Gary Alexander - The Best American Mystery Stories 2010

“You hate lawyers.”

“Only divorce lawyers. What’s next?”

“One of the threats to Bannan’s life came from Butch Lockhart. Let’s take the Lockharts separately, before they have time to cross-check their stories. I’ll charm Sunny, you dazzle Butch.”

“Can’t I just beat it out of him?” Zina said. “The Lions sucked when Lockhart played for ’em.”

“You’re kidding?” Butch Lockhart grinned hugely, not bothering to conceal his delight. “That mouthy sumbitch is dead? For sure?”

“I’m afraid so,” Zina said, eyeing him curiously. They were in Lockhart’s office, a glass cubicle five steps up from the showroom floor, which overlooked a gleaming row of Cadillacs that stretched the length of a football field. Lockhart loomed even larger than in his playing days, fifty pounds heavier now, a behemoth in a tailored silk suit, tinted glasses, tinted dark hair. A smile too perfect to be real.

“What kind of a car was he driving?” Lockhart asked.

“A Mercedes roadster.”

“Better and better. A smart-ass yuppie buys it in his Kraut car. If he’d been driving a Caddy, he could’ve survived the accident.”

“Actually, we don’t think it was an accident, Mr. Lockhart. He was clipped by a hit-and-run driver. Would you mind telling me your whereabouts between ten and midnight last night?”

Lockhart stared at her, blinking, as the question penetrated his bullet skull. “Whoa, wait a minute, Shorty. Why ask me? What the hell, you think I killed him?”

“You did threaten to tear Mr. Bannan’s head off in front of witnesses—”

“Maybe I would have, if I’d run into him in a bar after I’d had a few. But I didn’t. And if I wanted him dead, I wouldn’t need a car to do it. It’s bad enough I had to take crap from that punk while he was alive, I’ll be damned if I’ll take any more now that he’s toast. Especially from some backwoods taco bender. Get the hell out of my office.”

“Actually, I’m not Latin, sir, I’m Native American,” Zina said, rising. “Anishnabeg. And you’re not required to answer questions without an attorney. No problem. I’ll be happy to clear your name another way. How many red Cadillacs do you have in stock?”

“Red? What are you talking about?”

“The vehicle that struck Mr. Bannan’s car left red paint scrapes on his door. I can just scrape paint samples from every red vehicle on your lots, then ship ’em to Lansing to see if any of them match. I’m sure your body shop can touch them up, good as new.”

“Touch ’em up?” Butch echoed, standing up, towering over her. “Look, you little beaner—” He broke off, staring at the gleaming blade of the boot knife Zina slid out of her ankle sheath.

“I see two red Caddies out on your showroom floor,” she continued calmly. “I’ll just scrape some paint samples on my way out. Unless you’d like to be the sweet guy I know you really are and tell me where the hell you were last night, Mr. Lockhart. Sir.”

“He was banging his new girlfriend,” Zina sighed, dropping into the chair at her desk. “A high-school cheerleader, no less.” They were in the Mackie Law Enforcement Center, a brown brick blockhouse just outside Valhalla, named for a trooper killed by a psycho survivalist during a routine traffic stop.

Covering a five-county area, “the House” is shared by Valhalla P.D., the Sheriff’s Department, and the Joint Investigative Unit. Amicably, for the most part.

“How old is the girl?”

“Eighteen. Street legal, but just barely. She confirmed Lockhart’s story. I politely suggested she might want to try dating guys her own age. She told me to stick my advice in the trunk of her brand new Escalade. Paid-up lease, thirty-six months.”

“She’s eighteen and he’s what? Forty?”

“Men are pond scum. I may have to switch to girls. What’d you get from Lockhart’s ex?”

“Bannan was with her last night. They ate a late dinner, then thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. She fell asleep afterward. Her best guess is, he bailed out sometime after eleven. She has no alibi, but no motive, either. He made her rich and she was in love with the guy.”

“Or in heat,” Zee said. “Scratch both Lockharts then, who does that leave?”

“Old Man Ferguson can’t be too happy about being declared incompetent. And the Reisers, who have some kind of a beef over their scheduling. Plus pretty much everybody Jared Bannan ever met. The guy loved ticking people off.”

“You’re forgetting the widow. Five mil’s a helluva motive, Doyle, and she definitely ducked some of our questions.”

“Lehman said their relationship was pretty chilly. What did you make of her?”

“Same as you. She’s smart, has great legs, and she’s about to have five mil in the bank. Hey, maybe I will switch to girls. You want me to re-interview her while you run down Ferguson?”

“No, let’s try the Reisers first. The boat works will close in an hour.”

The Lone Pine boatyard was on the tip of Point Lucien, an isolated peninsula jutting into Grand Traverse Bay. A narrow, two-lane blacktop was the only access.

“Not much development out here,” Zina noted. “Can’t be many private shoreline sites left.”

“Which should make the Reisers a bundle when they sell,” Doyle said, wheeling the cruiser into the small parking lot. Switching off the engine, they sat a moment, listening to the lonely lapping of the waves and the cries of the gulls.

The yard wasn’t much to look at. The only buildings were a cabin, a curing shed stacked with drying lumber, and the boat works itself, a long warehouse surrounded by a deck that extended out over the water, built of rough-hewn timbers culled from the surrounding forest.

A young girl was huddled in a lawn chair at the end of the dock, fishing with a cane pole, an ancient Labrador Retriever at her feet. The dog raised its head, growling a warning as the two officers approached.

“Shush, Smokey,” the girl said. “Daaa-ad! The police are here. Have you been bad again?” Her impish grin faded into a spate of coughing. She was muffled in a heavy parka, though the temperature on the point was a full ten degrees warmer than the inland hills. Lake effect. Her head was swathed in a turban against the cold, and to cover her baldness.

“Something I can do for you folks?” Emil Reiser asked, stepping out to meet them. He was a bear of a man, dressed for blue-collar work, red-and-black checked flannel shirt, jeans, and cork boots. He needed a shave and his wild salt-and-pepper mane hung loosely to his shoulders. Two fingertips on his left hand were missing.

“Don’t mind the dog, he’s harmless, mostly. Is this business or pleasure?”

“It’s business, Mr. Reiser.”

“Yeah? Buying a boat, are you? ‘Cause that’s the only business I’m in.”

“Actually, it’s about your wife’s attorney, Jared Bannan.”

“Hell, what does that bastard—” Reiser broke off, glancing at his daughter, who was watching them intently. He flashed her a quick command in sign language and the girl turned away.

“She’s hearing-impaired?” Doyle asked.

“Among other things.” Reiser sighed. “We’d better talk inside. That kid can eavesdrop at fifty yards.”

Reiser’s workshop was like stepping back in time. The long room had four wooden hulls on trestles, in various states of completion. The air was redolent of sawdust, wood shavings, and shellac. Not a power tool in sight. But for the bare bulbs dangling from the ceiling beams, the works could have time-traveled from the last century. Or the one before that.

Zina wandered between the boats, running her hand over the hulls.

“Beautiful,” she murmured. She paused in front of a rifle rack against the wall that held a dozen long guns, scoped Springfields and Remingtons, plus a pair of ‘94 Winchester lever-action carbines. “Expecting a war, Mr. Reiser?”