The Killing of Bobbi Lomax (12 page)

Marty got to his first.

They had driven. Passed on both sides of the highway by cars packed full of families or high-school kids; almost every car had ski-gear strapped to the roof. Ski and party. It was the day for it. He was hoping to do a little partying himself later. Clark loved skiing but he couldn’t risk injuring his fingers, his hands, even an elbow or a shoulder. They were his means to everything. He had read that in the war Betty Grable had insured her legs for a million bucks. He had thought of insuring his hands, but figured if he needed to claim it would be tough explaining why his career was so dependent on them.

In the rear mirror he could see Edie as she breastfed Lori, staring out the window. Not that there was much to see, hundreds of miles of unbroken desert and mountains. Clark knew from his regular buying trips out to Reno and beyond that it would take ten hours driving, with a couple of stops scheduled in. It was a long way, especially with the baby. Flying would have been a lot faster and easier. But they had a new way of booking everything, on a computer. And Clark didn’t trust those computers. Who knew where your information ended up? Often you’d have to quote your credit card number over the phone, even just as a deposit.

Clark hardly ever used credit, he thought it was an ingenious way of keeping track of you. Where you went, what you did and with whom. It would take a lot of collating all those little greaseproof carbon receipts, but where there’s a will there’s a way. It was just the kind of information the Faith would kill for. They loved information, especially if they were acquiring it, not providing it. It was just like the cable company, all the Faith needed was one insider in the bank or credit companies with access to the head office computer and you wouldn’t even need to collate anything.

Sure, you could pay cash at the desk, out at the airport, give a false name and then disappear into the skies. But when you were trying to convince people you were a devoted Follower, being discovered by one of the Faithful buying a plane ticket for an illicit gambling den like Reno wasn’t the smartest move.

Clark knew that if this trip to Reno didn’t elicit the response he needed, there would have to be another mark, another destination and so on and so forth until he got it. He knew somebody, somewhere, would give it to him, eventually. He just had to ensure he left no paper trail in the process.

Clark had located Rebecca Bright’s descendants easily enough. Back in November, long before the Rooks or Peter Gudsen clapped eyes on his Testament of Faith. But he had waited until they had before he made contact. Rebecca’s great-granddaughter was living in the house she had bought with her share of the cash she and Robert had made from their followers. So, after a light nap and a freshen-up at the Riverside Hotel, both parents and baby found themselves sat as a family unit, on a small couch in a modest living room on the outer reaches of Reno with Clark’s mark, the eighty-one-year-old Mrs Ruth Davidson.

They had made small talk over the apple and rhubarb pie and English tea she’d prepared for them, mostly about the baby, family and life in the Faith. She wasn’t a Follower. Her husband had died of an undiagnosed heart murmur aged just twenty-two, a few months after their wedding, and her belief in the Faith had died with him. She had never remarried. She showed them her wedding picture. They all agreed he was handsome and, gently, she put the picture back on the mantelshelf where it took pride of place.

‘I have a surprise for you,’ said Mrs Davidson.

‘You do? How kind.’ Clark hated surprises. One person’s surprise is another’s heart attack.

‘Yes, but first let me see that Bible that’s brought you all the way to Reno.’

Clark wanted to say, well, that depends on what the surprise is. But instead he took the Bible wrapped round with layer after layer of muslin out of his attaché case and started unfurling it.

‘It’s like Christmas all over again, and so soon.’

‘Yes, isn’t it,’ said Edie. ‘I’ve always loved Christmas, do you?’

Clark guessed from the delay in her response that Mrs Davidson didn’t much love Christmas.

‘I had my cousin Bertha staying here. We went to Cutler’s restaurant down by the river. We couldn’t be doing with all that plucking and fixings.’

Cousin Bertha. Who was she? Clark hadn’t seen a cousin Bertha when he’d researched the Bright family tree. He stood, passed Mrs Davidson the Bible. He sat back down, hand in hand with Edie now, as Mrs Davidson opened it. That way if Edie spoke he could squeeze her hand and impose silence. If the baby started playing up, he would beckon Edie out of the room. Not out onto the snowy verandah, but just to a back room. He didn’t want Mrs Davidson thinking he was a cruel, mean husband. He wasn’t his father.

‘Oh, my. Here they all are. It wasn’t commonly spoken of in my day.’

Clark knew that. It was barely spoken of today.

‘But you knew?’

‘Yes. I overheard an argument once. My mother and father. It was what she had on him. The only thing, really.’

Clark could sympathize with that predicament.

‘But it was never discussed in company. Ours or strangers’.’

‘Robert Bright. Our Prophet. Your great-grandfather. It must be like being related to Jesus!’ said Edie.

Clark squeezed Edie’s hand. She looked questioningly back at him, blissfully unaware of any social misdemeanor.

‘If Jesus had three wives,’ said Mrs Davidson, smiling politely. She stood up and passed the Bible back to Clark. ‘I have something for you. It may help you in verifying the provenance, isn’t that what they call it?’

‘It is, ma’am, yes.’

Peter Gudsen had told Clark under no circumstances to even hint to anyone who might verify the Bible what they had discovered secreted inside it. Peter didn’t want to influence their opinion either way: Faithful or not. Clark had absolutely no intention of telling anyone, particularly Rebecca Bright’s family in case they laid legal claim to the Bible and its contents. He had worked long and hard to get this far and he wasn’t about to do anything that would jeopardize this deal and his plans.

She was over at a bureau now. Reproduction. A nice copy though, in the French style. She took out a handful of what looked like envelopes, handed them to him. He saw the stamps, immediately recognized them. He also recognized the writing on the top envelope.

Rebecca Bright’s.

‘The writing on the Bible would seem to match this, Mr Houseman. Even with my bad eyesight. Some of these are Rebecca’s. My cousin found them when her father passed.’

‘Cousin Bertha?’ Not such a bad surprise after all.

‘No, my cousin Lily, over the other side of Lake Tahoe. Her father, Rebecca’s grandchild, had been the family’s unofficial archivist until he passed a decade or so ago. She passed herself last year, left me those in her will.’

‘How kind of her,’ said Edie.

This time Clark didn’t squeeze her hand. Instead he nodded in agreement.

‘We don’t like publicity, Mr Houseman. We are a family of bastards, born of a man and woman with dubious morals.’

Clark tried not to look shocked at her use of language, or her unexpected honesty.

‘So, please. You may take these, use them for your research, but please don’t attach this generation’s family name to the discovery should you be able to prove that this Bible did indeed belong to my great-grandmother. For myself, I hope it never sees the light of day again. Sometimes truth isn’t a desirable commodity.’

Before Clark could second that, there was a ring at the doorbell and Mrs Davidson was wriggling up and out of her chair, mumbling about how her cousin never remembered her spare key.

He heard Bertha before he saw her. She appeared in the doorway all bundled up like an Eskimo, all that was missing were the huskies. She marched over and shook their hands, Edie’s first. She didn’t coo over the baby, just looked at it a bit quizzically before grabbing Clark’s hand and almost shaking it off its joint.

‘I’m Ruth’s cousin. Bertha. Glad you folks made it, in this.’

‘Bertha’s from Florida,’ said Mrs Davidson by way of explanation.

God’s waiting room, thought Clark.

‘Next year, Ruth, you’ll come to me: it’s not called the Sunshine State for nothing. I hate the darn cold. Did you tell ’em about the surprise, Ruthie?’

‘About the letters?’ Clark held up the letters. ‘Thank you.’

‘No, not those,’ said Bertha, throwing the letters the same look she’d given the baby.

‘No, Bertha, I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.’

‘Oh, Mr Houseman, we’ve got a treat for you. Oh, you haven’t seen it either, have you, Ruthie?’

‘No. Not that I recall. Maybe when I was a baby.’

‘Well, Mr Houseman. I just trekked over to cousin Erica’s. She got it from cousin Lily when she passed, with a few other little trinkets. But this one’s the only photograph we have of Rebecca. And she’s got a Bible on her knee. A family Bible. The picture must be ninety years old. Right before she passed.’

Picture. What picture?

Pinpricks of sweat popped on Clark’s hands. He stared at the corner of the table, trying to focus on a fixed point in an attempt to ward off the nausea that was creeping around the back of his throat. He had been so close. So. Close. Signatures were one thing and easily forged. But the physical dimensions of a book were solid, intransigent. What would its cover be like? Black leather like this one, or lighter? Perhaps tan, which was very popular with ladies of the era. Would the cover be embossed or plain? Perhaps it was smaller, taller, thicker, thinner. Perhaps the page ends weren’t as rough-cut as these? The possibilities made him almost vomit.

‘Here it is. It’s not a great picture. Not bad for a Victorian box Brownie or whatever they were using, with those old plates and a ten-second exposure. See how it’s all blurred here and here.’ She had taken the photo out of her oversized handbag and was holding it out for Clark to take. He didn’t. Cousin Bertha shoved it closer still. ‘What do you think of that, young man?’ He took it from her.

The picture had been taken in this room. Right there the table had been, drawn much nearer to the fireplace than now. The fire must have burned all day then, thought Clark. In the winters that is. In the summer the heat up here would have been suffocating.

‘Is this it, then? Our family Bible? Can’t say as I ever recall seeing it in person before,’ said Bertha, picking the Bible up off the table.

‘Me neither,’ said Mrs Davidson.

‘Not a great shot,’ he heard Bertha say.

Reluctantly, frightened of what he might find there, Clark focused his eyes on the blurry seated woman in the picture. Her hands clasped as if in prayer on top of a book.

Clark stared in disbelief at the photograph.

There it was. The Bible. Or one that looked just like it.

Clark couldn’t have done any better unless he’d stepped back through time and put it there himself.

It wasn’t a great shot, but it was a great picture. A really, really great picture.

Marty looked down at the already clotting pool of blood. A dog lay next to it, bled out. The falling snow formed a white crust on its body. Al crouched over it. ‘I’m really starting to hate this son of a bitch.’

‘Beagle. Good dog,’ said Marty.

‘Loyal.’

‘Damn good dog.’ It was Tex. ‘Had one of those back in the army. Great detection dog.’

‘Do you think the dog could have sniffed out the bomb, got too close? Set it off?’

‘Sure. Although it would have probably taken a lot more damage. It looks pretty intact. It’s got all of its limbs. But yeah, it’s a possibility, depends where the bomb was in relation to the dog’s height, and proximity, of course. Your guy Whittaker will be able to give you more on that. But maybe there was another dog? There’s a couple of shredded leads just over there.’ Their eyes followed his finger to outside a men’s outfitters, its front window blown out, male mannequins strewn onto the pavement, suits ripped and charred.

‘The other dogs got taken by a vet and a couple of the guys, down the block. To his practice.’ Hobbs was beside them now. He’d been the first on the scene with Carvell. By the time Marty and Al had hauled ass across town it was all over bar the shouting.

‘So there were other dogs?’ said Tex, puffing his chest up.

‘Yeah, three,’ said Hobbs.

‘What other dogs?’

‘The dogs the guy had.’

‘What guy?’

‘They dead or alive, the dogs?’ said Tex.

‘Alive, sir,’ said Hobbs. He looked down at his notes. ‘Sorry, Marty, Trevor Angel, a dog walker.’

‘Angel?’

‘Trevor Angel. Angelic Dog Walking Service.’

Marty exhaled loudly. ‘Is Angel alive?’

‘Dog walker? Where are we, the Upper East Side?’ said Big Tex.

‘There’s a lot of expensive houses up there at the top of the canyon, Tex,’ said Marty.

‘Yeah, higher up they get, the pricier they are,’ said Al.

‘Closer to heaven,’ said Marty and felt Hobbs bristle at the hint of blasphemy.

‘Amazes me how they cling to the side of the cliff, like they’re gonna fall off if the breeze hits.’

‘I guess a lot of rich folks figure they got too much money to be picking up dog shit.’ Marty wouldn’t want to clean up steaming piles of crap either. Rich or poor.

‘Can’t be bothered to even walk their own dog. What’s with that?’ said Al.

‘Where’s Angel?’ said Marty.

‘County. His arm’s a mess. Shrapnel in his face. Third-degree burns. He might lose his eye. They got him out of here about ten minutes ago.’

‘He a suspect, you reckon, Hobbs?’ said Al.

‘Everyone’s a suspect in this case, Al, remember? What are we now? Still three thousand plus? And now our guy’s a dog killer.’

‘Poor dog.’

‘I got more . . .’ said Hobbs.

‘From Mr Angel?’

‘No, from that guy over there.’ Hobbs pointed over to where, behind a cordon, a huddle of what Marty assumed were local business owners watched anxiously as uniform, forensics and the fire guys went from store to store. Some of the locals were bleeding, their clothes ripped, faces and exposed bodies looking singed. Behind them a clutch of paramedics were dealing with them a few at a time. ‘He owns that deli a few stores down. Trevor Angel is here every day. Same time. Like clockwork. Owner says he loves those dogs, treats them as if they were his own, parks opposite in the free hour slots, grabs himself a coffee from the deli, then gets the dogs out of his car, walks them up the hill a few blocks to the small park and back down here again. Been doing that for years.’

‘Always at the same time?’

‘Always.’

‘What you thinking, Mart?’ said Al.

‘If Trevor Angel had any investments or was somehow connected to Gudsen or Lomax, or Houseman.’

‘Like through the dogs?’ said Al.

‘Their wealthy owners.’ Marty turned to Hobbs. ‘Go on.’

‘Near the usual hour, Angel comes back. Gets himself a smoothie.’

‘From the same place?’

‘Yeah. Starts putting the dogs in the back of the car to drive them back up to their houses. All totally as per. Then, boom! This is his car, right here. He has keys to most of the houses. Someone found them along the street, covered in blood. I gave them to the vet. Figured the owners would be directed there.’

Marty looked at the brown Cherokee, half its front blown off, all the windows blown out. ‘So, he was getting them in the jeep?’

‘Yeah. Home time.’

‘What was this doing here?’ Marty looked at the tow truck, pushed halfway into the road, the back of it askew, almost as mangled as Angel’s jeep.

‘That car, next to Angel’s, the Nissan, it was in the way of the road crew, they were getting it towed to the pound.’

‘The tow driver OK?’

‘Yeah, his door was open and he was behind it, outside, he had started to crank it up onto the truck, but had to stop, adjust something or other. His open door took the force of the blast, blew back on top of him, protected him from the fireball. All he’s got is suspected concussion. Apart from that and a few scratches, nothing.’

‘His lucky day,’ said Al.

‘Him and Angel went in the same ambulance. I sent Harris to the hospital with him.’

‘In case one of them’s the bomber?’ said Marty.

‘Well, that, and in case they aren’t and remember something.’

‘Good call, Hobbs.’

‘Thanks.’

Tex was right next to what was left of the Nissan.

‘The bomb was in this car.’

‘You sure it wasn’t in this one, Tex? In Angel’s?’

‘No way. The seat of the explosion was in the trunk of the Nissan. Hit the fuel tank. Boom. This is why this is all such a mess. I don’t think the actual bomb was even that big. The fuel tank’s done most of the damage, set off the recovery truck’s tank also. Fireball.’

‘Any chance of fingerprints?’

‘Never say never.’

‘You think this is another tilt, Tex?’

‘Could well be. Whole thing’s blown to crap, it’s going to take a while to track all of it down. Let alone find what’s left of the bomb.’

‘So you think maybe when the truck picked it up . . .’

‘Boom,’ said Al.

‘Boom. Yeah,’ said Tex, gloves on now, picking his way through the carnage.

‘Whose is it, the Nissan?’

‘We got the tag off the engine, Marty. We’re trying to trace the registered owner. A Mrs Eleanor Miller up in Dalewood County.’

‘Dalewood? That’s three hundred miles upstate.’

‘Carvell called the local guys up there. There’s no phone on record, they’re sending a cruiser out to go see her.’

‘Mrs Eleanor Miller hanging out with the wrong kind of people?’ said Al.

‘Maybe she
is
the wrong kind of people,’ said Marty.

‘According to the DMV, she’s eighty-four.’

‘She got any kids, grandkids . . . a father, even, that might be our guy?’

‘Not living with her, Al. Not according to the DMV,’ said Hobbs.

‘Stolen?’ said Al.

‘I wouldn’t take the odds on it not being,’ said Marty.

‘What is it with this case, Mart?’

‘It’s the devil’s work,’ said Hobbs.

‘Well, the son of a bitch devil is giving us a run for our money,’ said Al.

‘Maybe God forgot we’re the good guys?’ said Marty. ‘Or maybe he just doesn’t give a rat’s ass? Hobbs, you get Carvell to tell the Dalewood Sheriff if there’s no response from the house, to track down Mrs Miller as if his life depends on it. Let’s try and get ahead of the game here.’

‘If that’s possible at this stage,’ said Al.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘A couple of the other store owners, they said the Nissan’s been parked here at least a couple of days. A few others were saying maybe four days.’

‘The thirtieth? The first day of the bombings?’

‘That’s what they think.’

‘Any fix on a time?’

‘Morning, but they don’t know before or after breakfast. Well, the three of them can’t agree a time.’

‘Who are the witnesses?’

‘Two guys from the jeweler’s and one of those workmen. They’re doing emergency repairs on the sewers. People have been complaining water keeps backing up in them ever since they blasted a hole through the canyon for the freeway. They were working their way along the street the past couple of days, little tranches at a time. The road crew kept asking if anyone owned the car, but no one did. They needed it out of the way. They were going to bump it, but saw it had tickets. So, the foreman called the City pound.’

‘And they were only too happy to oblige?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Bet they’re regretting that decision,’ said Al.

‘No one saw anyone park it here?’

‘No. Sorry, it was mayhem. I just spoke to a small group.’

‘Grab some uniforms. Get them on it. Get them to report to Al. I want you and Carvell back on our AWOL investors.’

‘Talking of which,’ said Al. ‘Just in case there’s any investors amongst that bunch of wounded and the gawkers over there, I’ll check the IDs of all them and the store owners. Check them against the list of the disgruntled three thousand when I get back.’

‘Great idea,’ said Marty.

‘I’m full of them.’

‘Full of something, anyhow, Al . . . Find out if any of them been upstate, recently.’

‘Dalewood?’

‘You got it.’

Al moved away, reaching into his pocket for his notepad and pen. Hobbs moved with him.

Marty looked up and down the street. It was easy to see there were fancy houses nearby, the stores were all pretty upmarket: the deli, jeweler’s, a gift store, a ladies’ boutique, the gentleman’s outfitters, and a few buildings down, one store, its oddly out-of-place Dickensian bay windows partially blown out either side.

The workmen’s progress as they’d chased the sewer blockage was easy enough to trace, as they’d made such a bad job of resealing the road. Marty doubted Angel was the target. Bobbi Lomax fitted only because of Arnold, her slippery husband. Gudsen fitted because of the Faith’s ambitions for him – and because of his business relationship with Mr Slippery. No one could find Hartman. And the man accusing him, Houseman, was in a coma he might never wake up from. How the hell did Houseman fit? Through a miniature version of the New Testament? Marty could already hear the judge’s laughter if he tried to get warrants with that as the evidence for probable cause.

And Angel? Looked like he might just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The tow truck probably moved the tilt. But if the car had been parked there a few days, and someone had put a bomb in it – either before or after it was parked – who had they thought was going to drive it away and activate the tilt?

His feet on bumpy tarmac scars, Marty reached the point where the workmen had started digging. He was right in front of the Dickensian store. He noticed its sign, held by only one of its metal chains, hanging precariously over the street. Next to it dangled the store’s awning, ripped and battered by the blast and the icy winter breeze, its name rippling almost in defiance: Rooks Coins & Books.