The Mountains Bow Down Page 10

  “And we’ve got fireflies at night, your favorite,” he continued. “I sit out on the porch and watch them light up the dark, and I think of you.”

  His desultory Southern voice never rushed, never sounded urgent. The voice that turned weather into a narrative. And now, listening to him describe the night, I pressed the phone to my ear. I loved his voice.

  I loved him.

  “Tell your mama her dog’s happier than a pig in mud,” he said.

  Madame, my mom’s dog. DeMott was taking care of her while we were away.

  “That creature loves running these fields, sniffing out the rabbits, jumping in the river.” He paused. “Raleigh, you’re going to love it too. I promise. It’ll be different than what you think.”

  I dropped my head. My heart ached.

  “I’ve put pressure on you,” he said. “And I’m sorry. We don’t have to hurry. You just enjoy your vacation. I mean it. And when you come home, I’ll be waiting. I love you. Call me. Bye.”

  The arid sound of a dead line rushed past, the nothingness of nowhere. And nobody. Still, I held the phone to my ear and calculated the time difference. Four hours ahead of Alaska, it was past 2:00 AM at Weyanoke. His sister Mac would say I had no manners, then harp on it for days. Yet another hurdle for us: Mac, his sister who kept me atop her enemies list.

  Replacing the phone on the nightstand, I stuck to the bedtime routine. Brush teeth, wash face, and ignore that question begging for an answer. You can’t return your fiancé’s call and you’re relieved. Wasn’t that another bad sign?

  I pulled the covers up tight and listened to the ship sliding through the Inside Passage. The ocean brushed against the side, whooshing and splashing, and once again I thought of Judy Carpenter.

  I wondered if she was completely dead when she was hung there, or if her last moments were spent listening to this cold brush of sound, the silver splash of ocean as it escorted her to an end of days.

  Chapter Ten

  At 6:15 am Wednesday morning, the Juneau gift shops were already open, offering passengers the souvenir T-shirts and baseball caps and jewelry and native Ulu knives.

  But I was looking for a place called the Hurff A. Saunders Federal Building.

  “I know where it is,” Jack insisted. “If we hit Evergreen Cemetery, we’ve gone too far.”

  Under the sun shining as though clouds didn’t exist, Juneau clung to the bottom of two mountains, Mt. Roberts and Mt. Juneau. Near ninety degrees, the slopes fell with the long and lush lines of weighted skirts. Between the shops along the waterfront, strips of wooden stairs stitched up the hillsides, embroidering small houses to green forests. On the other side, across a wide band of water called Gastineau Channel, another mountain rose to an island, Douglas Island, and as Jack and I climbed the hill that was Main Street, I gazed at the beige sand rimming the shore. This landscape of fjords and steep mountains was far too young for such fine beaches. More likely the sand was a byproduct of the town’s once-prodigious gold mines, when the bedrock was crushed and pulverized to release the precious metal within. But the beach reminded me of another hike I planned and wasn’t taking, to the abandoned Perseverance Mine.

  When I saw the federal building, it didn’t exactly lift my spirits. The place was an aesthetic crime, especially amid such fulsome natural beauty. A block of steel the color of tarnished brass, the rectangular building rose nine stories from the street like some sick advertisement for all the soul-deadening bureaucracies inside, all those government agencies whose acronyms could be strung together like boxcars. EPA. DEA. OSHA. NOAA.

  FBI.

  Jack held the door. “It’s called the SOB.”

  “Pardon?”

  “State Office Building. SOB.”

  The FBI’s resident agency occupied a corner of the ninth floor. A messy ten-by-ten room with two desks, the dark brown carpet couldn’t hide the coffee and mud stains, or the winter salt-melt that covered it like dingy doilies.

  Agent Kevin Barnes slapped Jack on the back—hard. Facial hair was rare among agents, unless they were working undercover. But the beard on Barnes’s face was so thick his gray eyes seemed to peer from a brown fur mask. Dry mud coated the bottom of his jeans and his black sweater frayed around the collar.

  He plunked down in a chair behind his desk. The seat was crisscrossed with duct tape. “How long have you known Romeo here?” he asked.

  “Long enough to know he’s trouble.”

  “Barnes,” Jack said, “did you run the background checks or not?”

  “Have you seen his plane?” Barnes kept his gray eyes on me.

  I nodded.

  “The paperwork?” Jack said. “You didn’t do it, did you?”

  “I did it,” Barnes said. “NCIS and CCH.”

  National Criminal Information System, for outstanding warrants. And Computerized Criminal History, to reveal any arrests, convictions, sentences served, date of release from prison, etc. The CCH would also give us physical descriptions and personal data such as birth records and social security numbers.

  “Thank you,” I said. “That’s really helpful.”

  “My pleasure.” His smile was an amber tear across the fur mask. “I also called a friend who’s a detective with LAPD. Before I escaped to here, I worked in the LA field office.” He leaned back until he was almost horizontal, then suddenly lifted his feet, catapulting forward. At the last second, he grabbed the edge of the desk, preventing a collision with his computer monitor. “After working in LA, I can tell you for a fact that movie people are prone to doing all kinds of stupid stuff. So these records are long, and eventually boring. Speaking of which, you know Jack’s reputation, right?”

  Jack said, “What did LAPD tell you?”

  “They told me to call back.” Kevin kept his eyes on me. “Raleigh, can I give you some advice?”

  I smiled. “Fire away.”

  “Don’t get in Jack’s plane. You’re as good as gone.”

  “Bad pilot?”

  “I’m not talking about that kind of gone.”

  “Barnes.” Jack’s jaw was set. “All we need—”

  “If I didn’t warn you, I couldn’t live with myself.”

  “You can’t live with yourself now, you sorry sack of—” Jack stepped forward.

  He was only three steps from the computer, but the path was blocked by a dorm-size refrigerator, several stalagmites of FedEx envelopes, state torts, and FBI documents, along with some vacuum bags. The vacuum itself standing next to Barnes’s duct-taped chair.

  “We’re in a hurry,” Jack said, kicking the vacuum bags.

  Barnes kicked them back. “He seduced every woman at Quantico.”

  “Every one?” I glanced at Jack. His jaw was knotting.

  “Well, that gal from Utah got away. But she turned out to be a lesbian.”

  Jack lunged for the computer’s mouse.

  “Click it and you die, Jack.”

  “Take your best shot!”

  They began wrestling for the mouse and I glanced out the window, suppressing a sigh.

  The tiny resident agency lacked every amenity, including one decent chair. But the picture window redeemed it all. Below, I could see the gray-green channel as it coursed past Douglas Island. And the mountain forest looked like a quiver of emerald arrows, aimed for a cerulean sky that leased eternity. Just looking at it, my heart skipped a beat.

  “That’s what keeps me here,” Barnes said.

  I looked over. They were still shoving each other, locked in some testosterone-fueled standoff. “No matter what kind of day I’m having”—he elbowed Jack’s ribs; Jack winced—“even Romeo here showing up, I can look out that window. Nobody in the Bureau has a view like that.”

  My desk in Richmond was hunkered beneath a heating vent next to an echoing stairwell. The tight spot was chosen for me by my supervisor, the same woman who sent me on a disciplinary transfer.

  Jack hip-checked the chair, slamming Barnes into the vacuum.

  �
��What did you find on the movie crew?” I asked.

  Picking himself up, climbing back into the chair, Barnes gave Jack one final shove before placing the keyboard on his dusty jeans.

  “So glad you asked.” He typed quickly.

  It finally seemed safe to lean in closer. “Right now,” I said, “this does not look like a random crime. We’re concentrating on people who knew the victim, worked with her, or had access to her. I’m especially interested in the husband.”

  Barnes clicked a final command, opening the document. “Hollywood is a food chain for deviants. Down at the bottom, they’re mostly drug addicts. Pot, coke, Ecstasy. You’ll see some busts for possession, but I did find one distribution case, sentenced as a felon.”

  I opened my notebook.

  “Female,” he continued. “Martha Jane McTavish. Age 27. She rents a place in Venice Beach, owned by your victim.”

  I leaned over his shoulder and stared at the mug shot. The long black hair was still wild, but fear had widened her eyes. MJ, the girl in the bar last night. No wonder she pegged me for a cop.

  “Any other details?” I jotted down the dates.

  “Plenty. She ran a heavy marijuana operation around the San Jose area. It was another rental but the local PD got tipped off when the electric bill exceeded occupancy by about three dozen people. Place was a greenhouse. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in plants. She served two years and got paroled on good behavior.”

  “What’s her connection to the movie?” Jack asked. The fight was over. It was all about the case now.

  “She plays the musician,” I said.

  They looked at me.

  “I met her last night. Judy produced her CDs. She wouldn’t talk about the hanging. Did you see anything besides the Venice rental that connects her to the Carpenters?”

  Barnes scrolled down the list. “Nothing here, but the Carpenters have their own problems. Four DUIs between them. Hers was almost twenty years ago but he lost his license. Two years ago he got picked up for L&L in some bar.”

  Lewd and lascivious.

  “Nice guy,” I said, looking over at Jack.

  “LAPD found trace amounts of marijuana on him,” Barnes continued, “barely enough for possession. Most of them smoke pot, or do something else destructive with all that money.”

  “What else flipped your radar?” Jack asked.

  “Money. The biggest troubles involve money. On that count, the Carpenters seem okay. But most everybody else has some kind of tax lien, overdue child support, or alimony due for multiple ex-wives. They’re running on borrowed funds. And you’ll want to check out Martin Webb.” He glanced at Jack. “Remember that flick Dodge and Ram? He directed it.”

  “He did that?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah, but he also directed that one where Milo Carpenter played a Special Ops guy.”

  “That was weak.”

  “That scene, when he cried? I walked out of the theater.”

  “I caught it on cable and it was still bad. You can’t have a guy—” Jack glanced at me.

  “Anyway,” I said. Men and movies were almost as bad as men and cars. And to be fair, women and shoes. “Can we get back to the list?”

  Barnes nodded at the monitor again. “Martin Webb’s got two foreclosed mansions and California’s garnishing his wages for child support.”

  “A really nice guy,” I said.

  “It gets even better. An assistant filed rape charges against him, then settled out of court.”

  “He paid her off, that’s why he’s broke?”

  “I doubt it. Working in LA, I learned how they all play games. I’m not saying her claim’s necessarily frivolous, but everybody wants fame. She probably got some movie deal. But there’s a judge here ordering Webb to take anger management classes.” He glanced over at Jack. “I wonder if that’s where he got the idea for that scene in Tight Corner, remember? Where the guy goes to an anger management class—”

  “And trashes the place,” Jack said. “He picks up the table and says—”

  “‘How’s this for behavior modification?’”

  They laughed, quoted more lines, and I sighed.

  “Do you have any photos of Webb, for Jack?” I asked.

  Barnes clicked the mouse. Martin Webb’s face was handsome but petulant; clever eyes were surrounded by dark lashes and a narrow chin anchored by an oddly voluptuous mouth, almost feminine. In the mug shot, his mouth clamped with fury, just like I’d seen it around the set whenever Milo flubbed his lines for the tenth time.

  “What is he, about forty?” Jack asked.

  “Thirty-eight,” Barnes said. “Young for how much he’s done. Good and bad. But his career’s really gone downhill fast.”

  “Did he have any connection to Judy Carpenter?” I asked. “Other than this movie.”

  “I didn’t see anything, but remember he directed Milo Carpenter in other movies, years ago.”

  “Maybe the director hated her,” Jack said.

  “Or maybe that bracelet was supposed to pay off some bills.”

  “What bracelet?” Barnes asked.

  I described the jewelry, fallen between the rope coils, and Barnes asked questions about the crime scene, homing in on my description of her neck, the strange way her tongue stuck out.

  “Come on, that rope would’ve broken her neck,” he said. “That whole thing sounds staged. Or should I say, directed.” His gray eyes glinted from the fur mask. “You’re making me wish I’d taken this case.”

  “But you didn’t.” Jack’s voice was so territorial I turned to look at him. But he kept his eyes on the monitor. “Who else?” he asked.

  “Check out a guy named Vinnie Pinnetta. Also gets violent with women. He worked as a bouncer in a Vegas strip club, after serving time for breaking and entering, and then kicked his pregnant wife. He served time for both.”

  “Such nice people,” I said. “How’d he get to Hollywood?”

  “Bodyguard.”

  I leaned over Barnes’s shoulder. In the mug shot, the police camera’s flash made the mansard forehead seem even more pronounced. Vinnie Pinnetta’s eyes were like shadows. When I turned around, Jack was leaning in so close I could smell his cologne. Citrus and light musk.

  “Remember him,” I said, “from Milo’s last night?”

  “Who could forget a teddy bear like that?”

  I looked at Barnes. “He’s Milo’s bodyguard.”

  Barnes raised his bushy brown eyebrows.

  “Too simple,” Jack said. “Carpenter really believes she committed suicide over his affairs, and because he filed for divorce.”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “He was dumping her after more than twenty years of marriage. He and Jack are like best buddies.”

  Barnes gave a ragged grin. “I’m not worried about you, Raleigh.”

  “Listen to me,” Jack insisted. “He’s acting guilty because he feels responsible. He’s a total narcissist.”

  “No wonder you hit it off with him,” Barnes said.

  But Jack was shaking his head. “I’m telling you, he didn’t do it.”

  “Here’s something to consider.” Barnes leaned back in his chair again. “California’s fifty-fifty when it comes to divorce. Now he doesn’t have to split anything, Milo gets to keep all of it. And there’s a lot to keep. Not like your ex-wife, Jack. She got half of nothing.”

  His ex?

  Jack looked ready to give Barnes another smacking, but the agent was busy lifting a paper pile from his desk.

  “Here, I printed you a hard copy.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Jack growled, “thanks for the help.”

  “Raleigh,” Barnes said, ignoring Jack, “this your first trip to Alaska?”

  I was already fanning through the pages, stopping to stare at the mug shots. “Yes, this was supposed to be a family vacation.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “I’ll come back someday.”

  “We’ve got
an opening.”

  I looked up.

  “The other agent wants to move back to the States.”

  Jack laughed. “Hey, genius, Alaska is a state.”

  “That’s what you think.” Barnes turned to me. “No squad commander. No supervisor. And it’s never boring. I can put in a good word for you.”

  “You don’t even know her,” Jack said.

  “I see she handles you just fine, Romeo.”

  They were bickering again and I flipped through the report, when suddenly a mug shot seemed to leap off the page. I turned the report so Jack could see her face.

  Claire.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said. “She got busted for building a spaceship without a permit.”

  She had several different names. Claire Rainmaker. Claire Waterwoman. Finally, Claire the Clairvoyant. In 1999, she was arrested at the World Trade Organization riots in Seattle. Maybe that’s where she learned to screech about “police brutality.” She was later busted for not having a business license for her psychic palm reading operation on Aurora Avenue. But the capper was two hundred and forty-three parking tickets, still unpaid.

  I pointed to the number, showing Jack.

  “Two hundred and forty-three?” He whistled. “That nut’s more ambitious than I thought.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The wind whispered though the spruce boughs on Calhoun Street, filling the air with a cold crisp scent, like spring snow. A steel handrail ran alongside the buckling sidewalk— something to grab during icy winters—and I tried to imagine what life would be like here. Minutes to the mountains. Fresh air. Ocean water. And no boss.

  “Who should we check first?” Jack asked.