One Careless Moment (21 page)

“How'd it go?” Erwin asks as we cross the parking lot.

“Not so great,” I admit. “We know it was a man who called, but that's it.”

“What about phone records?”

“Not a chance, unless you have a court order.”

He broods about this as we drive through town. “So what do we do now?” he says.

“You meet my girlfriend.”

“What?”

He looks concerned. So am I — I don't want him anywhere near Telson, but I can't see this working any other way. They're both far too suspicious to play separately, running back and forth, making up excuses. So I'll introduce them, carefully.

“Girlfriend? No way. Not part of the deal.”

“Relax. She's not involved.”

“Bullshit.”

“She was worried. She heard about the fire.”

Erwin broods a moment longer. “What have you told her?”

“Nothing. And I intend to keep it that way.”

“You damn well better,” he says, massaging his knuckles. I take a few extra laps around town while Erwin calms down. After the third lap, Erwin becomes impatient. Reluctantly, I pull the Cornbinder into a slot at the motel. I offer to put him up in a room for the night, which he graciously accepts.

Telson is waiting in the lobby when we pull in. She gives me a tight little smile, her eyes following the unkempt, oversized stranger behind me.

“Who's your friend?” says Telson.

“This is Waldo,” I say, gesturing toward Erwin. “My fishing guide.”

“Fishing guide?” Telson's eyebrows go up.

I give her a look — just go with this, please.

“Well, pleased to meet you, Waldo. I'm Barbie.”

“Barbie, huh?” Erwin gives me an amused look as he shakes her hand. I shrug.

“What are you guys fishing for?” asks Telson.

“Trout,” I say quickly.

“Really? What kind?”

“Cutthroat,” says Erwin, grinning.

“Sounds like fun.” There's a silence as Telson stares at me, waiting for me to crack. I'm starting to realize what a mistake this was. Her reporter instincts have been aroused and she'll be like a pitbull. I'm going to have to get her out of the picture, for her own safety. How, I'm not sure — I'll worry about that later. We leave Erwin to find his own room as we head to ours. When we get there Telson sits on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, staring at me. I play dumb. She doesn't buy the act for long.

“Who is he, Porter?”

The look on her face tells me her patience has worn thin — playing Barbie has not improved her mood. “I can't tell you, Christina.”

“Oh, that's bullshit.”

“I made a deal with this guy. I can't talk about it.”

“Can't, or won't?”

“I don't think you should involve yourself any further.”

She gives me a look — angry and determined. “Let's get something perfectly clear here, Porter. I came to see you. There was no hidden agenda, no ulterior motive — I was just worried. Then you needed a favour, and you brought me in.”

“Well, now I'm bringing you out.”

Telson's eyes narrow.

“For your own good,” I tell her. “The less you know, the better. To say this guy is a little unbalanced would be an understatement. It's best he believes you're just my clueless girlfriend.”

“Thanks,” she says bitterly. “My ambition in life.”

“Look, we both know you're anything but clueless. It's just that I'm worried about you. This guy, Waldo, is dangerous. He's angry and he has a lot to lose. But for the time being, he's on our side. I'd prefer to keep him there.”

“You think I'm going to change that?”

“He's nervous enough without you asking questions.”

“Why would he be nervous?”

I don't say anything.

“He's one of the growers, isn't he?”

“Never mind who he is. Believe me, there are people even more dangerous than him involved, and we don't know who they are. They probably didn't intend to kill Bert Brashaw, but when they lit that fusee, they did. So now we're talking homicide. When I started asking questions they jumped me, cracked my ribs, bruised my vertebrae. I'm pretty sure they were ready to take it further, because when I didn't give up they killed the waitress I was talking to. Whoever they are, Christina, they're watching me. As soon as they figure out that we're together, they could come after you.”

“So you're worried about the case. I'm just baggage?”

“No, I'm worried about you. I swore I would never put you in that position again.”

I'm sweating, breathing hard. Telson gives me a hug, which only strengthens my resolve.

“I want you to leave this place. Get away from Carson Lake.”

She holds me a little longer, then lets go, stepping back so she can look me in the face.

“Porter ... I know you're worried, but I can take care of myself. I'm a big girl, and I carry a gun, remember.” She places a hand on my chest. “But, I am concerned about you. I know you're not going to give up on this, no matter what you say, and you need help.”

I take her hand off my chest. “I've got so much help, I'll never get anything done.”

“I'm staying to help you. It's my decision.” I shake my head. “Let's not fight about this.” “Okay,” she sighs.“But it's a pity. Now I can't tell you what I found.” I close my eyes, count to ten. “Okay. What did you find?” “I can't tell you,” says Telson, looking serious. “It wouldn't be fair.” “I hate it when you do this.” She grins. “Okay,” I say, resigned. “We share a little information, then you leave.” “No deal. We talk, I stay.” I think about this for a minute. Whatever she found may or may not be important, but if she stays, she won't be able to keep her nose out of this and she won't be safe. “It's about the waitress, Karalee,” she says. “I did a little digging, talked to the other waitresses. Had one of those girl-to-girl talks. You could try it, but I don't think it would work as well for you.”

Damn her. “Okay. But if you stay, you do what I tell you.” She gives me a sweet smile. “Don't I always?”

13
•

WE HAVE BREAKFAST together the next morning: Telson, Erwin, and I. Other than noting that eight o'clock is pretty late for two avid fishermen, Telson is quiet. We went for a walk last night, away from Erwin, discussed current events; Telson revealing what she'd learned from Kar's co-workers. They all claimed they got along fairly well with her. She'd been working the Gateway since spring, which fits with the squatters' planting schedule. Kept to herself, rarely socialized after hours, but was friendly and hard-working. Talked about becoming a teacher, living in the city. Never talked about her family and they didn't know her last name. She was from someplace down south, they said, but were a little vague on specifics; maybe Florida or California. An employment record might fill in a few gaps, but when Telson snuck into the motel office to take a quick peek in the file cabinet, she couldn't locate anything on Karalee. Which could mean the cops have the file, or that she was being paid under the table. All told, it's not a lot of information — certainly not enough to keep Telson here, but, as she pointed out, we had a deal. I told her about my visit to the squatters; that they don't know much more than we do. And about the arrangement with Erwin.

“You can't get rid of him?” she asked.

“Are you kidding? I couldn't get rid of you.”

“But you didn't really want to,” she said, snuggling close.

At the time, I didn't much feel like arguing, but this morning as I watch the two of them, I wonder how this could ever work. Telson is big-city; a modern career woman with a chip on her shoulder. Erwin is backwoods, prehistoric, and all chip. Three days, I keep telling myself. That was the deal. I try for three days — two-and-a-half now — then I say goodbye to Del and turn everything over to Castellino and Noble. If Telson behaves herself, and I can keep Erwin on a leash, it could work. I might even stumble across something useful.

“Where are you boys fishing today?” says Telson, sipping her orange juice.

“I've got a spot picked out,” says Erwin. He's eaten a triple order of bacon. Maybe I'll get lucky and he'll have a coronary before he kills someone. He polishes off a half-pound of hash browns, four cups of coffee, and Telson's toast, then belches loudly. “Time to get to work,” he says, standing, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Let's catch the little bastards before they get away.”

Telson wishes us luck and we head out. I pull the Cornbinder into the lot at the Filling Station, wrestle the shifter into neutral and look at Erwin. “What's your plan?”

“My plan?” he says, frowning.

“You said you had a spot picked out.”

“That was just talk, for your friend Barbie. You're the investigator.”

“Right. Look, Erwin, I have to level with you — I was kind of hoping you guys had at least some inkling who was moving in on your operation. Then we'd have a place to start. But right now, I don't have jack shit. So you'd better think back, give this some serious consideration.”

Erwin's expression darkens. He begins to massage his knuckles.

“There must be something you haven't told me.”

“We've been over this,” he says, scowling, rolling his knuckles back and forth. “So let me level with you. We talked to you for a reason — we want to know who killed Karalee. We expect results. You got three days to figure this out. And you'd better figure it out. Believe me,” he says, giving me a hard look, “we're not fucking around here.”

“You expect me to catch the killer in three days?”

Erwin nods. “That's the deal.”

“No, Erwin, that's not the deal. The deal was you guys tell me what you know and I do my best, based on what you've told me. But you've told me shit. You don't even know for sure that the fire was set by whoever is trying to move in on you. If they'd have followed up with a message, such as deal with us now or lose the rest of your crop, then at least that would be something.”

“They did send a message,” he says, staring at me. “They killed my sister.”

“We think they killed your sister,” I correct him.

“She didn't kill herself.”

Like Del, Erwin has unreasonable expectations regarding what one person can do outside the system. I want to point out that I don't have access to forensics, fingerprinting, police databases. Nor do I have the authority to conduct searches or question reluctant suspects, but Erwin has lived his entire life outside the system, and pressing the issue isn't likely to help my situation. The only thing I can do for now is go along. Erwin must sense my reluctance, because he gives me another of his trademark stares.

“Don't be thinking about going to the cops, or Barbie will have to find a new playmate.”

“Never crossed my mind.”

“Good. So what's our next move?”

“Now we start shaking the tree,” I tell him. “See what falls out.”

It's a different clerk this morning at the Paradise Gateway Motel, younger and less interested in who we are. She's pale, plump, looks a little hungover. She gives us a blank stare when I ask what room Roy is staying in. “Roy who?” she says.

“The bartender. Is he staying here?”

“Oh, that Roy. Naw, he's a townie.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Couldn't tell you,” she says with a yawn. “But he's probably in the book.”

We get Roy's last name — Draytor — and start flipping through a phone book anchored to the pay phone in the lobby. There are three Draytors listed. Two have no idea what I'm talking about. The third is an old man who says his son works at the Gateway, but doesn't live at home. Try the dump behind the car wash, an old two-storey with arches in front. I thank Mr. Draytor Senior, hang up, and signal Erwin, who's abusing a vending machine in the lobby.

“I remember when you could trick these things,” he says.

“It's easier,” I tell him, “if you put in some money.”

We drive around for ten minutes without finding the car wash. Erwin is getting impatient and I'm just about to ask for directions when a light flashes behind me, blue and red. My first thought is they know about Erwin, and I begin to sweat. By the time I've pulled over, Erwin is in the back of the panel. I try to look relaxed when Deputy Sheriff Wayne Compton comes to the side window.

“Cassel,” he says. “What a surprise — you're still here.”

“Just tying up a few loose ends.”

“So I've heard. I need you to follow me.”

“Okay,” I say hesitantly. “Where are we going?”

“There are some people who need to speak with you.”

I think about Erwin, crouched behind me. “Give me a few minutes. I'll meet them.”

Compton shakes his head. “You have a habit of disappearing. You better follow me.”

I want to argue but it might look suspicious, and I can't withstand a lot of scrutiny at the moment. So I nod, follow Compton as he pulls into traffic. Erwin remains hidden, in case Compton happens to glance in his rear-view mirror, but I hear him breathing heavily in the back.

“Fuck, this is the shits,” he grumbles.

“Don't worry, I won't tell them anything about the gardens.”

“You better not.”

Compton swings off the highway, leads me to Lakeside Estates. We park in front of the cabin being used by the investigators as an operations centre. There are a lot of vehicles here now. Compton escorts me in. Castellino and Noble are leaning over some papers at a counter, both in identical dark suits, like matched bookends. Robert Haines, the sheriff 's arson specialist, is sitting, drinking coffee, his thin hair plastered to his pale, damp forehead. New maps are pinned to a cluster of hastily hung corkboards. The big dining-room table is scattered with papers.

“I found him,” says Compton, by way of introduction.

Castellino gives me a critical look.

“About time,” says Noble.

There is a new face as well. Castellino suggests we all take a seat, introduces Scott Batiste across the table from me, an investigator from Missoula here to help with the Smith death. Batiste is tall and lanky, with thinning brown hair and hollow cheeks. He's wearing jeans and a blue work shirt, looks as if he might have wandered in from a construction site.

“This is Porter Cassel,” Castellino tells Batiste.

“Mr. Cassel,” Batiste says significantly. “I've been wanting to meet you.” He raises an eyebrow. “I understand you've been running your own sort of investigation here.”

I shift a little uncomfortably. “Well, not really.”

Batiste smiles, as does Noble at the other end of the table, neither with a lot of humour. “I understand that twice now you've evaded transport back to Canada,” says Batiste. “And that you've been making inquiries, even conducting a few searches. Sounds a lot like an investigation to me.”

“I'm looking into a few things,” I say cautiously.

“Indeed,” he says. “And your investigation seems to have had some impact.”

Batiste frowns, looks down at a sheaf of papers in front of him. I'm not sure what he intended by that remark, but it seems he's hinting I may have been the catalyst in Karalee's death. I've had the same thought, but have been holding it at the back of my mind. Hearing the suggestion from someone else suddenly makes me feel faint. A line of sweat breaks out just below my hairline.

“I'm particularly interested,” Batiste says, giving me a hard look,“in your investigation involving a young lady by the name of Karalee Smith. Not that we're sure that's her real name, but perhaps you can shed some light on that.”

“I met her once or twice,” I say carefully. “She works as a waitress at a place in town.”

“Yes,” says Batiste. “She worked at the Paradise Gateway Motel — a motel you yourself occupied for one night, directly after the incident on the fire. It is also the motel where we found her body just recently. It was made to appear that the young lady took her own life.”

“You think it was a homicide?”

“There seems to be some indication.”

“Really?” I say, glancing at Castellino. “Like what?”

“That's confidential,” says Batiste. “I'm sure you understand.”

Noble is staring at me like I might have crawled out of a manhole cover.

“What about your investigation?” says Batiste. “What have you uncovered?”

“That's confidential,” I say, returning his gaze. “I'm sure you understand.”

Batiste gives me a dry smile. “Bear in mind, Mr. Cassel, that we do not have to share any of the details of our case with you. You, on the other hand, have a legal obligation to share anything that might, if withheld, hinder our investigation.”

“Understood,” I say.

“Good. You don't have any such information, do you?”

I shrug, but get an uncomfortable feeling they've set a trap for me.

“Because if you did,” says Batiste, pausing to consult his notes, “it would be best to bring this forward now, when it might do us all some good.” He gives me a critical look, as if to convey this is my last chance. I wait, wondering if they know something or if they're just fishing. “Such as, Mr. Cassel, an explanation of why your fingerprints are in Miss Smith's motel room.”

I swallow, try not to sweat so hard. “There was probably some of my blood there as well,” I say, succeeding reasonably well to keep my voice level. Batiste's eyebrows go up and I hasten to explain. “Several nights ago, I was at the bar in the Gateway, having a few drinks with the firefighters. After I left, I was jumped by several individuals who beat me with what I think was a tire iron. I staggered back to the bar. The waitress, Karalee, took me to her room and bandaged my wounds, stitched the cut above my eye. I'm not surprised my fingerprints are all over the place.”

“They certainly were,” says Batiste.

“Why would she help you?” says Noble.

“Felt sorry for me, I'd imagine.”

“Where were you attacked?”

“In an alley, a block or two from the bar.”

“What happened?” says Castellino. I give them the basics — where it happened, about when. Two, maybe three masked attackers. Their generic message: we don't like outsiders makin' trouble. Batiste listens, impassive, taking notes. I don't mention that Kar found me in the alley. I'm not sure how much I can tell them about her without revealing her connection to the squatters and their gardens.

There's a silence after I finish. Batiste chews his lower lip for a moment.

“This attack have anything to do with your getting tossed from the bar?”

They've done their homework. “I have no idea.”

“Why'd they toss you out?” says Noble.

“A personal disagreement with the bartender.”

“Ah, yes,” says Batiste, referring to his notes. “A Mr. Draytor. He claims you were harassing the waitress. Karalee Smith. And now she's dead. An interesting coincidence.”

“I had nothing to do with her death,” I say, with a twinge of conscience.

A trickle of sweat crawls like a spider down my back.

“Why were you harassing Miss Smith?”

“I wasn't harassing her,” I say, my tone becoming alarmingly defensive.

“Mr. Draytor was mistaken?”

“It was a misunderstanding. I was trying to order a drink.”

“Really,” says Noble. “You were just ordering a drink.”

“Yes. Are you accusing me of something?”

Noble gives me a smug look.

“No accusations are being made,” says Batiste, calmly, pausing to give me a reassuring glance. They're using standard interrogation protocol — good cop, bad cop. I've been on this see-saw ride before; it never fails to leave me a little disoriented, but that's the idea. “We're just trying to understand how your fingerprints came to be in Miss Smith's motel room.”

“Well, now you know. Were there anyone else's prints in her room?”

Batiste doesn't reply. Castellino gives me a bitter smile. I get the impression that whoever else was in Karalee's room cleaned up after themselves — much like the origin at the fire — leaving the police little to go on. There's an ominous silence. Batiste has a calm, curious expression. The others are all frowning slightly. Like the origin, they have little choice but to rely on my version of events and this clearly makes them uncomfortable. I get the feeling they don't believe my story, or suspect there's a lot more to it than I'm letting on. Batiste sits forward, places his elbows on the table, and knits his hands together as though he's preparing to pray — a little ceremony no doubt designed to give weight to what comes next. He fixes me with a baleful glare, one eyebrow jacked up. “Mr. Cassel, we know you're running an unofficial investigation here, and we know that, among other things, you've searched Miss Smith's room. Your fingerprints were found on drawer and cupboard handles. That alone places you in a very precarious situation. I'm not going to go into the many concerns I have regarding the way you operate, but I will tell you that you are way out on a limb. There's no established support network documenting what you're doing, why, or with whom, which leaves you wide open.”

Batiste pauses to let this sink in, then leans back and crosses his arms.

“I'm only going to ask this once. What, exactly, is your interest in Karalee Smith?”

I have the distinct impression I'm being offered a limited-time deal. Co-operate now, or face the consequences. I think of Erwin, his threats, and consider telling Batiste and Castellino everything, let them deal with the squatters, but I'm not sure the squatters will deal. I'm also more than a little worried about what they might do if I expose their pot growing operation. There's Telson to worry about, as well as Del and her little girl Melissa. I've got to get them out of harm's way. Until then, I'll tell Batiste and Castellino as much as I can without breaking my deal with the Sasquatch.

“I thought Karalee Smith might know something about the arson.”

Batiste frowns. “Why might that be?”

“I thought she might be linked to the squatters.”

“Based on what?”

“I saw her in a vehicle that I noticed at the squatters' camp.”

“You've talked with these squatters?”

“Yes. Shortly after the burnover on the fire.”

“And what did they tell you?” says Batiste.

“Nothing. They refused to talk to me.”

“They haven't co-operated with us either,” says Noble.

“So you tried to talk to Miss Smith instead?” says Batiste.

“Yes. Without success.”

“That's when you decided to search her room?”

I hesitate, knowing I'd be admitting to break and enter. Not that it matters anymore — they've got my prints at the scene. I nod reluctantly and Castellino sits up a little straighter. Noble gives me a thoughtful look. Haines has his bony fingers tented together.

“What did your search reveal?” says Castellino.

“Nothing of substance, unfortunately.”

I can feel the frustration around the table. Noble sighs heavily, cranes his neck as he loosens his tie. His forehead glistens with sweat when he turns to look at me. “You still haven't told us why you think there might be a connection between the arson and these squatters.”

“Just a hunch,” I say. “Based on their proximity.”

“You conduct illegal searches on the basis of a hunch?”

There's an awkward silence.

Batiste gives me a patient look. “Let's remain focused on the issue at hand.”

“Good idea,” I say. “Why do you think Karalee Smith was murdered?”

Noble looks disgusted, as if he can't believe my audacity. Castellino has a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I think we can share that with Mr. Cassel,” he says. “In the spirit of co-operation.”

“You can't be serious,” says Noble. “He hasn't told us anything —”

Castellino cuts him off.“This is the sheriff 's investigation, Mr. Noble, and as such I will determine what information is released, and when. I'm sure Mr. Cassel will treat anything we tell him with the greatest confidentiality,” he says, cocking an eyebrow significantly in my direction. “Isn't that right, Mr. Cassel?”

I nod. Noble gives me a poisonous look, stares furiously at the table.

“First things first,” says Castellino. “Did Miss Smith strike you as a drinker?”

“Not particularly.”

“And you base that on what?”

“On her appearance. On talking with her. She had plans for the future.”

“Plans — yes,” says Castellino. “You found her correspondence course.”

I hesitate again, uncomfortable discussing my search, but nod. If they're planning on charging me, they'll do it anyway. And Castellino seems ready to offer information I can't get anywhere else.