Final orders, p.9
Final Orders, page 9
part #5 of Hazard and Somerset: Arrows in the Hand Series
His first thought was deer, but that was wrong; it wasn’t the right shape, not even close. But in these parts, he saw deer all the time, and as often as not they had their heads down, munching on last year’s acorns or the new grass. This was something else. Something built lower to the ground and stockier. Built bigger too. It might have been three feet tall—the shadows made it hard to judge—and five feet long. Then it moved a few cautious steps, where more of the weak starlight reached, and Hazard swore. It was a feral hog.
They were one of the largest conservation problems in the state. Originally domesticated, the hogs had been released by morons who wanted to hunt them. That had been a long time ago, and now the hogs were feral and extremely dangerous. This one, a boar, probably weighed more than Hazard did, and it had tusks that looked close to five inches long. As far as Hazard knew, the Missouri Department of Conservation didn’t have public statistics available on the number of people who had been killed or gored by feral hogs. Maybe they’ll start with me, he thought as he eased his weight onto his back foot.
The damn aluminum crackled under his boot. The feral hog grunted. His head swung toward Hazard.
The old saying was pick your tree first, so you don’t have to pick one when you need it.
Jesus fucking Christ.
The hog charged, and Hazard backpedaled. He threw the French doors shut and grabbed an armchair. He was still wrestling it into place when the boar hit the doors. Glass shattered, and the doors popped open before catching on the chair. The impromptu barricade rocked. Then it held. For now. The hog squealed. Rage, Hazard’s brain decoded. That was the thing about hogs—what he’d heard, what he’d read. The aggression drive. Why the state was always rounding up the sounders. Well, that and the damage to the ag fields.
Hazard continued to move backward. He had his hand on the Blackhawk, but he didn’t want it to come to that, mostly because he wasn’t sure it would be enough. People who hunted feral hogs took serious firepower with them—even injured, a boar like this one could still kill him.
The boar crashed into the doors again. More glass tinkled when it struck the pavers, and the boar squealed again.
“Mother of fuck,” Hazard said as he eyed the stairs. Pick your fucking tree. He eased himself up onto the first step and let out a breath of relief when it felt solid. “Goddamn razorbacks.”
He ascended the steps in twos, one hand on the metal banister, while below him, the boar savaged the doors and chair, squealing and grunting. Hazard reached the second floor and turned left, heading in the direction of the firelight he’d seen below. The sounds faded behind him. As best he could, he kept to the side, walking next to the wall, although the floors up here felt solid—probably because they hadn’t been flooded over and over again. It only took him a few minutes to find the fire stairs on the other side of the building. He went down. The stairwell smelled of urine and mold, but the high-powered flashlight showed that it was empty, aside from puddled sewage that suggested some of the squatters had used this as an impromptu latrine.
When he emerged from the stairwell, he saw that he was in the hallway that connected to the lobby—the same hallway he had tried to follow until the floor started to give out. From this side of the building, he couldn’t see the gleam of the fire, but he started in what he thought was the right direction. This was slower going; he could feel the joists and subfloor flexing again, and the hog snuffling and grunting reached him clearly from the broken doorway to the courtyard. His fight with John-Henry Somerset, he decided in that moment—the fight he was going to pick—was going to be about camping. The phrase A fucking razorback was going to figure prominently.
A plaque with raised letters and Braille marked the next set of double doors as Conference Room A. On his next breath, Hazard tasted smoke, and now the fire’s crackle reached him. He unholstered the Blackhawk, counted to three, and swung around to look through the open doorway.
A large, empty room. Mostly darkness.
A small fire burning in a metal wastebasket.
A body on the floor.
Hazard drew back, counted again, listening for movement or a reaction. Nothing. He moved into the opening and checked the corners of the room. Nothing.
“Hello?” Hazard called.
The snuffling and grunting from the hog was the only answer.
Halfway to the body, he knew: the short, jarhead-style haircut, the tailored shirt and jeans she’d worn to dinner and her talk. Hazard crouched next to her, felt for a pulse, and found nothing. Her shirt had been torn open, deep puncture wounds marking her chest, the glisten of blood red-black in the flashlight’s beam. Then Hazard looked more closely until he knew what he was seeing. He took another breath, his mouth full of a bitter metal taste, and swore. He opened his phone and called Somers.
“Y’okay?” Somers asked in one sleepy rush. “I’m awake. What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine. Loretta Ames isn’t; she’s been stabbed to death, John. Get the sheriff and some deputies. I’m out at Okashka, and this is their jurisdiction. And you’ll probably want to see if you can roust a conservation officer or a game warden or someone who’s willing to deal with a very pissed-off hog. And John, something is seriously wrong.”
“Sheriff. Got it. And what—a hog? What’s going on?”
“Loretta Ames is dead. And it looks like someone carved a message into her chest.”
CHAPTER NINE
MAY 16
SATURDAY
6:19 AM
HAZARD HAD READ ABOUT painted miniatures—the Renaissance ones, not Warhammer—about Hans Holbein the Younger and gouache and vellum and then, later, enamel on metal. About the paintbrushes they used, brushes with a single bristle, for the finest, most delicate touch. Dawn came to Okashka like that, first in ash, then in blue that wanted to be a storm, and then, in a thousand of those tiny strokes, everything taking on line and substance: the derelict buildings and the piles of unused brick and the deputies’ cruisers and a crushed coffee cup, the treated paper kind, with the 7-Eleven stripes of green and red and orange. Hazard was locked in the back of one of the cruisers, the radio tuned to AM conservative talk. One of the deputies stood a few yards away, smoking some kind of unfiltered shit, and Hazard had a half a mind to tell the asshole that if it were up to him, he’d be out of a job. Smoking at a fucking crime scene. Talk about irresponsible.
But then.
He closed his eyes. She’d been lying on her side. No coat—it was May, and the evenings were no longer cold. The carpet had still held too much water to soak up the blood, and so it had pooled around her. Even with his eyes closed, he could touch his jeans, the denim over his knees, where they were still damp and drying to a rust color. She had looked casually professional in that tailored shirt and jeans. She had looked young, or younger, but not like she was trying too hard. In death, she had been even smaller, the way the dead often were. He had had a job to do too. Who the fuck cared about a few unfiltereds?
A rap on the glass made him open his eyes. Somers opened the door. He was in jeans and a gray polo, the crest of the Wahredua PD on the breast and sleeve. His hair was spikier than usual—on the side where he usually slept. His eyes crinkled in a worried smile that didn’t reach his lips.
“Hey, how are you?”
Hazard nodded. “Am I allowed to get out of the car?”
In answer, Somers stepped back, swinging the door wide. Hazard slid out of the vehicle. He stretched. Exhaustion made his eyes itch, and he closed them again, briefly. When he opened them, the day was bluer. Tiny, one-bristle strokes. One after another.
“Good news,” Somers said quietly, glancing over his shoulder. “They’ve decided you didn’t kill her.”
That made Hazard snort.
“Bad news,” Somers said, turning back to Hazard. Behind him, the sheriff’s detectives emerged from the hotel and came down the drive toward them. “They want to talk to you some more.”
“Jesus Christ,” Hazard said.
“I know.”
“I’ve been over this ten times.”
“You know the job, Ree. Just play along, and we’ll get out of here.”
The detectives were getting closer, their steps louder, and Somers turned so that he stood shoulder to shoulder with Hazard. Hazard tried to get a read on the men coming toward him. He’d had run-ins with the detectives before. Brother Gary—Gary Holliman, if you weren’t a lunatic—was a tall, heavyset man. He wore a Dakota hat, with his graying hair pulled into a ponytail, and a white suit. He wore a ring with the sign of the cross on his index finger. That—and the hat and suit and ponytail—told you pretty much everything you needed to know, as far as Hazard was concerned. His partner, Red Alvin, was a cut above in Hazard’s book, but only because he had saved Hazard’s life the year before, pushing Hazard out of the path of a bullet and taking the shot himself. He still had that wasted look of a man whose body was struggling to patch itself up, and he’d been a skinny, boiled-down kind of man to begin with. He wore his hair in a short shock of white, but his freckles and complexion suggested why his moniker was Red. Today, he was in sweatpants, the elastic worn out and baggy at the waist and cuffs, and a t-shirt that had the Gadsden flag’s rattlesnake and DON’T TREAD ON ME, washed so many times the design was flaking off.
They’d spent the hours since their arrival in various rounds of interrogation, with the detectives taking turns asking Hazard questions and then follow-up questions and then just a few more questions, you understand. A year before, he would have thought they were trying to fit him for the killing; now he just figured they were a combination of stubborn and redneck and pissed off because of the early call-out.
“Just one or two more questions, Mr. Hazard,” Brother Gary said in his preacher’s voice. “And then we’ll get you on your way.”
“This is ridiculous,” Hazard said, and Somers let out an almost silent groan. “We’ve been over this and over this.”
“Well, there are just a few more details—”
“Bullshit. You’re doing this because you’ve got fuck-all idea of what to do next, so you’re stalling. I didn’t leave my house until close to three-thirty this morning. When I finally found the body, rigor was beginning to set in; that means she’d been dead at least two hours, maybe slightly longer. Livor wasn’t fixed. Those facts, along with her body temperature and a dollar-store calculator, are enough for you to do the math that she died, when? Two am? Add in some supporting evidence like the movement tracked on her phone, and you can probably lock it down. Let’s see, what else can I figure out for you fuckwits? She was stabbed to death. The ME should be able to use the angle of the wounds to determine the killer’s height, and I’d put money that he or she isn’t as tall as I am. The marks on her chest are post-mortem because nobody would hang around alive while somebody else carved on them. She has fibers caught under her fingernails—they looked like they were blue, but it was hard to tell in that light. And, oh yeah, some psycho cut words into her chest. She’s got parents howling for her blood all over the county, so if you need a list of suspects, take a look at the sign-in sheet for the school board meeting. You can start with Joyce Sturgis; that’s my recommendation, anyway.”
Red Alvin pursed his lips. Then he turned and spat. Brother Gary’s hands formed fists, and the silver ring caught the morning light.
“It’s been a bad night and a worse morning for everyone,” Somers said. “Why don’t we do this? Emery and I will let you guys work, and when you need to ask some follow-up questions, he’ll make himself available.”
“Unless I’m busy with my own fucking job, since I don’t have time to do yours too.”
“Jesus God,” Somers muttered and squeezed Hazard’s arm. In a louder voice, he asked, “How does that sound?”
Red Alvin broke the silence, his voice flat. “You got some of it right, but not all of it. Dr. Boyer puts the time of death between midnight and two AM. Death from massive blood loss after being stabbed in the chest. And yeah, the words were cut into her chest post-mortem.”
The pause that followed was a kind of offering. After a moment, Hazard grunted. “What did I get wrong?”
“Well, we can’t get the phone unlocked. We’ll need a warrant. That means we don’t have the location records yet. Don’t have her calls or messages. That’s going to take some time.”
“The email—”
“Yeah, you told us about the email. We can’t get to that either. We’ll go see the daughter, maybe she can get us into the accounts, but for now, all we’ve got is a dead woman in this fucking shitheap and a lot of questions. So, yeah, Emery, we’re asking you one more time. In case there’s something you remember, something that might help. That’s the job, and you know it’s the job, but you’ve got your panties in a fucking twist and you’re taking it out on us.”
She had been lying on her side, one leg pulled up like she’d been sleeping.
Hazard cleared his throat, looked away, looked back. “Someone wanted her out here. Someone planned this. There was a copy of her book burning in that wastebasket. I already told you where I think you should start.”
“The alleged email about the alleged book burning,” Brother Gary corrected.
For a moment, Hazard wrestled with it: his knee-jerk reaction to the parents who had protested Loretta’s visit; his hatred of all the small-minded bigotry that reared its head in this part of the world; his gut-level surety that some family values nutjob had murdered this woman in an attempt to silence her. But he’d trained himself to think, not to react, and slowly he was able to bring his thoughts under control. He gave a wary nod. “The alleged email.”
“This isn’t political, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Red Alvin unwrapped a cinnamon disc and popped it in his mouth. “We’re working this like any other murder.”
“Let’s hope not,” Hazard muttered. He tried to ignore Somers elbowing him. “All right. You’re correct; until now, I’ve assumed that Ayelet told me the truth about that email—about the whole sequence of events last night. That was a mistake. We’ll need to see what we can verify. Do you have some reason to believe that she’s a person of interest?”
“Haven’t seen the will, but I’d say it’s a safe bet she inherits.”
“And there was something off about them,” Somers said slowly. “Between them, I mean. Not like they hated each other, but—I don’t know. Not exactly a normal relationship.”
Brother Gary nodded. “Mama bird didn’t let the fledgling leave the nest.”
“Yeah, kind of. Did you notice that too?”
“No, but I’ve seen it before. Older ladies with just one child, no man. It happens.”
“Yeah,” Somers said again, mostly to himself. “Maybe.”
“I still think that the focus of your investigation should be Joyce Sturgis and her family,” Hazard said. “For that matter, the rest of the wacko parents. Is there some reason not to look at them?”
The cinnamon disc clicked against Red Alvin’s teeth, and cinnamon-scented breath puffed toward Hazard. “Not as I can see.”
“All right. And I assume you’ll be taking a look at Evan Pawloski?”
“Well, brother,” Brother Gary said, “funny you should say that.”
Hazard turned an inquisitive look on him.
“This is the Pawloski’s land,” Brother Gary said, spreading a hand to take in the abandoned development. “And young Mr. Pawloski tried to attack that Dr. Stratford at the board meeting, I understand.”
“And?” Somers asked.
“And there’s a man’s boot print in the courtyard.”
“A deputy found it? Are you sure it doesn’t belong to the boar?” Hazard asked drily. “Maybe you should have an actual police officer check.”
“Ha ha.” Red Alvin clicked the disc against his teeth and offered a rictus of bared teeth. “It looks like the tread of a hiking boot, and at a guess, I’d say it’s a men’s size eleven.”
“That’s one of the most common sizes in the world.”
“But it’d fit the Pawloski boy.”
Hazard snorted. “Let’s hope there’s something a little more solid when we get to trial. There’s at least one other option that you should consider.” He filled them in about the reason he’d been hired and the attempts on Loretta’s life back in Manhattan. “The story felt like shit, but I did see someone at the high school.”
“Big guy in a mask,” Red said sourly. “If I had to put money on it, I’d say the daughter was setting the whole thing up.”
Somers nodded.
“She wasn’t in her seat at Loretta’s talk,” Hazard said. “Loretta insists that Ayelet was with her for one of those sightings in New York, but obviously Ayelet could have recruited someone to show up and, in the process vindicate her.”
“But we’re back to her motive,” Somers said. “And something about it still doesn’t feel right.”
“None of it feels right.” Hazard studied the detectives. “I understand that you’re reluctant to accept the story about the email at face value, but the reality is that someone planned this murder, and the most likely possibility is that it was someone local. A stalker who had followed Loretta from New York wouldn’t have picked Okashka Heights; he wouldn’t have even known about this place. And it breaks the previous pattern. In New York, this figure—if there was one—never made contact, but here, Loretta was lured out.”
“Allegedly,” Red said, the same rictus grin exposing the sliver of cinnamon disc between his teeth.
“Allegedly,” Hazard snapped. “Yes, I understand your interest in the Pawloski boy, considering this is his family’s land—although God only knows why they own it; they certainly weren’t the original developers. But I’m telling you, Joyce Sturgis is a fanatic. She’s beyond dedicated to this cause, and I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that she’d be willing to kill someone in the name of good old straight, white, conservative family values. I saw some paperwork in her car—”
