Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [126]
‘‘I heard what you said. What the hell makes you think he’s working with him?’’
‘‘Oh,’’ she said, ‘‘it’s like when I was working dope. You see that kind of synergistic relationship develop sometimes. Between the doper and the cop who’s got him by the balls. Especially after a long time. They get to, well, sort of read each other.’’
I looked at her as she drove. ‘‘Then, you’re basing this on intuition or something, right?’’
‘‘Yep. Trust me.’’
‘‘I don’t think so . . .’’
‘‘At Stritch’s, you ducked, Houseman, as soon as you came around the building and saw me hit the dirt. Before you saw the man with the gun. Am I right?’’
‘‘Sure.’’
‘‘You trusted my intuition then, didn’t you?’’
‘‘Well,’’ I said, ‘‘it was more like trusting the fact that you wouldn’t get dirty unless your life was in danger.’’
‘‘Houseman . . .’’
‘‘Right. But, yeah, I did.’’
She grinned. ‘‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’’
We drove in silence for a few seconds.
‘‘Well,’’ I said, ‘‘it’s been a great day anyway. Everything just like clockwork.’’ I leaned back in the seat. ‘‘Yes, by God, just like a clock.’’
Hester winced.
Twenty-three
WE WERE JUST LEAVING the Wittman house with our prize rifle. George, Hester, and I stood out by Hester’s car and talked for a few moments.
‘‘The only thing, George,’’ I said, ‘‘that pissed me off is that Wittman was in the woods with the group that offed Turd and Kellerman. But he didn’t make any deal with us about that. Only Volont.’’
‘‘But you know for sure who killed Rumsford,’’ said George.
‘‘Well, yeah. But just from a co-conspirator, so we also need physical evidence.’’
‘‘Houseman?’’ said Hester.
‘‘Hmm?’’
‘‘Why do you get so negative? You’re probably holding the best physical evidence right there in the bag.’’
The rifle. She was probably right.
‘‘Well . . .’’ I said.
Hester laughed. She turned to George. ‘‘Houseman suffers from postcoital depression. He screws somebody, gets all euphoric, and then gets down about it ten minutes later.’’ She turned back to me. ‘‘You should’ve been an attorney.’’
I placed the rifle in the back seat. It was about four feet long and seemed to weigh about ten pounds. The evidence people had put it in a long, thick, transparent plastic evidence bag, complete with embedded white evidence tag, obviously designed for rifles. Those Feds had everything. If I’d wanted to put a rifle in a plastic bag back in Nation County, I’d have to either get a drop cloth or cut the rifle into small pieces and use a bunch of sandwich bags.
Hester’s phone rang when my head was in the back seat. I jumped, and she reached into the front seat and picked up the call.
‘‘Anyway,’’ said George as I closed the back door, ‘‘it’s been a pretty good day, hasn’t it?’’
‘‘That’s what I was telling Hester on the way out.’’ I glanced into the car and saw her scribbling something down on a note paper. ‘‘I don’t know, now, though . . .’’
‘‘Oh, what the hell,’’ said George, ‘‘it’s late. The day’s over. Go home.’’
Hester hung up the phone and got out of the car. ‘‘That was for you,’’ she said, puzzled.
‘‘Me?’’ The first thing I thought of was that my wife’s mother had died.
‘‘Yeah,’’ said Hester. ‘‘They want you to go to a secure telephone and call them back.’’
‘‘WHO?’’
‘‘Sorry . . . the RCMP.’’
I just looked at her. So did George.
‘‘The Royal Canadian Mounted Police?’’ It was all I could think of.
‘‘You got it. The RCMP, Winnipeg office. Here,’’ she said, handing me the note.
The only secure telephone, as far as I knew, was back at the Homer County jail. That’s where we went, at about 90 mph, with George close behind. Well, he started off close. Hester can drive.
On the way back, Hester only said one thing. ‘‘Do we want Volont to know about this right away?’’
I thought it over. ‘‘I don’t think we need for him to know right away.’’ I thought some more. ‘‘Who called you, the RCMP?’’
‘‘No,’’ she said, ‘‘State Police radio. They got the call.’’
‘‘Then we really don’t tell Volont yet,’’ I said. ‘‘No ‘need to know,’ you know.’’
‘‘Yep,’’ she said, passing an eighteen-wheeler like it