City of the Lost (38 page)

He fingers his mug, and it seems as if he expects a response, so I say, “All Eric wants from you is exactly what he’s getting: a damned fine deputy.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “Thanks. What I mean, though, is … I get the feeling … but I don’t want to step aside if there’s no reason to, but if…”

I wait for him to go on, but he only fusses with his mug. Then his head lifts. “Shit! The eggs.”

He’s hurrying back to the stove when a rap comes at the door. It’s a familiar knock. One hard rap, pause, then a second, almost reluctant one, as if the caller would really rather just knock once for efficiency but then it would be mistaken for a bang and he’d have to start over again.

I call, “Come in,” and I swear I hear the knob turning before I even say it. Dalton’s heavy boot steps cross the living room, and he sticks his head into the kitchen.

“Knew you’d be up already. Thought I—” He sees Anders and stops.

“I crashed on the couch,” Anders says. “Now I’m making breakfast.”

“Doing a shitty job of it, smells like. How the hell do you burn scrambled eggs?”

“It’s a special talent.”

Dalton walks to the stove. “No, it’s having the damned fire too hot. Get out of the way.” He looks at me. “You want scrambled eggs?”

“That’s fine. I—”

“Do you
want
scrambled eggs?”

“Over easy would be better.”

He looks at Anders. “Sunny side up?”

“Yes, please.”

“You know what would help, Will? If the one kind of eggs you can make is the kind you actually like to eat. Get out the bacon or sausage or whatever Casey has in the icebox, and then pour me a coffee while I make breakfast.”

“Yes, boss.”

We eat. We head to town. We make a public statement. Or I do. Once again, Dalton stands beside me, arms crossed, so when the time comes for questions, no one opens their mouth. This time, though, Dalton says, “If you’ve got any, you have sixty seconds to ask. After that, if you come by the station or stop us in the street, I’ll charge you with obstruction of justice.”

“And what’s the penalty for that?” someone asks.

“I haven’t decided. Forty-five seconds left.”

He does let it go a little longer than that—allowing two questions. One is asking whether there will be water restrictions until our stock is replenished.

“No restrictions,” Dalton says. “But the price of water and wood just doubled. However, we’ll be looking for people to join a logging expedition and folks to haul water from the springs. Double pay for that.”

The next question is from Kenny, who wants to know if there will be a moratorium on carpentry. He’s not really asking so much as getting Dalton to announce it, so no one comes to him wanting work done. He’ll be busy rebuilding the lumber shed with others.

Val shows up then. Not to the actual statement—God forbid, because someone might ask her a question—but immediately after, to tell Dalton that the council wants to speak to him.

“Come on,” he says to me.

“The council only wants—” Val begins.

“Too bad. Butler is in charge of the case, and presuming that’s what they want to talk about, this will be a hell of a lot faster than passing on questions through me. Now run ahead and get them on the line. We’re a little busy here.”

The council is one faceless guy on a static-stuffed radio frequency. The others are apparently listening, probably by teleconference, but we only hear from that one guy—Phil.

“We’ve received a case update from Valerie,” Phil says after she introduces us, cutting off my hello.

“And there’s nothing more
we
can add,” Dalton says. “Detective Butler just issued a statement. There were no questions other than housekeeping shit. Now, the longer we’re on this call, the longer we’re not investigating the crime.”

“Crime
s
,” Phil says, emphasizing the plural. “You seem to have a lot of them, Eric.”

“Yeah, we do. Weird, isn’t it?” Dalton muses. “The few people here who’ve committed crimes had justification. Otherwise, we wouldn’t let them in, right?” He continues before Phil can answer. “Mick’s death was probably unconnected to the other murders—”

“Which is worse, isn’t it? Two killers working in Rockton suggests an outbreak.”

Dalton snorts. “Yeah. A contagious homicide rash. What happened last night was about those damned drugs you aren’t interested in helping me clean up.”

“Because, relatively speaking, rydex is no more dangerous than alcohol. More so, given that we average an alcohol-related death every eighteen months. It’s the price you pay for isolation.”

I clear my throat. “If you have questions on last night’s events—or on the other case—”

“No, Detective Butler, we do not. We trust you have the other matter in hand. We also agree with Sheriff Dalton that last night was the very unfortunate result of recreational drug use. We’ve decided on a verdict.”

“Verdict?” I say. “I’ve barely begun investigating.”

“And if there is any sign that our decision is wrong, you may continue your investigation. For now, we declare Diana Berry guilty—”

“Whoa! Wait! You can’t—”

“We can. We have. Our sentence is simple and fair, and if we are mistaken in our verdict, there is little harm done. Your friend will simply be removed from the community. Returned home.”

“Returned…” I struggle to my feet, feeling like the floor has turned to rubber under them. “No, you can’t … Her ex … If she leaves, then I have to go to look after her.”
Which I failed to do here.

Dalton rubs his mouth and then says, “There’s no reason…”

I wait two seconds for him to go on. Then I finish it for him. “No reason for me to stay.”

His eyes widen. “What? No. I…” He gets to his feet. “Detective Butler and I have to discuss this. We’ll step out—”

“No need,” Phil says. “What Eric is trying to say is that there’s no reason for you to accompany her home because she’s not in any danger. Diana Berry did not come here because her ex-husband was stalking and beating her. She’s here because she conspired with him to steal a million dollars from her employers.”

I stare at the radio. Just stare.

Phil continues. “They engineered the situation to persuade you to come here. Graham convinced Diana that her employers had discovered the theft, which appears to be false. He simply wanted her out of the way.”

“That’s—that’s not—”

“Ask Eric.”

“I never said—” Dalton begins.

“You contacted your father and asked him to look into it. Did you really think those calls were private, Eric? Nothing you do is private. We suspected you were checking residents, and we tapped his line to confirm it.”

Dalton looks ill. His gaze flicks to me and then away. “I’ll explain it all to Casey. Just let—”

“That isn’t our concern. Diana is here under false pretences and therefore, under the provisions of her agreement, we may evict her. We were already considering whether to do so. The fact she is suspected—strongly suspected—of both murder and arson has settled the matter. Sheriff Dalton will escort her out tomorrow morning.”

We’ve left Val’s house. I’m heading for Diana’s to … break it to her? Confront her?

I remember the night Diana was attacked, when Graham looked right into that camera and spoke to me. Made me feel helpless and impotent, unable to help her.

He played me.

No,
they
played me.

I’m halfway to Diana’s before I realize Dalton is following. He’s a half step back and hasn’t said a word since we left Val’s. When I turn on him, he starts, as if expecting a right hook to the jaw.

“Is it true?” I say.

“About Diana?” He hesitates. “Yeah. She—”

“I mean all of it. That you got your father to investigate, and you’ve known the truth for a while and never mentioned it to me.”

His mouth opens and from the way he shifts forward, I think I’m about to get a long-winded excuse. But then he pulls back and says only, “Yeah.”

“That’s what Diana meant earlier. You’d threatened, if she ever used rydex again, you’d tell me she’d lied about the reason she’s here. You were blackmailing her.”

Anyone else would at least try to wriggle out of it. Dalton says, “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t need to know that you came here to help her and it was all a lie. You’d already cooled your friendship, so I didn’t see the point of hurting you, and if I was wrong, then…” He shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back, and when the next words come, they look painful. “Then I’m sorry, Casey. I’m sorry if I fucked up.”

He didn’t fuck up. I’d been finally crawling out of the hole I dropped into more than a decade ago. I want out of that hole, and I needed the cushion of lies for a little while longer, because this hurts. Hell and damn, this hurts.

“You suspected from the start, didn’t you?” I say.

“Yeah.”

“You suspected
both
of us of lying.”

“It was too coincidental. For twelve years, no one bothers you, and then all of a sudden you’re
both
in trouble? Yours was the story I was more concerned about, though.”

“Because I’m the one you had to work with.”

“I thought you and the bartender staged the attack. So the council’s people investigated, and I double-checked all their work, and I had my father do the same.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to have
Kurt
attack
me
and blame the Saratori family?”

He shrugs. “Maybe he offered to take the bullet for you. Maybe you knew it’d be tougher to get in up here if you were injured. But, yeah, that was one thing that suggested it wasn’t faked. Anyway, no one found any evidence you’d staged it. And the fact you tried to get Diana in without you? Made no sense if your story was false. I wasn’t completely happy, but I let you in, and I saw that you honestly didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to be anywhere, really, but you weren’t relieved or happy or whatever I’d expect if you pulled one over on us.”

“But Diana was. When did you start seriously investigating her?”

“I asked my father to look into it when I went to pick you up. By the time we went back to Dawson City, he’d found out about the missing money and the ex who just paid off some serious debts. He also got proof they’d reunited—overnight trips and stuff.”

Got another training seminar this weekend. At least the company is investing in me, huh?

He continues. “The Saratori thing really was a coincidence—one she took advantage of. And it did help you. I gave her that much. Bringing you along. Getting you out of danger. So I wasn’t completely ready to write her off. I thought maybe there was another explanation for the money thing. And if she was back with her ex, why be screwing everything in pants here? Then I heard a rumour that she’d gotten wasted and talked about what she and Graham did, how she doesn’t think he’ll be waiting with the money when she gets back.”

“Really? What a shock. So sleeping around was revenge.” I take a deep breath. “Is this what Isabel was talking about last night? She heard the same rumour about why Diana is here?”

He nods. Then he looks to one side, and I notice Beth there. She’s stopped, as if she was about to retreat.

“Sorry,” she says. “I saw you two and wanted to give you the full autopsy report. But I … I guess that can wait.”

“How much did you hear?” Dalton asks, and she blanches, though there’s no accusation in his voice.

“Not much, but … I already knew. I was going to speak to you about it today, Eric.”

“Fuck,” he says. “Did everyone hear that damned rumour?”

“Rumour? No. Diana told me. When I got her back home after the fire, she was in shock and, possibly, in pain. I gave her something and she, well, it must have reacted with the rydex. She got confused. She thought I was Casey and confessed what she did to her.”

“She confessed,” I say.

She nods, but I didn’t phrase it as a question. It is no longer a question.

“If you like, I can be the one to tell Diana she has to go home,” Dalton says, in a tone that says he already knows my answer but he’ll offer anyway.

I shake my head and continue to Diana’s apartment.

I want to do this alone. Beth won’t let me.

“She’s unstable, Casey, and last night and the drugs have pushed her over the edge. I’d really rather not sedate her again. Eric can restrain her, if need be, while you calm her down and make it clear she has no choice.”

So they come with me but stay outside the bedroom. Dalton positions himself at the door, where Diana—resting in bed—can’t see him.

Diana and I talk for a few minutes. That’s not me avoiding the conversation. It’s me unable to roar in, guns blasting, and demand answers. That will never be me, no matter how much I’m hurting.

I have no idea what we talk about. I answer her questions on auto-reply and ask some of my own without processing her answers. Finally, when she’s calm, I say, “You have to leave, Di,” as gently as I can.

“Leave?” She’s still foggy from the drugs and her face screws up. “You mean move? Because of Jen? She complained about my screaming?”

“No, Di. You have to leave Rockton.”

“Wh-what? No.” She sits abruptly. “I didn’t kill Mick. I swear to God, I didn’t. Just think about it, Casey? Why would I? Even if I was drunk enough to hit on him, Mick doesn’t mess around on Isabel. Girls have tried. They all fail.”

“They’re kicking you out because you violated the terms of your agreement.”

She stares at me and then says, “How? By having sex? Getting drunk? Using dex a couple times? Hell, by those standards, you and that fucked-up sheriff are the only people who still belong here.”

“You came here under a pretence.”

She stops. Her mouth opens. Shuts. Then, tentatively, “A what?” as if she’s hoping she’s wrong about the meaning of the word.

“A false reason. You and Graham staged your attack to prove your life was in danger.”

“What? No. How can you even—? You honestly think—?”

She can’t get the rest out, and I should seize on her horrified sputtering as proof that everyone else is wrong. But it’s exactly that sputtering that tells me they aren’t.