“If I felt that way, I’d leave,” Rudy said. “But this is where I belong. I’m a better person now. I’m better because of this place.”
“You mean because you stopped drinking?”
“That’s part of it.”
“What’s the other part?”
Rudy tapped his glass.
“I’ll need a few more before I answer that one.”
“How about this? How about we have one more, then take a late-night stroll up to the lake?”
“That’s why you’re the boss,” Rudy said. “You have all the good ideas.”
Bonnie looked over her shoulder, signaled to Kelly for another round. The clock above the bar read ten p.m.
“Seems like they really are boycotting me,” she said. “Honestly, it’s a relief. I’m going to remake the place from top to bottom. A high-end bar for discerning guests. A bartender who knows how to make a Manhattan.”
She wondered if the bikers realized they’d gone too far that morning in the woods. Maybe they’d scared themselves off. Maybe they expected the cops to come swooping down if they set foot anywhere near Camp Nelson Lodge.
“Hold that thought,” Rudy said, cupping a hand to his ear.
Bonnie listened, caught the roar of approaching motorcycles. Sure enough, the bikers came filing in a short time later, the same gaggle Rudy had tossed out the week before. It looked to Bonnie like they’d been drinking already. The towering rabble-rouser in the red bandana wobbled as he walked, and his entourage was cackling like a gang of teenage girls.
“Hey, Kelly,” the leader called, “line ’em up. And crank up the music while you’re at it.”
Rudy leaned across the table.
“What do you want to do?” he whispered.
Bonnie shrugged.
“It’s a new day in a free country, right?” she said. “We sit here and enjoy our drinks.”
She got ready to be stared down, called names, laughed at, even spit on. But they walked past her table without so much as acknowledging her or Rudy. Bonnie watched them gather their drinks at the bar, then huddle around a nearby table.
“You want to take that walk now?” Rudy asked.
“Uh-uh, no way,” Bonnie said. “We stay right here until they leave.”
“All right, as long as you don’t mind being seen out and about with the help. Especially the male help.”
“I don’t mind at all,” Bonnie said. “Anyway, it looks like they’ve come to their senses.”
“It’s a little early to make that call,” Rudy said.
Two hours and four rounds later, the bikers were the last of the paying customers to leave. They mouthed an ominous “Goodnight” to Bonnie and Rudy on their way out but were otherwise well behaved.
“Maybe they really have come around,” Rudy said.
Bonnie laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Rudy asked.
“You’re slurring your words.”
“I told you, it’s been a while.”
“And it’s been a long time since I took advantage of a drunk guy. Why don’t I steer you back to my cabin?”
Rudy smiled.
“As long as you promise to take advantage of me,” he said.
CHAPTER 9
“SOME PEOPLE GO to church on Sunday mornings,” Sergeant Wylie said.
“Yeah, and some people sleep past sunrise,” his partner O’Dowd said.
They turned onto the access road and headed for Camp Nelson. It was a perfect California morning, clear and crisp with nothing moving or making a sound save the occasional bird dive-bombing an earthworm. O’Dowd slowed the car as they passed the saloon.
“Nothing doing there,” Wylie said.
But then they emerged from the forest into the clearing and the quiet morning seemed like a distant memory. There were squad cars with their lights spinning parked at random intervals all around the property. Uniform officers moved in and out of the cabins, interviewing guests. Men and women in lab coats were unpacking the forensics van. It was hard to tell what the police tape was meant to keep in and what it was meant to keep out.
“Looks like we found the action,” Wylie said.
“Yeah,” O’Dowd said, “and it looks like they started without us.”
He pulled up behind last squad car and cut the engine.
“You’re the primary on this one, right?” he asked.
Wylie glared at him.
“You know, for someone so young you’re awfully damn lazy,” he said.
“I’m forty-four.”
“You’ve got time yet. I didn’t start phoning it in till I turned fifty.”
A trooper fresh from the academy handed them two pairs of latex gloves and scrub booties.
“Main scene’s over there,” he said, pointing to Bonnie’s cabin.
“You mean the bodies?” O’Dowd asked.
“Yes sir. Or at least one body. The other vic is still breathing.”
“I thought we had two DOAs,” Wylie said.
“Well, by the time you walk over there you might,” the trooper said. “The woman’s all the way dead, but the male is touch and go.”
Wylie and O’Dowd looked at each other, then turned and ran. They shouldered their way through a circle of lab coats and burst into the cabin, both of them breathing hard. A pair of EMTs were preparing Rudy for transit. They’d wrapped a thick bandage around his skull and fitted his head into a foam contraption that looked to O’Dowd like the packaging his stereo had come in.
“Can he talk?” Wylie asked.
“He’s been shot in the head,” the lead EMT said. “You’ll be lucky if he ever talks again.”
Wylie leaned over the stretcher.
“You mean to tell me this son-of-a-bitch has a bullet in his brain and he’s still alive?” he asked.
“I can’t say for sure if it hit the brain or not.”
“Any chance he’ll recover?” O’Dowd asked.
“There’s always a chance,” the EMT said. “But I wouldn’t count on it.”
Wylie and O’Dowd watched them wheel Rudy away, then turned to the bed. Bonnie lay on her back with her legs tangled beneath her. The wall behind the bed was spattered with blood and brain matter.
“She had no chance at all,” O’Dowd said.
“Yeah, it was over real quick for her.”
A crime scene photographer neither of them had noticed before stepped to the foot of the bed and began snapping pictures.
“Hey, take a look at this,” O’Dowd said, pointing to the nightstand. “We’ve got a stuffed money clip, a knockoff Rolex, and a silver cross.”
“Huh,” Wylie said. “Definitely not a robbery.”
“Nope,” O’Dowd said. “Not that anyone would have come all the way out here to rob just one cabin.”
“So we’re looking at an intentional hit.”
“One of them was the target, anyway. Could be the other one was collateral damage.”
“Doesn’t make our job any easier.”
O’Dowd shrugged.
“Let’s hope our hitman forgot to wear gloves.”
* * *
Without the kids in tow, Jim managed to make the four-hour drive in just under three hours. He sped into the clearing, parked his Mercedes among the squad cars, and ran for Bonnie’s cabin.
“Where is she?” he yelled. “Is she in there? Is my wife in there?”
Someone reached out and caught his arm as he ducked under the police tape. It was Wylie.
“Sir,” he said, “we’re still investigating. This is as far as I can let you go.”
“What are you talking about? I own this place. They told me my wife is dead.”
“You’re Mr. Hood?”
Jim nodded.
“God,” he said. “I feel like I’m going to pass out.”
“Why don’t we have a seat over here in my car,” Wylie said. “I’ll have someone bring you a bottle of water.”
He snapped his fingers at a passing uniform co
p, then handed him a dollar.
“Let’s get this man some water,” he said. “There’s a vending machine in the lodge.”
“Yes sir.”
Jim sat on the passenger’s side, Wylie behind the wheel. Jim scanned the property. So much trouble, he thought, over a backwoods dump. Even if Bonnie had made improvements.
“What happened?” he asked.
“What did they tell you?”
“Only that Bonnie was dead. That she’d been killed.”
Wylie cleared his throat. He wished like hell it had been O’Dowd standing there when the husband came charging up the path.
“She was shot,” he said, “late last night or early this morning.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“There’s more,” Wylie continued. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just come out with it: your wife wasn’t alone.”
Jim cocked his head like he was struggling to comprehend what Wylie had just told him.
“What do you mean? Was someone else hurt?”
“Rudy Manuel, her handyman. It looks like they were in bed together when the shooter—”
“You’re telling me Bonnie was with another man? I don’t believe it. Not with him. Not with that little …”
Wylie studied him out of the corner of one eye. The tears were real. The confusion seemed real, too.
The officer returned with a bottle of water. Wylie passed it to Jim, waited while he took a long swig.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have to ask: you really didn’t know your wife was having an affair?”
Jim struck the dashboard with the palm of one hand.
“Of course I didn’t,” he said.
“Easy now,” Wylie said. “I’m not judging. Things happen in a marriage.”
“Not in my marriage. We have two kids. We built a small empire together. Bonnie wasn’t going to risk all that for a fling with a glorified vagrant.”
He’d said more than he meant to. He looked over at Wylie, found no hint of suspicion or blame.
“It was those bikers,” Jim said.
“Bikers?”
Jim told Wylie about the brick through the Jeep window, the threatening notes, the confrontation at the Camp Nelson Saloon. He spoke quickly, his voice breaking now and again, his forehead damp with sweat.
“I see,” Wylie said.
“You see what? Why didn’t you people protect her? Isn’t that your job?”
I could ask the same of you, Wylie thought.
“Listen, Mr. Hood,” he said, “why don’t you go get a cup of coffee in the lodge? I’ll come talk to you again in a little bit, when I know more. If you like, I could have an officer sit with you.”
“I’d rather be alone,” Jim said.
He didn’t bother to shut the door behind him. Wylie watched him walk across the property, then went looking for O’Dowd. He found his partner on the phone in Bonnie’s cabin. O’Dowd nodded, held up one hand.
“Got it,” he said into the receiver. “Thank you, that could be a big help.”
He hung up, looked over at Wylie.
“Did you get anything off the husband?” he asked.
“Not really,” Wylie said. “Only that he was quick to point the finger. What was that call about? You sounded almost hopeful.”
“I don’t know if it’s good news or bad,” O’Dowd said. “Our living vic has quite a rap sheet. Including a five-year stint for armed robbery.”
“Well now, that’s interesting. Could be he crossed the wrong people and was hiding out up here.”
“Could also be a red herring.”
Wylie nodded.
“Let’s hope Mr. Manuel’s feeling chatty when he wakes up,” he said.
“If he wakes up,” O’Dowd said.
CHAPTER 10
RUDY LAY IN a hospital bed in a private room with a bandage wrapped tight around his skull and a brace holding his head and neck still. An IV ran from one arm. A computer monitor charted his vitals. His eyes were shut and had been for the more than two hours Wylie and O’Dowd sat with him. Wylie dozed in a plastic armchair, slipping in and out of a recurring nightmare that saw him go bankrupt just months into his retirement. O’Dowd kept one eye on their witness and the other on an episode of Three’s Company. The room smelled like menthol and rubber, and O’Dowd wondered what exactly he was breathing in.
Rudy stirred a little, his nostrils flaring and his fingers twitching, and then came to.
“Hey,” O’Dowd said, snapping fingers. “Hey, he’s awake.”
Wylie rubbed at his eyes, then pushed himself out of the chair.
“But is his brain working?” he asked.
“Only one way to find out.”
They stood on opposite sides of the bed, watching. At first, Rudy seemed conscious but unaware, as if he didn’t know where he was or what had happened to him and was too far gone to ask questions. Little by little, though, his eyes started to focus. He took in his surroundings as best he could without moving his head, then tried to speak but found his mouth too dry.
“The nurse said it would be okay to give him a sip of water,” O’Dowd told Wylie.
He stuck a straw in a Styrofoam cup, transferred water from a green pitcher, and held the cup out to Rudy. The act of pursing his lips seemed to cause Rudy pain, but with a little effort he managed to drink.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice strained, feeble.
O’Dowd wondered if the bruising and swelling around Rudy’s eyes were caused by the surgery or the bullet itself.
“Do you know who I am?” O’Dowd asked.
Rudy raised one hand and pointed to the badge hanging from O’Dowd’s jacket pocket.
“Cops,” he said.
“Do you know where you are? And how you got here?” Wylie asked.
Rudy tried to nod, found himself restricted by the brace.
“Yes,” he whispered.
Wylie and O’Dowd exchanged encouraging glances.
“Can you tell us who did this to you?” O’Dowd asked.
Rudy moved his jaw back and forth as though preparing to speak in full sentences.
“Bonnie?” he asked. “Is she …”
O’Dowd started to answer, but Wylie held up a hand: best not get him excited.
“We don’t know yet,” Wylie said. “What’s important now is that we find who did this.”
Rudy shut his eyes again, either with relief or with the strain of trying to remember.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“You didn’t see him before he fired?” O’Dowd asked.
“It was dark. He was in the shadows.”
“So there was just one assailant?” Wylie asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you notice anything about him at all?”
“He was tall,” Rudy said. “Maybe six four. And big. Very big.”
“Fat big, or scary big?” O’Dowd asked.
“Scary big.”
“Any big, shadowy men in your past?” Wylie asked.
“What do you mean?”
Words seemed to be coming a bit more easily. He seemed to want to cooperate.
“We’ve had a look at your rap sheet, Mr. Manuel,” Wylie said. “You’re more or less a career criminal.”
“Uh-uh. I’ve been clean a long time now.”
“So you switched careers. Still, sometimes a criminal’s past will only stay buried for so long. Maybe someone you double-crossed just got out. Maybe someone you robbed had trouble tracking you down.”
Rudy attempted to clench his fists but couldn’t find the strength.
“No,” he said. “There’s no one.”
“You’re sure?” O’Dowd asked. “You can’t think of a single soul who would want to hurt you?”
“Not like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Anyone who’d want to do me would come straight at me. They’d have something to say. They’d want something from me first. This guy just started fir
ing.”
“Your blood alcohol was sky high,” Wylie said. “Could be you’re blanking on the conversation.”
“No. I remember.”
“You remember anything else?” O’Dowd asked. “Anything at all.”
Rudy took a minute to think.
“His hair was long and curly. I saw it in his shadow against the wall.”
“Any chance you could give us a color?”
“No.”
“All right, Mr. Manuel,” Wylie said. “We’ll let you get some rest. But chances are we’ll be back with more questions.”
Rudy shut his eyes, already drifting back into sleep.
* * *
The detectives sat on a bench in the hall outside Rudy’s room and compared notes.
“I wish it didn’t, but his story makes sense,” Wylie said.
“How so?”
“If the shooter was one of his old running bunnies, the cash and jewelry wouldn’t have been sitting there for us to find. A career thief doesn’t take a pass just because robbery wasn’t on the agenda that day.”
“So you believe him when he says he didn’t get a good look at the guy?” O’Dowd asked.
“I do.”
“Where does that leave us?”
Wylie rubbed at his eyes like he was still half dozing.
“You know,” he said, “some witnesses reported seeing a tall biker type at the saloon on Saturday night. They thought he had to be waiting for someone, but he just sat there by himself drinking bottles of Heineken all night. It isn’t the kind of place people just stumble on.”
“Maybe he was a guest,” O’Dowd offered.
“Maybe, but his description doesn’t fit the bill. Bonnie was turning the lodge into a yuppie getaway. The registry shows all families that weekend. There were more kids on the property than adults.”
They were quiet for a minute, each trying to figure their next move.
“It’s a long shot,” O’Dowd said, “but let’s have forensics go over Saturday night’s beer bottles with a fine-tooth comb. Maybe our guy’s in the system. If he is our guy.”
“Can’t hurt,” Wylie said. “Meanwhile, let’s make sure we know everything there is to know about Mr. Jim Hood.”
CHAPTER 11
THE FUNERAL AND viewing were finally over. Everything about the day felt wrong to Jim, like it had been meant for someone other than Bonnie. She’d never been a churchgoer. The cross and the stained glass and the pews and the strange attire of the man addressing the crowd all seemed to confuse his children. Mindy in particular couldn’t wrap her brain around the fact that her mother was lying a few feet away in that closed box. Jim Jr. let out a tremendous sneeze every time the altar boy waved his incense.