Douglas Preston - Still Life With Crows

Sheriff Larssen, who’d been sitting in a chair to one side, rose also.

Lavender said nothing, merely extending an arm with a very small white hand at the end of it, indicating a seat. It was a challenge: would Hazen obey, or choose a seat himself?

Hazen smiled, guided Raskovich into the seat, and then took his own.

Lavender remained standing. He placed his childlike hands on the desk and leaned forward slowly, still smiling.

“Welcome to Deeper, Sheriff Hazen. And this is, I believe, Mr. Raskovich of Kansas State University?” His voice was smooth, unctuous.

Hazen nodded quickly. “I figure you know why I’m here, Norris.”

“Do I need to call my lawyer?” Lavender made it sound like a joke.

“That’s up to you. You’re not a suspect.”

Lavender raised his eyebrows. “Indeed?”

Indeed. And here his grandfather was a damn bootlegger.

“Indeed,” Hazen repeated.

“Well then, Sheriff. Shall we proceed? Seeing as how this is a voluntary interview, I reserve the right to end questioning at any moment.”

“Then I’ll get to the point. Who owns the Deeper land chosen as a possible site for KSU’s experimental field?”

“You know very well that’s my land. It’s leased to Buswell Agricon, KSU’s partner in the project.”

“Did you know Dr. Stanton Chauncy?”

“Of course. The sheriff and I showed him around town.”

“What’d you think of him?”

“Probably much the same as you.” Lavender gave a little smile that told Sheriff Hazen all he needed to know about Lavender’s opinion of Chauncy.

“Did you know in advance that Chauncy had chosen Medicine Creek for his site?”

“I did not. The man played his cards close.”

“Did you negotiate a new lease with KSU for the experimental land?”

Lavender shifted his body languidly and leaned his heavy head to one side. “No. I didn’t want to queer the deal. I said if they chose to go with Deeper, they could have it at the same rate as Buswell Agricon.”

“But you were planning to increase the leasing fee?”

Lavender smiled. “My dear fellow, I am a businessman. I was hoping for higher fees for their future fields.”

My dear fellow. “So you expected the operation would expand.”

“Naturally.”

“You own the Deeper Sleep Motel, am I right?”

“You know very well I do.”

“And you own the Hardee’s franchise?”

“It’s one of my best businesses here.”

“You own all the buildings from Bob’s Sporting Goods to the Hair Apparent, right?”

“This is a matter of public record, Sheriff.”

“And you own the Grand Theater building—currently empty—and you’re the landlord of the Steak Joint and the Cry County Mini-Mall.”

“More common knowledge.”

“In the past five years, how many of your tenants have broken their leases and gone out of business?”

Lavender’s wide face remained smiling, but Hazen noticed that the man had begun winding the diamond ring around his pinky.

“My financial affairs are my own business, thank you very much.”

“Let me guess then. Fifty percent? The Rookery closed down, the Book Nook’s long gone. Jimmy’s Round Up went out of business last year. The Mini-Mall is about two-thirds empty now.”

“I might point out, Sheriff, that the Deeper Sleep Motel is currently running at one hundred percent occupancy.”

“Yes, because it’s filled with media folks. What happens when the big story ends? It’ll go back to being about as popular as the Bates Motel.”

Lavender was still smiling, but there was no mirth now in those wet lips that stretched across the lower half of his face.

“How many tenants are behind on their rents? Trouble is, you’re not really in much of a position to get tough and kick ’em out for missing a payment, are you? I mean, who’s going to take their place? Better to lower the rents, stretch things out, write a note or two.”

More silence. Hazen eased up, let the silence build, taking a moment to give the office another once-over. His eyes fell on a wall of photographs of Norris Lavender with various big shots—Billy Carter, brother of the president; a couple of football players; a rodeo star; a country-and-western singer. In several of them, Hazen could see a third figure: hulking, dark-complected, muscle-bound, unsmiling: Lewis McFelty, Lavender’s sidekick. He hadn’t seen him when he came in, although he’d been looking out for him. More evidence to back up his theory. Hazen took his eyes off the creepy-looking man and turned back to Lavender with a smile. “You and your family have owned this town for almost a hundred years, but it looks like the sun might be setting on the Lavender empire, eh, Norris?”

Sheriff Larssen spoke. “Look here, Dent, this is sheer bullying. I fail to see how any of this could possibly connect with the killings.”

Lavender stayed him with a gesture. “I thank you, Hank, but I’ve known what Hazen’s game has been from the beginning. This dog is all bark.”

“Is that a fact?” Hazen shot back.

“It is. This isn’t about the killings in Medicine Creek. This is about my grandfather supposedly shooting your poor old granddaddy in the leg.” He turned toward the KSU security man. “Mr. Raskovich, the Lavenders and Hazens go back quite a ways here in Cry County—and certain people just can’t get over it.” He smiled back at Hazen. “Well, sir, it just isn’t going to warsh. My grandfather never shot your grandfather, and I’m no serial killer. Look at me. Can you imagine me in a cornfield carving someone up like one of those turkeys you people turn out over there in Medicine Creek?” He looked around smugly.

Warsh. There it was, rising to the surface like fat in a stew. Norris Lavender might sprinkle his speech with all the “indeeds” and “my dear fellows” in the world and it still wouldn’t cover up the smell of white trash.

“You’re just like your grandfather, Norris,” Hazen replied. “You get other people to do the dirty work for you.”

Lavender’s eyebrows shot up. “That sounded remarkably like an accusation.”

Hazen smiled. “You know, Norris, I kind of missed your pal Lewis McFelty when I came in just now. How’s he doing?”

“My assistant, poor boy, has a sick mother in Kansas City. I gave him the week off.”

Hazen’s smile broadened. “I certainly hope it’s nothing serious.”

Another silence.

Hazen coughed and continued. “You had a lot to lose with this experimental field going to Medicine Creek.”

Lavender opened a wooden box full of cigars and pushed it across the table to Hazen. “I know you’re a committed smoker, Sheriff. Help yourself.”

Hazen stared at the box. Cubans, wouldn’t you know it. He shook his head.

“Mr. Raskovich? Cigar?”

Raskovich also shook his head.

Hazen leaned back. “You had everything to lose, didn’t you?”

“Does anyone mind if I indulge?” Lavender reached into the box and removed a cigar, holding it up like a question between two thick fingers.

“Go ahead,” said Hank, casting Hazen a malevolent glance. “A man has a right to smoke in his own office.”

Hazen waited while Lavender slid a little silver clipper off his desk, trimmed and clipped the end of the cigar, admired his handiwork, picked up a gold lighter and heated the end of the cigar, then licked the other end, placed it in his wide mouth, and lit it. The process took several minutes. Then Lavender rose and strolled to the window, folded his tiny hands behind him, and stared out across the parking lot, puffing languidly, from time to time removing the cigar to stare at its tip. Beyond his slender figure, Hazen could see a horizon as black as night. The storm was coming, and it was going to be a big one.