followed
by the clank of heavy machinery engaging. I heard a whisper of sound and looked
up to see the tow cable start moving. The cabin left the bay with a sound like
champagne corks popping. After a gentle start, it sank swiftly towards the
valley floor.

“Craig!”

Jeffrey Boyd was
approaching from elevator doors at the back of the station. Ms Ricasso stood
patiently a few feet behind me.

“I told you to stay away
from Colorado,” Boyd said, when he reached me. Before I could answer, he looked
over my shoulder and said, “That will be all for now, Ms. Ricasso.”

Without hesitation, she
walked briskly towards the elevator.

Boyd turned back to me.
“What the hell are you doing here?”

“You invited me up.”

“Don’t fuck with me, I
mean in Colorado.” He looked quickly at Ms. Ricasso, who was disappearing
behind the closing doors of the elevator. “You’ve put me in a very embarrassing
position. I told you to stay away.”

“You’re repeating
yourself, and no you didn’t. You said there was no connection. You were wrong.
Besides, if you’re so goddamn worried about my being associated with you, why
ask me up here?”

He stepped closer. “It
wasn’t my idea. My partners, they know about you.”

“You mean the law firm?”

“No,” he said, his tone
exasperated. “My partners here. You’ve been talking to the police they said.
Telling them my son was involved in the fire up here.”

“I didn’t tell anyone I
was working for you. The police seem to think I’m an insurance investigator.”

“Well, Imperatrice
doesn’t. I got a call from him this morning. He knows you’re working for me. I
had to admit it. You must have told someone.”

“I told no one,” I said,
which wasn’t strictly true, but I doubted John Roma was blabbing to
Imperatrice. “And there’s been a team of people on me since I left your
office.”

“Then Raviv must have
leaked it.”

“Bullshit.”

“Then how?”

“My guess?” I nodded
towards the elevator. “Your friend Ms. Ricasso has a side job keeping an eye on
you.”

“That’s not possible,” he
said, but I could see he was thinking about it.

“You’ve got to accept
that whatever happened to your son has something to do with this place. And
that maybe Cynthia Simmons death wasn’t just a random act of violence.”

“What?” Boyd looked
shocked and opened his mouth to speak, but his cell phone rang. He snatched it
out of his pocket. “What? Oh, hello. Yes, he’s here.” He nodded. “Yes, I’ll see
you then.”

He put the phone away
and looked at me, his expression going from anger to confusion and back again. Finally,
he said, “Come with me.”

Boyd pressed the single
button on the elevator panel and waited impatiently, staring at the indicator
lights above the door. There were only two: T and L. ‘L’ was currently glowing.

“No stairs?” I said.

“Emergency only,” he
said, pointing towards a sliding metal fire door.

The elevator announced
its arrival with a little ‘ding’ and the doors slid open. Boyd and I stepped
inside. There was an identical set of doors in the opposite wall of the car.

It has been my experience
that the shorter the ride, the slower the elevator. This was no exception. We
rode in painful silence for what seemed like ten minutes, but was probably
about thirty seconds. Boyd stood facing the other set of doors, so I did as
well.

We stepped out into a
reception area worthy of a five star hotel. The decorator had jettisoned the
ski lodge look for Grand Hotel majesty. A wall of windows three stories high
looked out on a flagstone patio and the mountain peaks beyond. We walked across
the marble floor to the concierge. He came around his marble desk to meet us.
Thanks to the painfully sparse comb over, pencil thin mustache, and general
attitude of haughty superiority, I knew he was French before he opened his
mouth.

“Msieu Boyd.” He sort of
half nodded, half bowed, then turned to me. “And this must be Msieu Craig.”

“Guilty as charged,” I
said, before turning to Boyd and saying, “Regular UN you got going around
here.”

“Antoine, Mr. Craig will
not be here long. Process him through security and send him to the bar.” He
turned to me and said, “I’ll meet you there in forty-five minutes. I have
things to attend to.”

When he was out of
sight, Renee turned to me and said, “Are you carrying any weapons?”

“I’ve got a MasterCard
I’ve done some damage with.”

“Amusing.” He pointed at
a door in the corner. “I’m afraid I must ask you to take a moment.”

“No offense, Antoine,” I
said, “but if this involves a cavity search, I’d prefer someone cuter.”

“I assure you, Msieu
Craig, no physical contact is involved.”

“What fun is that?”

The Alpine Room was a
narrow, clubby cocktail lounge. Opposite the bar was one long set of windows
that looked out on the eastern rim of the canyon and the other wing of the
building. All the well-padded red leather chairs and bar stools were empty.
There were no glasses or plates on the round tables. Even the bartender was
missing.

I walked to the window
Cory had pointed out from the cable car. Directly below me, the cables reached
out into Diablo Canyon towards the first tower. Above, the sun was beginning to
fight with a thickening overcast. The horizon was a wall of clouds. There was
snow in our future.

I went over and sat down
on a stool near the end of the bar. There was no one there to take my order. I
noticed a stack of Canfield campaign brochures and browsed through one to pass
the time. It was mostly ad man speak, highlighting Canfield’s squeaky clean
background. Youngest son of a politically connected Mormon family, quarterback
at BYU, multi-term congressman and now a senator. There was a small blurb about
wife Cory, her status as an independent businesswoman, and involvement in
various charities.

“Hey, how ya doin’?”
said a cheerful, masculine voice, accompanied by the sound of clinking glass.

He came through the door
behind the bar holding three bottles in each of his dangerous looking fists.
Deeply tanned and built like a wrestler, his bald head was peeling from a bad
sunburn. Being a licensed detective, I knew from the white shirt, bow tie, and
black vest that he was the bartender

“Hello, yourself.”

“Sorry to keep you
waiting.” He set the bottles down and walked over to me. He wiped his right
hand on a bar towel before offering it to me. “I’m Tim.”

“Nick,” I said, watching
with some apprehension as the massive hand engulfed mine. He was gentle,
though, and I got all my fingers back.

“What can I get you?”

“Got any Smithwicks back
there?”

“We got everything. You
just come up from the valley?”

“Yup.”

“Then I recommend a short
one. Alcohol can be a little strange until you’re used to the altitude.”

“I bow to your superior
knowledge.”

He produced a pilsner
glass from below the bar, rotating it deftly with a flick of his wrist. He went
towards the center of the bar. I followed along from my side and perched on
another stool.

“Just get here?” he
said, reaching into the forest of beer taps.

“Yeah.”

“You must be the guest
of Mr. Boyd I was told to expect.”

“The very one.”

He finished pouring my
beer and placed it on the bar in front of me, somehow conjuring a coaster at
the last possible second.

“Mr. Boyd says
everything is on him.”

“In that case, have one
yourself.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

A bottle of Jameson’s
appeared in one hand, while a shot glass magically grew in the other.

“What,” I said, “no
protests of being on duty or not allowed to drink with the customers?”

“I won’t tell if you
won’t,” he said, tossing back the shot. He smacked his lips and smiled. “Many
thanks.”

“I live to serve.”

He waved at the bar. “Me
too.”

Tim busied himself
putting the bottles away while I sipped on my beer. He had the sort of vaguely
battered looks you associate with boxers. The bridge of his sunburned nose ran
up to his brow with almost no slope.

He caught me watching
him. “I got a booger or something?”

“Nah, I just enjoy
watching professionals at work.”

He grinned. “Don’t
expect no Tom Cruise bottle flipping.”

“I’m grateful.”

“So, where you in from?”
he said, busying himself by slicing limes with a paring knife.

“New York City.”

“Ah. Fun town.”

“How about you? Let me
guess. Philly.”

He shook his head.
“Nope. Lompoc, California,” he said, coming down hard on the “pock” sound.
“Born and raised.” His eyes narrowed at something he saw on my face. “Something
wrong with that?”

“Nothing at all. Heard they
got a prison up there.”

“That they do. My dad
was a guard.”

“I have to tell you, I’m
hearing a little Philadelphia.”

“Dad was from South
Philly, never lost the accent. I guess I picked some up.”

I took a sip of my beer.
Tim produced a bowl of nuts and placed it in front of me.

“Now that we’re
friends,” I said, “may I offer you two words of advice?”

“Sure, what are they?”

“Sun and screen.”

“Oh, this,” he said,
pointing at his head.

“Yeah, you might want to
be careful in this thin air.”

“Oh, I didn’t get this
here. Just got back from Jamaica. Vacation.”

“Talk about two
extremes.”

“Yeah, I don’t like
anything in the middle.”

“Just what does a
mixologist do on vacation?”

“I don’t know from
mixologists. I’m a bartender. And I like to have some fun. Little fishing,
little SCUBA, lots of ladies.”

“Sounds very relaxing.”

“Yup. I like to go to
the bars, too. Watch how they do things. Always be learning, that’s what my
mother taught me.”

“What did you learn this
time?”

“A lot more than I
wanted to know, I’ll tell ya.”

“I’m intrigued.”

He leaned forward and
lowered his voice. “This place I’m staying in Jamaica, see, had two sides. One
was a regular resort, the other was.” He trailed off.

“Clothing optional?”

He snapped his fingers
and stood up straight. “Exactly.”

“And you thought you’d
see how the other half lived.”

“Exactly.” He held up
both hands, palms towards me to stop my thoughts from going down any
undesirable paths. “Understand now, I’m not into this whole nudist thing, but,”
he gestured vaguely towards his waist, “I got nothing to be ashamed of and I’m
open to new experiences.”

“I fully understand.”

“So, anyway, I head over
to this beach, everything free and easy, which was a nice feeling, I gotta
admit. Anyway, I get to the beach, and let me tell you, I get the shock of my
life.”

“The Swedish Bikini
Team, sans bikinis.”

“Not even close. Just
the opposite. Now, I admit I’m no Adonis, but I was pretty much the belle of
the ball.”

“Really? That bad?”

“That’s funny. Anyway, I
couldn’t believe some of these people took their clothes off in public.”

“Not like the movies,
was it?”

“No fucking way, pardon
my French. It was disgusting. Cellulite, giant pimples, eczema – I seen corpses
with better skin. And, Jesus, fat like you wouldn’t believe.” He pushed the
memory away with both hands, grimacing theatrically. “It was like a frigging
leper colony. So, naturally, I head over to the bar they got there.”

“Professional
curiosity.”

“Exactly. Plus, I needed
a drink. So, anyway, everyone is naked, even the bartender.”

“What was he using for a
swizzle stick?”

“That’s funny. Anyway, I
got a beer and I’m swapping stories with him for a while. Then this guy walks
up, black as the ace of spades and seven feet tall, I swear, wearing nothing
but one of those straw hats. Whaddya call ‘em?”

“Panama?”

“Exactly. Panama hat.
Nice cloth band.” He spread his hands. “And let me tell you, like I said, I got
nothing to be ashamed of in that department, but this dude, he made me look
like my five year old nephew.”

“So the stories are
true?”

“Exactly. I’ve ridden
horses with less than he’s got. Anyway, he orders a piña colada. When the
bartender brings the drink, he introduces me to the guy. Turns out he’s the
mayor of the local town. The fucking mayor and he’s walking around naked. You
believe it?”

“I don’t know. Was he a
Kennedy?”

“That’s funny. Anyway,
he introduces me and the mayor sticks out his hand to shake mine and I say
‘Sorry, no way.’ And the mayor, he looks very put out and says to me ‘why not?’
and, remember, the guy is stark naked. So I tell him ‘I don’t know where that
hand has been’. He starts gettin’ really upset. Then I point at his Johnson and
say, ‘I will shake your wife’s hand, though’.”

I burst out laughing,
just as Boyd appeared in the entrance. Tim immediately sprang into action.

“Afternoon, Mr. Boyd.
What can I get you?”

“Jack Daniels, thank
you, Tim.”

“Right away, sir.”

Boyd made a beeline to
me and jerked his head towards the tables. “Over here.”

I took my beer and
followed him over to a table near the windows. We sat staring at each other
until Tim brought his drink.

“Anything else?”

“No thank you, Tim. Not
at this time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Boyd leaned in towards
me. “Kohl is coming. He wants to talk to you.”

“I spoke with Herr Kohl
just this morning.”

“That was before he knew
you were working for me. He has questions.”

As if on cue, Kohl
walked into the bar and came over to the table. Boyd stood up as he approached,
which surprised me. I automatically followed suit.

“Mr. Craig,” said Kohl,
clasping his hands behind his back, “I did not expect to see you so soon.”

“That makes two of us.”

He gave me a chiding
look. “You should have told me you worked for my friend Mr. Boyd.”

“Do I?”

He smiled. “As I said before,
you are indeed a credit to your profession. In any case, I would not have
disturbed your breakfast this morning.”

“Next time.”

“Yes, indeed. Now, if I
may, I have heard from several sources that you are interested in the fire we
had here. And you have a fantastic theory about it. Something about,” he began,
then looked at Boyd.

“Eco terrorists,” said
Boyd.

“Ah, yes. The ecology
terrorists.” He looked at me. “Is this not so?”

I looked at Boyd. He was
glaring at me.

“Yes,” I said to Kohl.
“That’s about it.”

“And that Mr. Boyd’s son
was somehow involved.”

“That’s what I’ve been
given to understand.”

He shook his
head. “This is
fantastisch
, and nothing more than a story. But, I
understand that as an investigator you must pursue the clues you have been given.
If you would be good enough to accompany me, you may ask any questions you
like.”

“Where would we be
going?”

“Why, to the scene of
the fire of course.”