Acts of Malice Read online

  ‘‘I’ll produce it when we get together. Fair enough?’’

  Nina thought about it. He meant to question Jim about the statement before Jim had time to prepare any answers. She could prevent that. She’d read it first, and then she’d demand a couple of minutes outside and take ten, just to make sure Jim wasn’t sideswiped. Exposing him to a surprise was risky, but Collier could hold up Heidi’s statement for quite a while if they didn’t offer something in trade.

  Despite the eyes of the receptionist boring into his back, he waited patiently for Nina’s answer, stroking his new beard, watching her.

  ‘‘I’ll mention it to him, see if he wants to,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll call this afternoon.’’

  ‘‘Right, then.’’ Still he watched her, his eyes lighting on her in a warm way she didn’t remember.

  She thought she could feel the stream of his energy pushing outward into the world again. His eyes, his posture, his manner, told her that he was finding the sight of her interesting.

  She found herself smiling back at him. Standing up, she shouldered her briefcase. ‘‘I hope you’ll forgive me saying this,’’ she said. ‘‘But I’m almost sorry you came back. I always thought you were too good to be a D.A. I mean, I didn’t think the work was good for you.’’

  The receptionist sighed, gave up, and turned back to her complaining telephone.

  Collier raised his eyebrows.

  ‘‘It’s none of my business,’’ Nina said hastily.

  ‘‘I’ll take that as a compliment. The work isn’t good for anybody, but it’s our work.’’

  She didn’t know what to make of that statement, so she looked at her watch.

  ‘‘How’s Paul? You still work with him?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘He’s in Washington. He worked for a while with a private agency. Now he’s involved in a temporary security job at the Senate building that keeps getting extended.’’

  ‘‘Is that so? I never thought he’d put that kind of space between the two of you.’’

  ‘‘Things didn’t work out for us,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Too bad.’’

  ‘‘Well, it’s good to see you,’’ she said. ‘‘You seem resurrected.’’

  ‘‘Mis-ter Hallowell,’’ said the voice from the window. ‘‘Miss Banning just called again.’’

  ‘‘Be right there.’’ He turned back to Nina. ‘‘Resurrected,’’ he said. ‘‘I like that. The mummy walks again. Maybe a sorceress has called me back.’’

  She drove through the white landscape to the Horizon Hotel and Casino for her breakfast, bringing the autopsy report into the restaurant with her. Hustling past the clang of the slots and the empty, shrouded blackjack tables, she picked a quiet spot in the great-smelling coffee shop that served breakfast skillets that would hold you all day for $1.99. Most diners spent quite a bit more than that as they walked through the casino on their way to eat, so breakfast was a loss leader.

  A full-bearded prospector with a sunburned bald spot and a backpack beside him sat in one corner, sipping a mimosa. At the counter, a cowboy and his woman, coming off a night of partying, drooped over their coffee cups, skinny from smoking and glazed of eye, like Degas’s absinthe drinkers.

  Between mouthfuls of scrambled egg, she read over the report. Alexander Bradford Strong, age twenty-seven and three months and two days—his clock had stopped forever.

  Alex Strong’s body had lost its human significance. He had become a legal tool, transformed into words by an autopsy report. Now, she would autopsy the autopsy, dissect the words, look for things that were not right.

  As she went through the dry medicalese, outrage boiled up inside her, energy she would need to beat Doc Clauson and the overpowering system behind him.

  The report had been written, then amended two days later, the amendment consisting of a single page stapled at the end. She flipped to the back, and found things were far worse than she had expected.

  She went back to the beginning and ran her eyes down the pages, forcing herself to review it all from start to finish.

  A well-nourished male, five feet ten and 168 pounds, muscular, fair-skinned, inclined to freckle. Alex Strong’s eyes had been blue, his hair brown, the same as his brother Jim’s, she remembered. His two front teeth were false, probably from a prior skiing accident.

  When he died, he had been wearing a down parka, ski bibs, ski boots that had cut into his ankles but prevented any foot fractures, a black turtleneck cotton shirt, silk boxers, wool socks, a silver Piaget watch, and a gold chain around his neck. A small empty flask that had once contained cognac was found in a pocket of the parka.

  No signs of vomitus in nostrils or mouth. No external evidence of disease.

  Fingerprints and ID photos were taken at the scene. Clauson had gone up the mountain on skis to examine the scene.

  Old injuries. A fully healed simple fracture of the left femur. Old arthroscopic surgery on the left knee. Old scar on the scalp just above the right ear. A recent black eye. A hotdogger’s body.

  External examination showed numerous contusions, abrasions, lacerations on the posterior—back—skin, from head to toe.

  Internal examination. Head, some posterior endodermal bleeding consistent with a fall onto rocks. No skull fractures. Neck, respiratory tract, urinary tract . . . most body systems unremarkable. Slides and toxicological samples had been taken after the major organs were weighed. A preliminary blood alcohol test showed a .13 level, above the legal limit for driving but not stumbling drunk.

  A fresh, simple fracture of the right tibia. The fall had broken his right leg this time.

  Clauson had saved the abdominal area for last. Area of severe contusion on the upper anterior—front—torso area, consistent with a crushing force. Internally, two lower ribs had fractured above the liver.

  And the liver had been completely transected.

  She remembered that the liver sat right in the middle of the body, protected partly by the lower ribs. But . . . transected? Nina thought back to a continuing ed course she’d taken in medical terminology. Transected meant split. Transected meant the liver had been torn in half by the force which had struck it.

  She put her fork down gently and pushed her plate back, still reading.

  Clauson’s original findings and opinion were simple. Death was due to a fall of approximately fifteen feet onto granitic rock, which had resulted in transection of the liver. Strong had died within two hours from massive internal bleeding into the peritoneum, the lining of the abdominal cavity.

  The last page contained Clauson’s reconsidered findings. After a second trip to the incident site and further examination of the surrounding circumstances, Clauson had changed his opinion from accident to homicide.

  Nina read this section several times, excitement and anger blurring the words. Clauson wrote as laconically as he spoke, and the import of his findings took time to understand.

  Transected! she thought, and read on, to three new findings.

  First, a statement obtained from Heidi Strong, the wife of the only witness to the fall, indicated that the witness, James Strong, had threatened to kill the decedent only a few weeks before.

  Second, a reexamination of the front of the down parka and the bibs revealed no traces of tearing or damage, even microscopically, in the area above the fatal injury. The overall damage to clothing and the pattern of abrasions and contusions on the subject indicated that the front of the subject had not come into contact with rocks before he landed on his back.

  However, the front of the turtleneck shirt, which should have been protected under the bibs, showed slight tearing just above the fatal injury.

  And third, Clauson now thought, based on photographs taken at the autopsy, that he could see faint patterning in the contused skin above the fatal injury.

  She moved on to the conclusions. It was Clauson’s reconsidered opinion that some severe blunt force trauma to the area above the liver had occurred after Alex Strong came t
o rest in the snow, alive and possibly conscious, on his back. Although Clauson did not rule out a blow with a large, heavy rock, he said that the rock would have to weigh more than a man could carry, and that no such rock had been found in the environs.

  Clauson went into a discussion of something called foot-pounds, a measure of force. Then he came to his conclusion. It was his opinion that a party or parties unknown had come upon Alex Strong lying injured on his back, then opened the parka and pulled the bibs down, jumped on the midsection or possibly stomped the midsection with one foot, and then pulled the bibs back up and zipped up the parka in order to make the death look like an accident.

  Sickened, Nina said it to herself minus the big words. Clauson was claiming that Jim Strong had jumped onto his injured brother’s midsection, though Clauson hadn’t used Jim’s name. She imagined saying those brutal words to a jury, the scorn she would pour into that interpretation.

  Fuming, she drank her coffee. Clauson had nothing! The parka hadn’t been torn above the fatal injury—so what? Those things were made of a nylon blend so strong nothing could hurt them, and she would bet Alex Strong had worn the best parka available.

  The fatal injury was in front. So Alex had hit something on the way down, or rolled! How could Clauson be so sure Alex had flown off the cliff and landed, simply and once, on his back? She would go up the mountain herself. There would be another explanation.

  And Clauson was claiming that only a person in ski boots could have caused the injury, going way too far in his conclusions. He had a hypothesis, not a conclusion! And what about the ‘‘faint patterning’’? Why hadn’t he noticed it when he looked at the body the first time around?

  She would get Ginger Hirabayashi in Sacramento on the forensics. Ginger would straighten it all out.

  Heidi’s statement—Nina wished she had it in hand. Clearly, Heidi was upset about something. Finding out what she was upset about and bringing that into focus would help to interpret her motive, maybe cast some doubt on her truthfulness. Or, they might convince her to recant. She had to be found right away. Whatever she had said in that statement, it couldn’t be enough to convict a man of anything under such foggy circumstances. With his physical evidence so ambiguous, Clauson had no business even taking an angry wife’s accusations into account.

  Nina balled her fist, slamming it down onto the stapled pages. Clauson was a dangerous incompetent. He had done enough harm. This time, she would take him down.

  Slowly, her breathing and heartbeats returned to normal. She could handle this report. If they arrested Jim, she might even get the case thrown out at the preliminary hearing stage. They had nothing but a bunch of medical gobbledygook which was wide-open to reinterpretation.

  Nothing except for Heidi.

  Outside, slow heavy clouds clumped low in the sky, threatening more snow. By December, they’d be swimming in it. As she drove along the gunmetal lake, Nina saw gulls listlessly riding the air currents above as though wondering where autumn had gone.

  She remembered a description she had read of the Donner party, how the starving people built fires on the snow which melted and melted all night from the heat until they found themselves in the morning shivering in a wet pit of ice fifteen feet deep, with more snow below. The Sierra winters had been a harsh lesson to the pioneers, but soon enough the businessmen who followed had figured out a way to turn a profit from it, dressing it up with World Cup races, hot tubs, casino shows, and chalet ambience, at least on the Nevada side of the lake.

  Sandy was on the phone when Nina gusted in on a blast of wind. No one was waiting, so Nina dropped her attaché on a client chair and trotted down the hall to brush her hair and finish calming down before returning.

  ‘‘That was Mrs. Geiger,’’ Sandy told her as she came back in. ‘‘She wants an appointment.’’

  ‘‘For what? We’re all set. All we need to do is wait for the check from the insurance company and deduct the medical bills so we can cut her a check for the rest. Does she have some questions?’’

  ‘‘No. It’s a new matter.’’

  ‘‘Oh, no. She didn’t have another collision?’’

  ‘‘You might say that,’’ Sandy said, her expression never wavering. ‘‘She wants a divorce. She knows personal injury money is separate property. She says she’s gonna take the money and run.’’

  ‘‘Really? A divorce? Now I feel guilty. I never dreamed she’d do that.’’

  ‘‘She wanted me to be sure and tell you that you’re the best thing that ever happened to her.’’ Sandy delivered this news without a flicker of expression.

  ‘‘And the worst thing that ever happened to her husband. Tell her we’re blocked up. Make her wait at least a week, Sandy. She may change her mind. This may blow over.’’

  ‘‘Or blow up.’’ They were both thinking about Mr. Geiger. Sandy took a swig of diet Snapple. She had been drinking three or four bottles of the stuff every day, which must cut into her spending money, and where were the frosted Tastykakes that usually rested on the file cabinet?

  Nina took a good look at her. Sandy was wearing lipstick, and not only that, she had had a really good haircut, a blunt cut on her coarse black hair that left it full and swinging around her shoulders. She looked younger, even in the voluminous denim skirt and hiking boots.

  ‘‘Just sprucing up a little,’’ she said when she noticed Nina’s stare.

  ‘‘Are you going to tell me what you’re up to?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ Sandy handed her a message slip. ‘‘Collier Hallowell. He wants to meet at three-thirty in the afternoon instead of in the morning tomorrow. When did he show up in town again?’’

  ‘‘A couple of weeks ago. I ran into him at court. He’s back in the D.A.’s office, back to felony prosecutions. Right in the thick of it.’’

  ‘‘No kidding?’’

  ‘‘No kidding.’’

  ‘‘I thought he was toast.’’

  ‘‘Me, too. He seems to be over it.’’

  ‘‘It?’’

  ‘‘His wife.’’

  ‘‘Now what?’’

  ‘‘What do you mean, now what?’’

  ‘‘You know what. Him.’’

  ‘‘What about him?’’

  ‘‘Can we get real? Can we please not avoid the question?’’ Sandy wagged her finger.

  ‘‘If you want to know so badly, since my private affairs are open for your inspection, as opposed to yours . . .’’

  Sandy was immovable, a glacier filling a stenographic chair.

  Nina said, ‘‘Burned there, done that. Okay? Call Jim Strong and ask him to come in here tomorrow before we go to the D.A.’s office. I have to talk to him. And call Collier and confirm that we’ll see him at three-thirty.’’

  ‘‘So we’re gonna earn out that retainer. That’s good, because the rent is due next week.’’

  ‘‘Leave me to worry about that.’’ Nina went into her office and closed the door. Music sailed up from underneath it on a balmy tropical breeze and she inhaled deeply.

  4

  BY THREE O’CLOCK snow occupied every crack left in town, dressing up the thrift shops and motels on the California side with another three inches of vanilla sugar. Bob would be catching the school bus about now, heading for Matt and Andrea’s house and his cousins.

  Nina lifted her head from the pile of folders on her desk, took a long yearning look out the window, and thought of snowmen, igloos, snow forts. Bob might be growing up in spite of her, but this afternoon he would be out with Troy and Brianna in the front yard under the snow-laden fir trees Matt loved so much, and the snowballs would be flying.

  Jim Strong arrived early. Wearing the same boldly colored parka, he came in shedding snow from his shoulders like a buffalo and sat down. Tiny puddles on the rug followed in his footsteps.

  ‘‘Whew! Hot in here!’’ he said. Standing up, he took off his parka, and her mind flashed back to the autopsy report matching him physically to his dead brother. He
was a few inches taller than Alex had been, heavier, one eighty or so. Under the parka he wore a lightweight long-sleeved white sweater, thin enough to see the outline of the well-developed chest muscles underneath.

  ‘‘We’re opening every lift on the mountain,’’ he told her. ‘‘The place is jam-packed. I had a hard time getting away. And then, of course, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to this.’’

  Standing across the desk from her his face looked resentful and alienated. He obviously was having a hard time.

  ‘‘Have you heard any news about Heidi?’’ he asked.

  She shook her head. She motioned to the chair, but he ignored her. ‘‘Still not a call, not even a rumor on my end,’’ he said. As he had during their first meeting, he looked past her, to the mountain. ‘‘A big snow year’s coming,’’ he murmured.

  ‘‘You must really watch the weather.’’

  ‘‘Like everyone in the resort business. It’s essential to our operation.’’

  ‘‘How long have you worked at Paradise?’’ Nina wanted to know, but she also wanted to divert him from the session to come.

  ‘‘Our family’s owned the resort since 1935. We were the pioneers, before Heavenly or Squaw. I’ve worked there since I graduated. I love Paradise and I’ve never thought about working anywhere else. I studied geology and meteorology in college, and then for years, I groomed the mountains at Paradise every morning. I worked with the Ski Patrol on avalanche control, checking the snow depth, setting off explosives.’’

  ‘‘Explosives?’’

  ‘‘To clear drifts and shaky terrain. To keep the slopes safe.’’

  ‘‘Funny. I never thought about that. I guess the snow really piles up around here,’’ said Nina.

  ‘‘That’s how I got to know Heidi. She was doing the same thing. And then Alex came back from Colorado and he was around too.’’

  When he began talking about Heidi, his expression hardened. ‘‘Somebody at Paradise must know where she is. She’s worked there since she was in her teens. It’s her whole life. You haven’t heard anything at all?’’ He was trying to suppress his anger but his voice was acrimonious.