John Gardner - The Sunlight Dialogues

“You look around?” Clumly said. He hardly bothered to listen to the answer.

“Combed the place pretty good. Clean, looks like.”

“The Indian wouldn’t go there,” Clumly said.

“No, or anyplace else, from the looks of it.”

Clumly nodded.

Where is my murderous Indian?

Miller looked up at the corner of the ceiling and drew out a cigarette. “You asked for a check on the Paxton boys — what they’ve done with themselves, where they were when the old man had his heart attack. We got it for you. There on your desk.” He leaned forward and pointed to the folder. Clumly picked it up. “Nothing there,” Miller said. “Oldest was out at some dude ranch, Colorado. Other two in New York. They’re small-time brokers, set up by the old man about fifteen years ago.”

“Right after their sister went bats,” Clumly said.

“Some connection, you think?”

“You’re sure the brothers were right where they say they were, August twenty-second?”

“The night the old man died. Right.”

“The sister?”

“Hospital in Palo Alto called Twin Pines.”

Clumly struck at it instinctively. “California?”

Miller lowered his eyebrows, studying him. “California, yeah.”

But Clumly was in a hurry now. “That where she’s been all along? I heard she was in Clifton. I thought—” He tried to think where he’d gotten that. Old gossip? Had Elizabeth Paxton said it?

“They move her around,” Miller said. “They had her in Phoenix for a while, later Detroit, St. Louis, place near Louisville …”

“Why?”

“They don’t say.”

“They don’t say! Well Jesus, Miller, make them say!”

He opened his hands. “What are you up to?”

“Come off it, Miller. You know what I’m up to. You also know I’m not telling you. I tell you what I’m thinking and I leave you no choice, you’d have to interfere. You follow me?”

“No.”

He fished one of the small white stones from his pocket, studied it a moment, then handed it across to Miller. “Find out what this is for me.”

“Yessir. State Police can do that in their lab, I guess.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Find out.” He skimmed the folder on the Paxton brothers, lighting the cigar as he did so. It was true. Nothing there. His eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe it, the part about the dude ranch. Listen. Phone ’em up. Get a description of Paxton, and after that—” He paused, letting the idea swell up through his belly and chest. “Phone up the place in Palo Alto. Find out when she left.”

“Left?” Miller echoed. He rubbed his ear.

“She’s here, Miller. Right under our noses someplace. Get ahold of Will Hodge’s son — the fat one, the lawyer. Get him back down here.”

“I’m lost,” Miller said. He was also skeptical, annoyed.

“Correct. Me too, it could be.”

“But why should it be connected? What signs are there?”

Clumly drew himself up, and the muscles of his face squeezed inward around his eyes. “Everything’s always connected, Miller. There can’t be order otherwise. It’s all some kind of Design.” He stretched his fingers as if holding an invisible ball. “It’s all one pattern. Find out the connections and bam! everything’s plain!”

Miller said, “That’s crazy as hell.”

“That may be,” Clumly said. His jaw tensed. “That may be.” At last he said, “Ok, Miller, what else?”

“Well, plenty of troubles one kind or another.” He was still thinking about the other things, Clumly’s hunches, but with an effort he brought himself back. “Damn jewelry store robbery. You heard about that.”

“What?” Clumly said.

“Jewelry store. Francis and Mead. Christ, Chief, you don’t even know about it? All morning we—”

“I got here late. And then Mullen was here …”

“Well ok. We went over it with a fine-toothed comb. Nothing. Professional job, out of town, most likely. Just unlocked the back door and walked in and unlocked the safe. Couple hundred thousand, it looks like, but they haven’t yet figured the loss exactly. Must’ve happened a little after midnight.”

“A little after midnight,” Clumly said. Then: “Nothing at all?”

“Not a trace.”

Clumly shook his head. “Anybody hurt?”

“Not this time.”

“It’s like trying to get hold of the Devil,” Clumly said.

Miller looked doubtful.

At last Clumly said, “Ok. That all?”

“Just about. Some funny business at the Presbyterian church — a firebug, maybe religious nut. We’re checking it out. Other than that just the usual minor stuff. Couple of bar fights, lady that thought she heard a prowler.”

“Where?”

“Over on Ellicott, by the Mayor’s.” Clumly gave no sign, and Miller went on. “And we picked up some kids last night. Four of ’em. Good families. Parents had no idea. The usual. Garage of bikes. Torn apart and reassembled. Been talking this morning to the Goddamned parents. Oldest kid’s twelve, youngest one eight. Couple of ’em—”

“Throw the book at them,” Clumly said.

“Well, sure. But you know how it is.”

“Makes no difference,” Clumly said. “At a time like this it’s important we set an example. Discourage …”

Miller nodded. “I know. I thought about that. But if you talk to ’em you’ll see that possibly, this time—”

“You want to let ’em go?” His voice shook.

Miller thought about it. “It depends,” he said. “You know how it is. It’s like you said to Kozlowski, you have to use your judgment.”

Clumly sat forward. “He told you that?”

Miller glanced at him, then grinned. “What’s eating you, boss? I overheard it, that’s all.” He jerked his thumb toward the door. “I was standing right out there and I heard you yelling it. What’s it matter?”

Clumly thought about it. He pressed his fingertips to his eyes and once more the memory of his dreams came back, and then something else, the footprints outside Mayor Mullen’s window. At last he said, “Ok. Do what you think. Anything else?”

“That’s about it,” Miller said. He stretched his neck, getting a crick out, then swung his hands to his knees and got up. “Out at the Reservation we heard Will Hodge was there before us — the old man. Asked a lot of questions, the Indians said.”

“Funny business,” Clumly said. He pursed his lips, studying the cigar. “He was out in front of my house this morning. He’d been sitting there. Had his motor off. When I came out he got out as if he’d stopped to mail a letter.”

Miller folded his arms and looked down at him, musing. At last: “Any ideas?”

Clumly said, “A lot of ideas.”

For a minute neither of them spoke, both of them conscious of something dangerous hanging between them: not a danger that some truth would be opened to the light, some admission pass between them, and not a danger from without, though that was part of it — the outside danger hanging there as surely as the dust specks dancing in the shaft of light that fell from Clumly’s window to the worn, oiled boards of the office floor — but more than that, an obscure and secret threat to their mutual past as much as to present or future. At last Clumly said, “All right. What?”

Miller met his eyes. “It was you outside the Mayor’s house, standing in the bushes.”

Clumly squinted.

“Why?” Miller asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Ok,” Miller said. He looked down. “I thought it was that.” Then: “What did he want this morning?”

“I’m going to be investigated.”

Miller said nothing.

“There’ll be questions,” Clumly said. He compressed his lips.

“Can I help?” It sounded reserved.