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  “Don’t forget I told my sergeant to shoot you, if necessary,” Ron said with a straight face. “And by the way, I did have my desk dusted for prints. As soon as I have the time, I’m going to request a copy of yours from the Bureau.”

  The FBI man blanched, before regaining his bluster.

  “Listen, buddy, you’re the one who’s going to be in trouble. Again. I’m talking to Thunder about the arson threat, and he tells me you’re figuring him for killing his son. What is it with you Ketchum, your recovery suffering a relapse? You always gotta go after the closest black guy?”

  Ron stopped to consider. Not the snide insult, but the substance of what Horgan had just said. “The reverend said I was going after him?”

  “He said you were harassing him, all but accusing him of killing his own boy. You better be careful Ketchum. You could have another suit for violating civil rights on your hands.”

  Ron replied sardonically, “And I bet I could avoid that whole problem if I just turned the investigation over to you Feebs. Oh, pardon me. That’s name calling. Maybe you’re right about my recovery. But I didn’t let you big-foot your way into this murder the first time around, and you’re not going to sneak in the back door this time.”

  The chief keyed his intercom. “You there, Sarge?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Agent Horgan will be leaving momentarily. Please be ready to show him out.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Ron turned back to his antagonist.

  “Horgan, you might actually be right for a change. I do consider Jimmy Thunder to be a suspect in the killing of Isaac Cardwell. And right now I like him better for it than I did five minutes ago. Thunder’s an ex-jock: he knows there’s no defense like a good offense. So any talk about him giving me grief, legal or otherwise, just makes me that much more suspicious. But I am surprised he conned an FBI man into being his messenger boy.”

  “You sonofabitch!” Horgan hissed.

  “Now, you’re name calling. But I’ll tell you one thing, Horgan. You aid Thunder in trying to obstruct my investigation, you’ll find out real quick just how much clout Mayor Steadman has in Washington.”

  The FBI man glared at the chief, then stalked out of his office. Sergeant Stanley made sure he followed the most direct route out of the building.

  Ron was wondering just how close Clay was to the attorney general and whether he should talk to the mayor about Horgan’s recent visit, when Clay Steadman called him.

  “Ron, I’m out at my house. There’s someone here you need to talk to about the Cardwell case. Can you come right out?”

  “On my way, Mr. Mayor. I’ll be there directly.”

  “We’ll be around back,” Clay told him.

  Ron arrived at the Steadman house inside of ten minutes. He left his Explorer in the shade of a mountain alder so it wouldn’t be easily visible from the road. The mayor’s cars were all tucked into their garage stalls, but a landscaper’s truck was parked at the side of the house. The chief skirted the truck and turned the corner at the rear of the house.

  Sitting at a wrought iron and glass table next to the tennis court were the mayor and Jimmy Thunder’s groundskeeper. That’s when it clicked for Ron. The man kept the grounds at both the reverend’s estate and the mayor’s house. He’d thought something had looked familiar about the man yesterday; he must have seen him, one time or another, working on Clay Steadman’s landscaping. If the chief had a more educated eye for such things, he might have noticed some similarities of style. Being a layman, all he’d noticed was that both places had gorgeous, meticulously kept grounds.

  The two men stood as Ron joined them.

  Clay said, “Ron, meet Art Gilbert. Art, this is our chief of police, Ron Ketchum.”

  Ron took the hand Gilbert extended. Gilbert had a strong, calloused hand, but a carefully measured grip. He didn’t try to muscle it. The man wore the same blue work clothes as yesterday, but now the baseball cap was gone. He was an inch or two shorter than Ron with thick white hair and a seamed tan face. He was clearly pushing the age where many men might think of retiring, but there was a sense of vigor to him — the kind of energy that drove a man to work on Sundays. It made the chief think Gilbert would work ‘til the day he dropped. He wouldn’t be surprised if somebody eventually found Art Gilbert slumped over the wheel of his riding mower.

  “I saw you yesterday morning at Reverend Thunder’s place,” Gilbert told Ron. “I didn’t think you being there had anything to do with me, but Leroi called me this morning. Said I might want to touch base with you.”

  “Art does the landscaping and grounds keeping here, too,” the mayor said, confirming the chief’s hunch. “Apparently, the call he received made him think of something you should know.”

  The mayor had everyone sit down and poured a glass of ice tea for Ron.

  “I appreciate your coming forward, Mr. Gilbert,” Ron said. “I intended to call on you. So what do you have to tell me?”

  “Well, the first thing I want you to know is what I told Mayor Steadman. I came to him first because I want it clear I have no interest in collecting the reward he’s offering.”

  “Okay.” That elevated the man’s credibility in Ron’s eyes.

  “Leroi said you were asking about if anything unusual happened while that young fella who got killed was at the house.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, another visitor was at the house while Reverend Cardwell was there.”

  “Did you hear a name?”

  “Didi DuPree. And I heard a lot more than that.”

  “What else did you hear?” Ron asked.

  “I heard DuPree and the reverend talking on the patio one morning. I was pruning a flowering crabapple. I don’t know if they thought I was too far away to hear or if it didn’t matter what an old white guy who worked with shears overheard.”

  “Which was?”

  “They were talking about a money-laundering scheme … and DuPree was telling the reverend there was no backing out now. The reverend was in it, like it or not, so he’d better sit back and get used to the idea. Enjoy it. Think of counting all the money he’d be putting into his pocket.”

  “How did the reverend respond?”

  “I don’t know because that was when they went inside.”

  “Mr. Gilbert,” Ron said, “How did this talk about a crime make you feel?”

  Art Gilbert shrugged. “Once Leroi’s call gave me a nudge, it made me feel I better talk to the mayor. Otherwise, I just mind my own business.” When the landscaper saw the chief would like to hear more, he went on. “I suppose maybe I’m too tight mouthed for my own damn good sometimes. But in my line of work, I hear enough that if the people saying it knew I was hearing it, it’d shock them good.”

  That brought a dry chuckle from the mayor.

  “Now, if I went around gossiping about everything I heard, I’d probably never have to buy another beer anytime I went into a bar. Except long before that, I wouldn’t have any clients left. So what I heard was one fella saying something shady, and then I saw another fella turn his back on the other guy and walk away. I guess it wasn’t my first thought to run to the police. As it is, I hope you’ll keep it to yourself where you got what I told you.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Art,” the mayor said.

  Ron accepted the explanation.

  “All right, Mr. Gilbert. Can you tell me what this Didi DuPree looks like?”

  “He’s a black fella, but a real light skinned one, if you know what I mean.”

  “How light?”

  “Lighter than me. At least where I’ve been exposed to the sun all my life. He’s got black hair, more wavy than kinky. I didn’t get close enough to really notice the color of his eyes. I’d guess he was a little shorter than me. You might think he was somewhat on the thin side to look at him, but he kind of held himself like he wasn’t anyone to be messed with. So maybe he’s stronger than you’d think at first glance.”

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nbsp; Ron said, “Thank you for your help, Mr. Gilbert.” Then he added, “By the way, you do some really fine work.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ve made it my life.” Art Gilbert nodded to the mayor and turned to go.

  “Oh, Mr. Gilbert,” Ron said.

  The old man turned around. “Yes?”

  “If you overhear anything else while you’re working at Reverend Thunder’s estate, I’d appreciate hearing about it right away.”

  Art Gilbert gave the chief a small salute and left.

  When Ron was alone with the mayor, he told him, “The FBI is back. Horgan might be looking to cause trouble.”

  The chief outlined his talk with Horgan: that the FBI agent had talked to Thunder; the reverend’s complaint that Ron was harassing him; Horgan hinting that Ron might be facing a civil suit, or worse, for violating, poor Jimmy Thunder’s civil rights.

  “You’re playing everything straight up?” the mayor asked.

  “Absolutely. My office contacted Horgan regarding the threat about the church burnings because it felt real to me, and it referred to a string of hate crimes well beyond our jurisdiction. The sonofabitch is using that for cover to try to hijack our investigation. I knew that might happen, but I felt I had to tell him anyway.”

  The mayor nodded.

  Clay said, “Don’t let him distract you. I’ll start lining up political support. If Agent Horgan wasn’t smart enough to take my first warning, he’ll learn what it feels like to get hit with the proverbial ton of bricks.”

  “Leave a couple for me to chuck at him,” Ron said.

  Clay Steadman laughed briefly.

  “I can’t stop Jimmy Thunder from counterpunching, though,” the mayor said.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You really think it could be him?”

  “Could be.”

  “Well, if he takes you to court, try not to let that distract you, either. The town will pay for your lawyers.”

  “Good.” Ron knew that Clay Steadman understood that a lot of mud might be splattered all over his beloved town if Ron had to arrest Jimmy Thunder for the murder of his son. It was inevitable that charges of racism would be lodged against the chief of police and his department. Ron asked, “You sure you still want the bastard who killed Isaac Cardwell?”

  Clay nodded. “More than ever.”

  Chapter 26

  From the mayor’s house, Ron drove over to Texas Jack Telford’s place on Timberline Drive. He wanted to hear from someone beyond Jimmy Thunder’s inner circle that the reverend was actually at home playing cards on the night Isaac Cardwell was killed. Not that corroborating testimony would remove suspicion from the reverend, but it would give Ron a feel for just how much of what Thunder was handing him was true, and how much was bullshit.

  As with many of the residents of Goldstrike, Texas Jack was better than well off, if not actually filthy rich. But unlike many of his economic peers, the five time world poker champ was a character, a maverick. He had a funky old home that he kept adding onto, even though he was the only one who lived there. And he did all the construction himself.

  As for landscaping, there was none, other than what nature provided. No immaculate lawns, flower beds or pruned ornamental trees here. Just the idiosyncratic house that Texas Jack built set hard against the wilderness. His home was part of his rough-hewn persona.

  When Ron pulled into the driveway, he saw that yet another room was being added on to the house. Studs framing the walls and roof of an area roughly 20 feet square stood adjacent to what Ron thought he remembered to be Jack’s home office. Stacks of lumber, sheets of plywood, rolls of insulation, tools, boxes of nails and all sorts of other construction materials lay neatly positioned next to the construction area.

  Ron knocked on the back door because Texas Jack liked to have everyone enter his house through the kitchen. He said that way folks could get right down to eating, drinking and lying to one another. Presently, Texas Jack’s housekeeper, Maria, came to the door. The poker champion’s sense of self-reliance didn’t extend to dusting or doing windows.

  The chief had been out to Texas Jack’s when Clay had taken him around, upon his arrival in town, to introduce him to several of Goldstrike’s leading lights. He’d met Maria then, too, and by the look in her eyes as she opened the door, she still remembered him.

  “Good day, Chief Ketchum. How may I help you?”

  “Texas Jack here, Maria?”

  “I’m so sorry, no. He is in Reno for a personal appearance.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “Perhaps later tonight. Certainly by tomorrow.”

  Maria peered around Ron, looking down the driveway.

  “You expecting someone?” the chief asked.

  “My husband. He comes to pick me up soon.”

  Looking at the kitchen clock, Ron saw it was five after five.

  “Will you please leave a note for Texas Jack?” Ron inquired. “Tell him I’ve been here, and ask him to call me at his earliest convenience.”

  “Of course,” Maria responded. She craned her neck again, this time looking out at the trees. Then she turned her face to Ron and confessed, “I don’t like being out here all alone.”

  “Has someone being bothering you?” the chief asked.

  “Not someone. Something. Every time I look out a window, I think I see that mountain lion. Even when I know I am imagining things, it still scares me. You’re going to catch him soon, aren’t you, Chief Ketchum?”

  “We’re doing our best,” Ron replied.

  Before returning to headquarters, Ron decided to do an impromptu patrol to get a sense of the town and the surrounding area. The decision made him think that he should have drawn a rifle from the department armory. Not that he could tell one mountain lion from another just by looking at it. If he saw one at all. On the other hand, should he come across the beast they wanted, confronting, attacking, maybe eating someone, he’d want to go after it with more firepower than just his sidearm. He decided to issue an order that all patrol units would carry a rifle from now until the lion was killed.

  He should have thought of that sooner.

  He laughed to himself. All those years on the LAPD had prepared him for dealing with just about any predator imaginable — except the four-legged kind. Live and learn, he thought.

  Ron couldn’t help but notice that for a beautiful early evening at the height of summer everything was unusually quiet. There were no hikers about. No cyclists on the roads. Not even any cars pulled over at the scenic overlooks. As he came into the built up areas of town, he saw that there wasn’t much vehicular traffic on the streets or pedestrian traffic in the open air malls. At only two cafes did he see patrons sitting at sidewalk tables, and of these there was only one couple snuggling together at the first cafe, and a single man reading a newspaper at the second.

  The only thing the chief could think was that Texas Jack’s housekeeper wasn’t the only one with the mountain lion on her mind. But people wouldn’t stand for being held hostage for very long. The pressure on him to kill the beast would mount.

  It was no small irony that at that moment the chief wouldn’t have minded seeing some of the media horde that had descended upon the town out and about enjoying themselves.

  Oliver Gosden followed Isaac Cardwell’s trail to the serene setting of St. Mark’s Episcopal Church. The building was a tastefully done modern interpretation of a small country church. The predominant building materials were quarried stone and redwood. The deputy chief pulled into the parking area at the side of the church and walked to the front of the building. A display sign there carried the church’s name. Since August constituted the doldrums of the liturgical calendar, the only message on the sign was: Everyone welcome. Oliver stepped inside to see if anyone was taking advantage of such a democratic invitation.

  The electrical lighting inside was dim, and the sun was lowering by now, so it took the deputy chief’s eyes a moment to adjust to the relative darkness. At firs
t, he thought he was alone, but then he saw a crown of white hair fringing a pink scalp in the front row of pews. He started that way and was about to speak up when he noticed the old man’s head was bowed in prayer. He also saw that the old guy wore a clerical collar. Probably just the man the deputy chief wanted.

  Mindful of his manners and good department-community relations, Oliver took a seat across the aisle. He looked up at the altar and the figure of Jesus upon the cross. Helluva way for anybody to go, he thought, whether you’re the Son of God or a poor black minister from Oakland.

  Offhand, he couldn’t remember the last time he was in a church. Probably for some unlucky cop who bought it in the line of duty. No, wait. It was for his cousin’s wedding, and that had to be … four years ago. Some cops went to church, of course, but they were usually what Oliver thought of as the hard-on religious. Those militants not only had to believe for themselves, they’d try with all their might to get you to believe, too. The deputy chief had always seen those types as just looking for one more way to establish their authority over someone else.

  Lauren was a bit more of a churchgoer than he was, but not too much more. She’d seen a lot of good people die on the operating table. Cops and surgical nurses encountered death too frequently not to wonder if there really was a God. Or if there was, did he really have a Plan — the capital P kind? And if he did have a plan, was it all one big practical joke?

  In his darker moments, that was the view Oliver subscribed to: the Lord wasn’t mysterious at all; he was just a real kidder.

  After all, from a celestial point of view, how could human beings mean more than cartoon characters meant to everybody else?

  Still, Lauren had told him that when he’d been shot she had prayed, and prayed hard, that he wouldn’t die. She didn’t want to be a widow, and she didn’t want Danny to grow up without his father. Even after Oliver had been taken to the hospital and been operated on, it had been touch and go for seventy-two hours. Lauren said she’d prayed the whole time.