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As Ron drove off, he got the first glimmer of an idea that might let him turn things around on Horgan. In fact, he might take things one of two ways, depending on his mood.

  Clay Steadman looked at the memo Ron Ketchum had routed to him, and he had the same thought the chief had: Punch a mountain lion? Even for an icon of the Hollywood fantasy factory, the notion seemed a reach. But there it was in black and white along with all of the other do’s and don’ts of dealing with your local feline carnivores.

  The chief wrote to the mayor that Warden Knox thought these safety tips should be publicly disseminated, and he was deferring to her expertise. He suggested that the tips could be posted on the home page of the town’s website immediately, a press release could be drafted for the noon news, and the mayor could discuss the tips on his evening TV program.

  What Ron Ketchum hadn’t mentioned was that publicizing the information would frighten the public more. If ignorance was bliss, a public warning meant something was closing in on you fast. The increased public tension would make both the mayor’s job and the chief’s job harder. But Clay Steadman didn’t believe in keeping people in the dark. Democracy worked best, in his view, when the BS was kept to an absolute minimum. And secrecy generated nothing but BS.

  The mayor was pleased that the man he’d hired for his chief of police seemed to feel the same way. His thoughts were interrupted when his secretary buzzed him and announced that the deputy chief of police was in the outer office and requested a moment of the mayor’s time.

  “Send him in,” the mayor said.

  Oliver entered the mayor’s office and saluted smartly.

  The two men had met several times, but didn’t really know one another personally. Oliver Gosden was Ron Ketchum’s hire, and Clay Steadman’s approval of that hiring had been routine.

  “That’s not necessary,” the mayor informed the deputy chief.

  “It’s not?” Oliver asked, dropping his arm.

  “Simple good manners are all I ever expect from anyone. Have a seat, Deputy Chief.”

  Oliver sat down.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m trying to get a line on a suspect in the Cardwell killing, Mr. Mayor. This particular suspect is a foreign national. I was sure he’d have a criminal record, but NCIC and Interpol say he’s clean.”

  “But you still think he isn’t?”

  “What the man does, he writes celebrity biographies. But what he really is, he’s a character assassin. Only when I look at him, I think he might’ve carried the assassination part one step further to help his book along.”

  Clay Steadman recognized and accepted the necessity of dealing with the mainstream media. But his opinion of paparazzi and attack biographers was that they were bacteria in search of an antibiotic.

  “What’s this guy’s name?”

  “Colin Ring.”

  “He’s a Brit?” the mayor asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I know some studio people who do book acquisitions. That’s what you were thinking, wasn’t it, Deputy Chief? See if this character has done something that hasn’t made the police blotter, but still doesn’t pass the smell test.”

  “That’s just what I had in mind, Mr. Mayor.”

  “I’ll let you know if I come up with anything.”

  Oliver stood and almost saluted again, but he caught himself.

  “I appreciate your help,” he said.

  “That’s what I’m here for,” the mayor replied. “You’re married, aren’t you, Deputy Chief?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “After things calm down around here I’d like to have you and Mrs. Gosden out to the house for dinner. So we can all get to know each other a little better.”

  “I’d like that, too.”

  If only he could get over the urge to salute the man every ten seconds.

  Ron found Francis Horgan where he expected him to be — at the Hilton. It was just the kind of all American place where a fed was bound to stay. Clean, comfortable and more justifiable on the old expense account than the Ritz-Carlton .

  The Hilton, like every other hostelry in town, was supposed to be sold out. But law enforcement people knew that every good hotel manager held back at least one suite for his boss, his girlfriend, or the president of the United States: some person of significance who might drop in unexpectedly.

  Accordingly, the suite was one of the best the hotel had to offer. And if you were an important minion of the federal government, like Francis “the Feeb” Horgan, why, you got a discount. Good corporate PR. Ron, however, was less than thrilled that Horgan got to live the good life at taxpayer expense while he fucked around with Ron’s investigation.

  “Would you like me to call up and announce your arrival?” the hotel manager asked the chief.

  “No,” Ron said. “Let’s make it a surprise. Mr. Horgan and I enjoy playing our little tricks on one another.”

  Knowing his bread was buttered locally, the manager graciously acceded to the chief’s wish.

  Which let Ron brush right past the junior feeb who opened the door to the suite. The guy didn’t have time to do more than shout, “Hey!” before Ron found Horgan enjoying his breakfast on a balcony with a panoramic view of Lake Adeline.

  Seeing that the table had been democratically set to include Horgan’s lessers — two in number judged by the place settings — Ron decided the initial part of his play. He seated himself as if he had an engraved invitation in his hand. He took a croissant from a basket and poured himself a cup of coffee. He helped himself to fruit salad and scrambled eggs. Not bothering to look at Horgan, he started to eat his fruit salad.

  Maybe ten seconds passed in silence. Ron chewed contentedly, even as he felt the two junior feebs congregate close behind him. Finally, Horgan’s burning fuse hit black powder.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Ketchum?” the senior fed demanded.

  Ron speared another piece of fruit and looked up. Horgan’s face was the color of magma.

  “Just thought I’d see how the other half lives,” Ron said. “You know, feed at Washington’s trough just like you feebs.”

  Horgan grabbed the fork out of Ron’s hand, sending a strawberry cascading down the front of his crisp white federal shirt. Half a dozen splotchy red blemishes now marred the garment, as if it had developed a sudden and severe case of acne.

  “I don’t think those stains are going to come out,” Ron said.

  While Horgan struggled to connect his vitriol to his vocabulary, the chief looked over his shoulder. As he expected, two junior G-men were there, giving him their best Tommy Lee Jones hard guy stares. But they couldn’t quite bring it off. Not enough presence to be truly menacing. They were doomed to careers as bit players.

  “Why don’t you gentlemen see if you can find some club soda and a sponge for your boss?” Ron suggested. “Maybe you can save the day, after all.”

  The chief took a bite of croissant as the two young FBI agents looked to their boss for instructions. With a jerk of his head, Horgan exiled his junior auxiliary from the balcony. Ron got up and closed the sliding glass door behind them.

  The chief went to the balcony railing and looked out at the lake. He was alone with his prey now. The only question was which way to take him.

  “I’m trying to decide what to do about you, Horgan,” he said. “You don’t seem to be a man who can accept a polite warning.”

  “You’re not going to do dick about me, Ketchum. I’m the one who’s going to ream you.”

  Ron turned to look at the fed. The shadow of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. He was glad the fed had made the choice for him. And even given him material to work with.

  The chief said, “Interesting choice of words there, Horgan. ‘Dick … Ream.’ But then you work out of San Francisco, don’t you?”

  The fed’s face flushed as he shoved away from the table and got to his feet. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Come on now
, Horgan. You don’t have to be coy with me. Oh, wait a minute. You do have to be coy. The military did away with ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ but I have to wonder how the bureau feels about gender orientation. Probably still a bit homophobic is my guess. By the way, Horgan, just what is it three feds in a hotel room do at night for fun?”

  Ron thought his dad would be proud of him right now.

  He thought he had Horgan, too. The fed had balled his fists and he looked like he was about to wade into Ron. Which was exactly what the chief wanted. He couldn’t just stomp Horgan, as much as he’d like to, because even Clay Steadman wouldn’t be able to fix that. However, if he defended himself from an attack by the fed that would be a whole different matter.

  But Horgan didn’t bite. He’d never be mistaken for a leading man, either. Or maybe he just saw in Ron’s eyes that he’d pitch Horgan right off the balcony and take his chances with the consequences.

  The fed unclenched his hands. A shiver ran through him like a man whose fever had just broken. Then Horgan even managed a ghastly smile.

  “It’s not going to be that easy for you, Ketchum.”

  “More’s the pity,” Ron said. “I guess it’s on to plan B.”

  “If that means running and crying to that pri —” Horgan bit the end off the word. Ron had him self-conscious about his language now. “To your goddamn mayor, don’t bother. It won’t help.”

  “No?”

  “No. The bureau is rock solid into the church arson investigation. Now, even the attorney general’s behind me being here.”

  “To investigate the arson threat.”

  “To investigate it any way I want.”

  “So I fucked myself by doing the right thing and relaying that letter to you?”

  Horgan only smiled.

  “Then I’m probably just asking for more trouble by going to Plan B.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, ‘Plan B?’” Horgan asked with a sneer.

  “Well, Plan B is taking you and — what the hell — the whole FBI to court for slander.”

  Horgan’s jaw dropped momentarily. “You must be nuts, Ketchum. You can’t do that.”

  “I can and I will. Not more than an hour ago, Marcus Martin, Esquire, told me to my face that you said he should come to town and represent Jimmy Thunder because you feared I was about to violate Reverend Thunder’s civil rights.”

  The FBI agent looked like he wanted to rebut Ron’s statement, but again he couldn’t find the words. His mouth moved and bubbles of saliva formed on his lips, but no coherent language emerged. He looked like he needed a distemper shot.

  “What?” Ron asked. “Marcus wasn’t supposed to let that tidbit slip? Afraid he did.”

  Before he could censor himself, Horgan muttered, “That nigger.”

  “Naughty, naughty,” Ron said with a smile. “Anyway, what you said to Marcus is totally without foundation. It could cause me grave personal and professional damage. So, I’m going to do what any red-blooded American would do: I’m going to sue your ass. And since there’s a lot of press in town, it ought to make the national news. Who knows, between all the depositions you’ll have to give, and all the news interviews you’ll have to do defending yourself, maybe you won’t find time to fuck with my investigation anymore.”

  Ron started to leave, but Horgan grabbed his arm.

  The chief leaned his face in close enough to smell the FBI man’s fear. “Or if you like we could go back to Plan A right now.”

  The door to the balcony slid open and the two junior feebs looked ready to jump to their boss’s aid. But Horgan dropped Ron’s arm.

  “There’s also a Plan C,” Ron said. “You run your church arson angle legitimately. You don’t even think of crossing me again. And maybe, just maybe, I won’t blow up your career right in front of your eyes.”

  Horgan dropped his eyes and a moment later he nodded.

  Ron plucked a grape from the fruit salad and left.

  Chapter 31

  The chief returned to headquarters feeling only marginally better. True, he’d neutralized Horgan for the time being, had even shamed him in front of his toadies, but eventually the man would delude himself that he hadn’t turned tail, that he’d simply given himself room to maneuver. Guys like Horgan were masters at kidding themselves, and their bile had a longer shelf life than nuclear waste.

  So, the trick was to solve the Isaac Cardwell case while Horgan was still licking his wounds.

  The file he’d found on his desk upon his return contained the lab results on the blood found outside St. Mark’s church. The blood was Cardwell’s. Along with finding Isaac’s glasses outside the church, it confirmed the fact that St. Mark’s was almost certainly where Isaac Cardwell was first attacked. The physical evidence made it imperative for Ron to find the “white” man who had been seen at the back of the church by Pastor Brantley.

  Ron had to get his hands on Didi DuPree.

  He buzzed Dinah, his secretary, and asked her to have Sergeant Stanley sent in immediately. The sarge kept him waiting less than a minute

  “I was just on my way to see you, Chief.”

  “Okay, but let’s take care of what I have first.”

  The sergeant nodded deferentially and Ron told him he wanted to make finding Didi DuPree a priority. Every patrol officer should be given a picture of the man and be instructed to be on a constant lookout for him. The sergeant was to emphasize that DuPree should be considered armed and dangerous. All appropriate precautions should be taken. Additionally, the officers stationed outside of Jimmy Thunder’s estate were to be rotated every four hours. Backup for those officers was to be close at hand at all times.

  Ron nodded to Sergeant Stanley. “Your turn.”

  “Chief, I heard through a friend in the media that you’re going to be on the TV news sometime soon.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Jimmy Thunder’s doing a heart to heart with Ben Dexter about how you suspect him of his son’s murder. About how he’s being persecuted in his time of mourning. About how you … well, you know what they’re going to say about you.”

  “I can imagine,” Ron replied dryly.

  “I just thought you ought to know in advance. Maybe you want to have a response prepared for Annie Stratton to release.”

  Ron considered. “Yeah. Have Annie tell anyone who asks that this department will follow its investigation wherever it may lead and will not be deflected by any outside pressure.”

  The sergeant gave a tight grin of approval.

  “You got anything else for me, Sarge?”

  “A couple things. Foot patrols report that those safety tips about the lion that we posted on the Internet are already being talked about. We’ve had people stop officers and ask if they should keep their guns loaded.”

  It was just as Ron had thought, the warning only made people more frightened.

  “Load their guns, huh? Our response to such questions is that everyone has the same rights and responsibilities they’ve always had. But, at a time like this, when people are nervous, it’s more important than ever to remember gun safety rules. We don’t want little kids picking up loaded weapons. We don’t want people drilling their neighbors or even their neighbors’ pets. We will not cut anyone any slack for the illegal discharge of a weapon.”

  Sergeant Stanley nodded.

  “What else you got, Sarge?”

  “Just one thing. A citizen wants to see you personally. About the Cardwell case.”

  Sergeant Stanley opened Ron’s door and gestured to someone waiting outside. A big young guy in his early twenties stepped into the chief’s office. He had long dishwater blonde hair that was held back in a ponytail. He wore a work shirt that said Chevron over one pocket and Buster over the other. He had on blue jeans and black work boots.

  Buster looked distinctly nervous. His eyes darted about Ron’s office.

  “Buster Lurie, Chief,” the sarge said by way of introduction. “He works at the Chevron station at La
ke Shore and Route 99.”

  Sergeant Stanley withdrew and closed the door behind him.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Lurie,” Ron said, gesturing his visitor into a guest chair. “What can I do for you?”

  “Just listen to what I have to say, I guess. I’ve got a tip about that black guy that got killed. But every time I try calling the reward number the goddamn line is always busy. So, I figured I finally better come in and see you.”

  Buster Lurie looked over his shoulder as if he expected someone to bust in on them. Possibly with guns blazing.

  “Something got you spooked, Mr. Lurie?” Ron asked.

  “It’s what I saw. What I have to tell you.”

  “In that case, why don’t you just tell me? Then you won’t have to worry about it anymore.”

  “This’ll still count toward me getting the reward, won’t it?” Lurie asked with concern. “I mean, you don’t have to phone it in, do you? ‘Cause I must’ve tried fifty times.”

  “If your information is helpful, I’m sure the mayor won’t mind that you brought it in directly.”

  “Good, “ Lurie said. He rubbed his hands together nervously. “But you’ll still keep it quiet that I was the one who told you?”

  “During the investigation, yes. If your tip leads to an arrest and a trial, you might have to testify in court as to what you’re about to tell me.” Ron saw the trepidation in the young man’s eyes. “The reward is for the arrest and conviction of Isaac Cardwell’s killer,” the chief explained.

  “Okay, okay.” Now Lurie rubbed his palms against his thighs. “Then here’s how it went. I work at my uncle’s service station, and that tight SOB won’t ever let me work on my own car during business hours, which are from six a.m. to midnight! That means if I want to put my car up on a lift I got to work on it when nobody’s awake but me ‘n’ the goddamn owls.”

  Ron thought he was going to have to prompt this guy if he didn’t get to the point soon.

  “Anyway, about half past three on the morning you found that Cardwell guy stuck to that tree, I was working on my car at the station. I was minding my own business, had my Mustang up on the lift, draining the oil out of my crankcase when I hear this goddamn big screech of tires behind me. It was so loud it lifted me off of my feet and spun me around. I was lucky I didn’t brain myself on the bottom of my car. That or piss my pants. And when I looked outside, you know what I saw?”