CHAPTER 12

WEDNESDAY, JULY 3

When Marti sat down at her desk, the light on her telephone was blinking. She pushed the button and an androgynous voice advised her that she had five new messages. Each was from Anne Devney. Each demanded an immediate response. It was only 7:45 A.M. She returned the call right away, expecting voice mail and a recorded message. Instead, Devney picked up the phone.

“An autopsy!” Devney said when Marti explained why she couldn’t come to Springfield yesterday. “This certainly has priority over something like that.”

“We each have our own priorities,” Marti replied.

“This needs to be yours.”

“In your opinion.”

“You will have to come down tomorrow. This has top priority in our office.”

Marti started to ask how Hector Gonzales, petty thief, dope addict, gang banger, and killer had become so important. Instead she said, “He’s been convicted, commuted, and is incarcerated. I’ve got to track down someone who is still out there.”

When Anne Devney persisted, Marti agreed to meet with her tomorrow.

“What was that all about?” Vik asked when she hung up.

“We’re meeting with Devney at four tomorrow afternoon.”

“Damn. Tomorrow is the Fourth of July.” He had been late for roll call and snapped at anyone who came near him. Now he cursed in Polish.

“How’s Mildred?”

“She fell yesterday.”

“Is she okay?”

“Fine, physically. Just depressed.”

Marti knew that despite the slow progression of the MS, Mildred was seldom depressed.

“Know what?” she said. “Nothing is moving here. Nothing. We’re at a standstill. Let’s go talk to the guard again, then I think you should take the afternoon off.”

“We have to see Dr.—”

“I will check on Dr. Kirkemo this afternoon. If she finds anything in the meantime, she’ll call.”

“Marti…”

“Take the afternoon off, take Mildred for a nice drive to the country or the beach or somewhere, stop for dinner and have a quiet evening at home. In fact, I think you should spend tomorrow together too. It’s the Fourth of July. You know—barbecues, fireworks, John Philip Sousa, flags, parades. I was only planning to come in for a few hours.”

“Was,” Vik said. “Now there’s another trip to Springfield.”

“I can handle that. We’ll just go over everything we’ve already looked at and spend half an hour looking at something else. For something with such a high priority, she sure is slow as hell.”

“As soon as I leave, MacAlister, something will break.”

“If it does, I’ll call you.”

“We don’t have the forensics on the cigarette butts and the prints and the dirt.”

“If we don’t have them by the end of the day, we won’t get them until Friday. If they come in, I promise to call.”

Vik looked at her for a long minute.

“Vik, you’re not going to mind missing something here as much as you’ll miss spending time with Mildred.” She didn’t add that, given his mood, he wasn’t worth much here anyway.

After another minute, Vik nodded. “She was doing okay, taking it easy but feeling pretty good, not so fatigued. She was beginning to use her cane more than her walker. Now this. Maybe some time together away from the house will do us both some good.”

To Marti’s surprise he booked a room at a bed-and-breakfast in Lake Geneva, and gave her a number where he could be reached. “I’ll be here first thing Friday morning. Now let’s go talk to the guard.”

*   *   *

When Marti and Vik went back to the Smith place, the guard who had found Buckner’s body wasn’t on duty. When they asked to speak to Josiah or Paul, they had to wait half an hour. Once again, the family was assembled in the parlor. This time Franklin’s wife wasn’t there.

Josiah was standing by the window. He turned as they entered the room. “You asked to meet with us because the guard who was on duty yesterday is not on duty today? Do you actually expect me to know about something as trivial as that?”

“All we wanted was the name of the security agency,” Marti said.

“Then you should have called. This is quite unnecessary.”

Marti took her time, looking at each of them in turn. “Yes, it is,” she agreed.

*   *   *

The security agency that provided guards for the Smith place was located in a professional building on Bellview Road. Marti checked the directory for the suite number, and she and Vik walked up a flight of stairs. The suite reminded Marti of the place where she took her car for tune-ups and minor repairs. One room, no window, two desks, a chair, three posters tacked to the wall, a three-legged table with a stack of old magazines and lots of dust. A young woman sat at one of the desks. She was talking into a headset attached to a cell phone and kept tugging at the skimpy knit top that covered her breasts.

Vik leaned against the wall and waited, arms folded. Marti walked to the desk.

“Yeah, you know, I mean…” The young woman popped her gum, then laughed and said, “Well, gotta go. Yeah. Customers. I’ll call you back in a couple of minutes.”

She looked up at them and said, “Yeah?”

They showed her their badges.

“Yeah. So? We get you guys in here every so often. What do you want this time?”

“We want to speak with the guard who was on duty at the Smith estate on Monday.”

“Yeah. Chet Simms. The guy who found the body. He’s taking the day off. Wanted a long weekend.” She popped her gum as she opened a file drawer. “Here.” She wrote on a slip of paper and handed it to Marti. “His address.”

“How long has he been working here?” Vik asked.

“A lot longer than me. Three, four years at least.” She checked the file. “I take that back. Six years. Wow. I wasn’t even in high school yet. Boss won’t let them work anyplace important until they’ve been on the job at least a year. And the Smith estate is real important.”

*   *   *

Chet Simms lived in a tan brick bungalow on the southwest side of town. It was a quiet, tree-lined street with similar but not identical houses. A camper was hitched to an SUV parked in the driveway. As they approached, a black-and-tan dog ran to the chain-link fence. He began to bark when Marti rang the bell. The guard recognized them as soon as he opened the door.

“Come on in,” he said.

They entered a small, well-kept living room. The patio door was open, and the dog was standing outside wagging his tail. It was a mixed breed, and as it panted, it drooled.

“It’s okay, boy. Everything’s okay. They’re friends,” the guard said. He spoke as if the dog had its teeth bared and was ready to lunge at them. “I remember you two. Come in. Have a seat. It’s lucky you caught me. The wife and I are heading out as soon as she gets back from the store. I told you all I know about finding that guy.”

Marti wondered if he was this relaxed because he was in his own home or anticipating the trip, or if it was because he had been briefed by one of the Smiths and had had time to rehearse what he was supposed to say. There was also the possibility that the first time they spoke with him he had been unnerved by finding a body.

“Anything like that ever happen to you before?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No. Man. I don’t even like seeing ’em in coffins. God.” He shook his head again. “I didn’t even know the guy, but damn…”

“Why did you go looking for him?”

“He wasn’t mowing the lawn. We got a call from the house. They wanted the lawn mowed.”

So it wasn’t because the guards hadn’t heard the lawn mower.

“Are they usually like that?”

“The cook is a real pain. Knows everything and makes a big deal about it. She runs the place if you ask me.”

Marti recalled that it was the cook who had hired Buckner. They would have to talk to her. She looked at Chet, decided that her second guess was probably correct and he had just been upset the last time she questioned him.

Outside, she said, “I’m inclined to think he’s telling the truth and was just reacting to finding the body yesterday.”

“Me, too,” Vik agreed. “Interesting what he had to say about the cook, though. I think that justifies having a talk with her.”

“She hired Buckner,” Marti reminded him.

*   *   *

This time, Paul Smith was allowed to greet them with only his wife, Jessica, present. He led them to the kitchen, sat on a stool at the counter, and unfolded a newspaper. Marti had not expected to have an unsupervised visit with Cook.

Jessica went into a room-sized pantry lined with shelves and freezers. “Cook! They’re here.”

Cook. That was the only thing anyone in the family had called her. Marti debated asking the woman her given name. She decided to wait and see how the conversation went.

Cook was white-haired and plump and almost as tall as Paul’s wife. Poor Paul, Marti thought. So far, everyone in the house was taller than he was.

“He was supposed to mow the west lawn every Monday morning,” Cook said.

Marti detected a hint of what she thought was a brogue.

“He was not there, so I sent someone to get him.”

“Did that happen very often?” Marti asked.

“No. Harry was always reliable. Always. But his weight. I have to admit I thought maybe he wasn’t where he should be because he had a heart attack or something.”

“How did you know he wasn’t there?”

“I couldn’t hear the mower.”

“So he didn’t check in with you or anything?”

“He had a schedule of his responsibilities. In winter, he plowed as necessary.”

“Did you talk with him often?”

“Occasionally. Mid-July he would begin bringing tomatoes from his garden. He grew tomatoes that were as big as grapefruit.”

“Do you know of any family?”

“Only his daughter, Zoe. Poor man. Sometimes you love the memory more than the person. I think that for him it was both, and also the future that never happened for her.”

“Did he fill out a job application?”

“Just papers for taxes and insurance. The accountant would have all of that.”

Marti turned to Paul. “We cannot find any next of kin. You’ll have to either give us the name of the accountant or get Buckner’s paperwork. We’ll have to have his social security number. If he gave any references or names of family or friends, we’ll need that, too.”

Paul hesitated, looked at his wife, then nodded.

“Today,” Marti said. She turned to Cook. “Do you know when his daughter died? Or where?”

“Not the year, but it was in the winter. The road was icy that night and the driver was drunk. I think he lived in Idaho then, but it could have been Iowa. Something that began with an I. Or was it Utah? I’m not sure. One of those places.”

Marti expected Josiah to show up, but he hadn’t put in an appearance by the time they left. But then, Paul seemed as intimidated by his wife as he was by his father.

“Interesting family,” she said as they walked to their car. “Cook seems nice enough.”

“Sounds like Buckner kept to himself. From what I can tell there are the guards, the maid who lets us in, and Cook. Someone has to keep the place clean, though. I can’t imagine either of the wives making a bed.”

“They probably have a service come in. As big as that place is, there aren’t enough people to make much of a mess.”

Marti returned to the office alone. She caught a whiff of Obsession for Men, but Slim and Cowboy were gone. She checked the coffeepot. Empty. No doughnuts either. She had been so anxious for Vik to go home, she hadn’t suggested stopping for lunch. She thought about going down to the garbage machines, compared what she would find there to real food, and decided she didn’t feel much like eating anyway. Before she could decide what to do next, the phone rang.

“Detective MacAlister,” she said.

“Are you the one who’s looking for Tommy Strongwind?”

“Who?”

“Tommy Strongwind. They have a copy of his picture at the Indian Affairs office.”

She had almost forgotten about the computerized facial reconstruction.

“Where are you calling from?”

“Madison, University of Wisconsin.”

“What makes you think it’s Tommy Strongwind?” she asked, jotting down the name.

“It’s him.”

“Who is he?”

“My cousin.”

Marti sighed. Either they talked too much or they said too little. At least this sounded like she might be speaking with a relative.

“Tell me about him.”

“He took off again last summer.”

“Where did he say he was going?”

“He didn’t.”

“Then what made you think he had taken off?”

“Tommy did that a lot but he always came back.”

Unlike the others who had called, this young man did not sound confused or desperate.

“What’s your name?”

“Ethan Dana.”

“And you’re sure this is your cousin, Tommy Strongwind?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me anything about his family?”

“He’s Indian. Potawatomi. We still have a few relatives up north on the reservation.”

“When’s the last time you talked with them?”

“Couple of years, maybe.”

Before Strongwind disappeared.

“I need you to find out if anyone’s spoken with him or seen him since you did. Show them the picture. If they agree that it’s him, ask them to call me.”

“Okay.”

“Can you take care of that right away?”

“Is it important?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll drive up as soon as I can.”

After she hung up, Marti picked up the copy of the News-Times that was folded on Vik’s desk. The headline she was looking for was in the lower left-hand corner of the second page. “Worker dies in accident.” In a three-sentence paragraph, it gave Harry Buckner’s name, mentioned the storm, and listed an address without identifying it as the Smiths’ place. There was no mention of the accident involving Larissa Linski the week before. Marti wondered whom Josiah knew at the News-Times. The lieutenant was right about the Smiths controlling the media.

*   *   *

While Krista packed a small suitcase for her mother and Helen packed a lunch, Vik put folding chairs in the trunk and a sweater and blanket in the backseat. Sometimes, even though it was summer, Mildred got cold. He got her settled on the front seat with a few small pillows to keep her comfortable, then leaned over and patted her knee.

“It’s been a while since we’ve gone anywhere.”

“And on a workday, Matthew.”

“Marti will call if she needs me.”

They spent most of the drive to Wisconsin talking about Steven, their daughter Krista and their grandson. By the time they reached Lake Geneva, they were recalling things that had happened years ago when they were newlyweds and he was a young cop. They never ran out of things to talk about. Vik worried that it might be because they didn’t spend enough time together.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

“No. I’m enjoying the ride.”

“Good. It’s nice country here. We’ll drive a little while longer, then go to that place with a view of the lake for an early supper.”

By the time they reached the bed-and-breakfast, Mildred was tired. He helped her take a shower, then sat in the bed beside her and read a book after she went to sleep. It had been a good day for both of them.

*   *   *

Marti waited until Dr. Kirkemo and her assistants packed up their equipment for the night. It was dusk and mosquito season, but thanks to the bats, bugs were not a problem.

“Nothing,” Marti said.

“Something,” Dr. Kirkemo said. “But not what you’re hoping for, not yet.”

“What’s the something?”

“Strata.”

Gordon McIntosh had mentioned that. Maybe now she would find out why it was important.

“We have gone through the first layer of dirt. It’s loam, a very fertile soil. Before the trees in this circular area I pointed out yesterday were planted, this land was cleared, leveled and covered with a rich, organic soil that would facilitate growth.”

“Which could mean…” Marti began.

“Any number of things. What happened here is that the trees grew quickly, which also means that they looked like mature trees within a short period of time and blended in with the other trees that were already here.”

“What if you don’t find anything?” Marti asked.

“We will either extend the dig site or begin another one within this perimeter.”

“Then you think something is down there.”

“I could be wrong about that, but it’s worth making sure. I am an architectural archaeologist. If I find something, I will know what kind of dwelling it came from and be able to determine the configuration of the village. Then we will not dig randomly but in specific places looking for specific artifacts or indications that the Potawatomi did establish a village here.”

*   *   *

When Marti got home, everyone was out back on the deck having supper. Ben had barbecued spareribs, Momma had cooked greens, Joanna had contributed two salads. Although she didn’t think much of Joanna’s vegetable casseroles, most of Joanna’s salads were great. The six-bean salad she had prepared for tonight was one of Marti’s favorites. She fixed a plate and sat in a comfortably padded chair. The sun was just setting, citron candles kept the mosquitoes at bay and there was just enough of a breeze to make it seem cooler than it was.

Later, while Joanna and the boys cleaned up, Marti and Ben went up to the middle place. She wanted to look at the books the boys had brought home from the library. She hadn’t even had time to open the book she had taken to work.

“What are you researching?” Ben asked.

“Research? I’m not sure what I’m doing. Spinning my wheels, most likely.”

“This case is different, isn’t it?”

“It’s a lot like a case here that goes back about thirty years.” She repeated the story Vik had told her about the storm and the three teenagers and dead parents.

Ben considered that. “You don’t have any circumstantial evidence?”

“Not enough. Not yet. And nothing so far that will stick to anyone in the family.”

“Tough case.”

“You said it.”

“Is it because of who they are?”

“Yes and no, but that’s more a matter of perception. If they were not who they are, circumstantial evidence could weigh more heavily against them. Because of who they are, we have to have an airtight case.”

She went over to the computer and turned it on.

“You’ve been on the Internet a lot lately.”

“You would not believe the things about this case that I don’t know.”

Ben looked at the stack of library books. “Potawatomi,” he said. “The Underground Railroad. Archaeology.”

The Underground Railroad. What if the root cellar had been a hideout for runaway slaves? Suppose it was that far below ground to keep the dogs from getting their scent? There was a bounty on slaves. They had to hide because they weren’t safe here. Their owners and bounty hunters could catch them and bring them back. Maybe there hadn’t been a roof. Maybe something else had covered that cellar. They could have used a ladder to climb in and out. But if that was the case, then why did Larissa Linski die there? She no longer believed that was an accident, and she certainly didn’t believe in the accident ghost, or witch, or bad fairy.

*   *   *

They went to see Marti’s godchild on the Fourth of July. Thanks to Anne Devney, she would miss the fireworks tonight. Staben House, where Sissy and little Gracie were living, always had a big cookout. With Sissy there, the whole family had become involved. Today, Ben and his partner Allan were the chefs. Momma was reading to the preschoolers. Theo and Mike played horseshoes and volleyball with the older children. Joanna organized a treasure hunt.

Marti played with Gracie for a while. At three and a half, Gracie was a trusting, affectionate child who greeted her with a smile and a hug and laughed a lot.

Then Marti and Gracie’s mom, Sissy, sat inside where it was quiet, and talked. Sissy, always underweight, had gained a few pounds. She didn’t look at the door every two minutes anymore, as if she was expecting someone to break it down, and she didn’t jump anymore when the phone rang.

“How’s it going?” Marti asked.

“You were right. They’re pretty tough on me here. But they care. And for once in my life it’s good to have people around me who think I can take care of myself, and Gracie.”

“How’s the job?”

“I hate it. Sitting there waiting for the phone to ring, taking messages and making appointments is driving me nuts. I need more to do. But I don’t know how to do anything else.”

Marti waited.

“I want to go back to school so I can get a real job, but I don’t know what I want to do, and there’s Gracie. I’d have to find day care. Good day care. Someone to love her.”

“That’s the scary part, isn’t it?” Marti said. “Finding someone you can trust.”

Tears came to Sissy’s eyes as she nodded. “I know what could happen to her. And if anything did happen, they would take her away from me.”

“I’m her godmother,” Marti said. “I think this is something I should help you with. Why don’t you get enrolled for fall semester and let me look into day care for Gracie?”

“I am so afraid for her,” Sissy whispered. “One of the mothers here watches her for me now. But that’s just because she’s not looking for work yet. Her baby is only three weeks old. Even though Gracie’s here, I still worry. I still call two or three times a day. I can’t help it.”

Marti wondered if Sissie, after being on her own or in foster care most of her life, would ever get over worrying about her daughter. Some people could guess at what was out there. Sissie knew.

*   *   *

Downtown Springfield was crowded, perhaps because of the holiday. Marti wasted fifteen minutes trying to find a parking place before she gave up and went to an indoor parking garage connected to a hotel. There were no vacant spaces until she reached the fourth level.

Instead of going to the capital, she met Devney at the library. Old, but recently renovated, it was a beautiful building. The center was open from the ground level to the ceiling three floors up. Anne Devney led the way to a small meeting room with two windows. The room was tucked in a corner, had comfortable chairs and bookcases. Five folders were on a coffee table. “I think this is where we left of,” Devney said as she chose one.

*   *   *

Three and half hours later Marti returned to the garage. The sun had set and the streets were all but deserted. Two women were half a block ahead. She turned. Nobody was behind her. As she walked, she arranged her keys between her fingers. Her gun weighed heavy in her purse. Holstering her weapon had seemed unnecessary when she left home. She was wearing her service shoes with the steel heel shanks. A sudden burst of music came from a pub as the two women went inside. Marti kept to the center of the sidewalk, away from the doorways, away from the cars parked at the curb.

She paused as she reached the garage and looked about. A man was waiting for the elevator. He was wearing faded jeans and a cap with the visor pulled down. He didn’t look at her. She let him step ahead of her and enter first, then stood with her back to the wall. She gripped the keys. The elevator was warm. The man got off on the third level.

When Marti exited, most of the parking spaces were filled. Hotel guests, maybe. It was quiet. No voices. No music. No car doors slamming. Had the man one level below left this quickly? She kept to the center of the driveway as she approached her unmarked vehicle. It did not have a remote door opener.

Marti put the key in the lock. Smelled paint thinner. Heard breathing. Someone grabbed her from behind. She raked her heel down his shin. Came down hard on his instep.

“Goddammit!” a man howled. His grip loosened.

She thrust both elbows back. He grunted.

Another man vaulted over the railing. Cap. Crowbar. She raised her arm. Pain went from her wrist to her shoulder.

“Police!” she yelled.

The man behind her got her in a choke hold. She buckled her knees. She dropped. He lost his balance. She pitched him forward.

She butted the man wearing the cap with her head. He screamed. Blood spurted from his nose. She kneed him. He yelled. Doubled over, he clutched at his crotch.

The man behind her grabbed her hair. Turning, she hit him with the heel of her hand. She hit him again as he backed away. Marti grabbed his wrist, twisted his arm behind his back, forced him to lean over the trunk of her car.

“Do not ever touch my hair again.” She punctuated each word by pulling his arm higher. “Next time I’ll break it.”

She cuffed him. The other man was gone. His cap was on the floor.

It was almost ten o’clock by the time she left the local police station. Her arm hurt like hell but she could drive. If she had to spend half the night at the hospital, she preferred the hospital closest to home. Ben would meet her there.