Джон Гришэм - Camino Winds

“Can’t discuss it,” Butler said, officially.

“Of course not,” Bob mumbled sarcastically.

Bruce wanted to ask, “What about the damned hard drive?” But he knew he would get nothing.

Butler asked, “Where’s your third amigo, that kid who knew everything?”

“We fired him,” Bruce said. “He’s off the case. Say, look, Mr. Kerr’s sister will be here later today, flying in from California. She’ll want to see his place, maybe gather some personal items. What are the rules here?”

Butler was already shaking his head. “Sorry. No one goes in until we’re finished and we’ll be here all day. Good way to kill a Saturday, huh?”

Well, he’s been dead for five days, Bruce thought. About time you got here. But that was unfair. The storm had upset all schedules and routines. Butler excused himself and returned to his work. Two technicians in white mummy suits hauled out a rolled-up rug and placed it in a van.

What about the damned hard drive? Bruce realized that neither he nor the family would know anything about the investigation for days or perhaps weeks. Standing at the police tape, he was as close as he would get to the evidence.

As they were leaving, a neighbor walked over and asked, “What’s going on here?”

“It’s a crime scene,” Bruce said, nodding at the two vans with billboards painted on all sides. “Nelson was killed during the storm.”

“Nelson’s dead?” the neighbor gasped.

“Afraid so. Head wounds.”

“Why are the police here?”

“You’ll have to ask them.”

They drove to Bob’s condo and spent an hour hauling trash and debris to the curb. It was depressing work made even worse by the heat. An insurance adjuster had promised to stop by later in the day. There was a rumor that Curly’s Oyster Bar was open down south, near the Grand Surf Hotel, and they decided to explore.

2.

Polly McCann arrived at Bruce’s shortly after two and knocked on the door. The doorbell wasn’t working because the electricity had not yet reached downtown. She was about fifty, California slim and trendy with a smart boy’s haircut and designer eyewear. After a long night on the plane she looked remarkably fresh. Bruce offered her a bottle of cold water and they sat in the den and began covering the preliminaries.

She taught physics at a community college in Redwood City. Her husband chaired the math department. They had two sons, both in college at UC–Santa Barbara. Her parents were in their early eighties and battling more health issues than most of their friends. They were devastated by Nelson’s death and unable to make decisions. Polly was his only sibling and had been handling their parents’ affairs for years. Nelson’s ex-wife had already remarried and divorced again, and would not be a factor. Their parting ten years earlier had left scars, and they truly loathed each other. Mercifully, there were no children.

“He didn’t talk about the divorce and I knew better than to ask,” Bruce said.

“The marriage was a bad idea from day one,” she said. “Nelson finished Stanford Law at the top of his class and took a big job with a high-powered firm in San Francisco. It was a grind, ninety hours a week, lots of pressure. For some reason he decided to further complicate his life by marrying Sally, a real flake who drank too much, worked too little, and was looking for money. I tried to talk him out of it because I couldn’t stand the woman, but he wouldn’t listen to me. They quarreled constantly, so he put in even more hours at the office. He made partner at thirty-one and was knocking down close to a million a year. Then he realized that one of his clients was illegally selling military software to some authoritarian governments, and he wanted to blow the whistle. He did talk to me about that. He knew his legal career would be over, you can’t rat out a client and expect to survive as a lawyer, but he thought the government would make it worth the trouble. Plus, he was really sick of the big-firm racket. So he did the right thing, got a check for five million in return, and happily fled the office. But his timing was bad. He should have pursued the divorce before he blew the whistle. His wife lawyered up and they found evidence of an affair with a coworker. He lost big, cracked up, and we had to put him away for six months. Then he started writing. Does this sound like whatever he’s told you?”

“Pretty close. He never told me how much he received from the government. He did say that she had better lawyers and clearly won the divorce. I got the impression it was a brutal ordeal.”

“How well did you know him?”

“Have you had lunch?” Bruce was happy to share his peanut butter and crackers, but was suddenly nervous about offering food to a fairly hip Californian. No doubt she survived on nothing but raw vegetables and protein shakes.

She smiled and hesitated and said, “Actually, I’m starving.”

“Then step into my kitchen where the air is slightly cooler than out on the street.” She followed him to the snack bar and watched as he rummaged through the pantry and found a can of tomato soup. “Perfect,” she said.

“And for appetizers we can offer chunky peanut butter and saltines.”

“My favorite,” she said, much to his surprise.

He put the soup on and opened the peanut butter. “How well did I know Nelson Kerr? Well, I considered him a friend. We’re about the same age, with similar interests. He’s been here for several dinner parties. I’ve been to his place. We’ve had dinners out. My wife fixed him up with one of her friends but the romance lasted less than a month. He was not that aggressive with women. We spent time at the bookstore drinking coffee and talking about books and writers. I thought his pace was a bit slow for a genre author and encouraged him to write more, but I do that with most of my writers.”

“Your writers?”

“Yes. There’s a clan of them on the island and I’m the den mother. I encourage all of them to write more so I’ll have more to sell.”

“How well did Nelson sell?”

“His last book did about a hundred thousand copies in print and digital combined, and his numbers were steadily increasing. I pushed him to do a book a year. He was on the right trajectory with his career, but Nelson had a lazy streak. I said that to him once and he gave some lame excuse about still being tired from big law. I said that was nonsense.”

“Did you ever read his stuff before he sent it to New York?”

“No. With some writers I do, but I’m known to have a lot of opinions so most shy away from my editing. Nelson asked me to read his latest, said he had finished the first draft and was polishing up the second.” Bruce decided he would discuss the hard drive later. There was so much ground to cover.

He poured the soup in a bowl and presented it to her. She smiled and said, “Thanks.”

“What color wine do you think goes best with tomato soup?” he asked.

“Let’s postpone the wine.” She stirred the soup, blew on a spoonful, and tasted it. “Compliments to the chef.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“So, Bruce, was my brother murdered?”

He took a deep breath, walked to the fridge, opened it to fetch a beer, realized he’d had two already, removed nothing, closed the door and leaned against it with his arms folded across his chest. “I’m not sure, but a few things are certain. Number one, Nelson is dead.” He described Nelson’s body when they found him. He summarized Dr. Landrum’s summary of the autopsy and cause of death.

She listened without blinking, without emotion, and without eating her soup.

“And number two. There was a woman involved. Ingrid.” He took a deep breath and told Bob’s story from start to finish, slowly and with every detail he knew. Polly stared at the table and never picked up her spoon.