Cruel and Unusual - Cornwell Patricia - Страница 37
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"You're in luck," I said to Lucy as gracious men in gray uniforms stepped our way. "The ski conditions are going to be terrific.”
Benton Wesley had accomplished what he had promised, and we found a reservation waiting for us when we got to the front desk. He had booked a double room with glass doors opening onto a balcony overlooking the casino, and on top of a table were flowers from Connie and him. "Meet us on the slopes," the card read. "We scheduled a lesson for Lucy at three-thirty.”
"We've got to hurry," I said to Lucy as we flung open suitcases. "You've got your first ski lesson in exactly forty minutes. Try these.”
I tossed her a pair of red ski pants, which were followed by jacket, socks, mittens, and sweater flying through the air and landing on her bed. "Don't forget your butt pack. Anything else you need we'll have to get later.”
"I don't have any ski glasses," she said, pulling a bright blue turtleneck over her head. "I'll go snowblind.”
"You can use my goggles. The sun will be going down soon anyway.”
By the time we caught the shuttle to the slopes, rented equipment for Lucy, and connected her with the instructor at the rope tow, it was twenty-nine minutes past three. Skiers were brilliant, spots of color moving downhill, and it was only whet, they got dose that they turned into people. I leaned forward in my.boots, skis firmly wedged against the slope as I scanned lines and lifts, my hand shielding my eyes. The sun was nearing the top of trees, the snow dazzled by its touch, but shadows were spreading and the temperature was dropping quickly.
I spotted the man and woman simply because their parallel skiing was so graceful, poles lifted, like feathers and barely flicking snow as they soared and turned like birds. I recognized Benton Wesley's silver hair and raised my hand. Glancing back at Connie and yelling something I could not hear, he pushed off and schussed downhill like a knife, skis so close together I doubted you could fit a piece of paper between them.
When he stopped in a spray of snow and pushed back his goggles, it suddenly occurred to me that if I did not know him I would have been watching him anyway. Black ski pants hugged well-muscled legs I had never known were beneath the trousers of his conservative suits, and the jacket he wore reminded me of a Key West sunset. His face and eyes were brightened by the cold, making his sharp features more striking than formidable. Connie eased to a stop beside him.
"It's wonderful that you're here," Wesley said, and I could never see him or hear his voice without being reminded of Mark. They had been colleagues' and best friends. They could have passed for brothers.
"Where's Lucy?” Connie asked.
"Conquering the rope tow even as we speak.” I pointed.
"I hope you didn't mind my signing her up for a lesson.”
"Mind? I can't thank you enough for being so thoughtful. She's having the time of her life.”
"I think I'll stand right here and watch her for a while," Connie said. "Then I'll be ready for something hot to drink and I have a feeling Lucy will be, too. Ben, you look like you haven't had enough.”
Wesley said to me, "You up for a few quick runs?”
We exchanged remarks about nonessential matters as we moved through the line, and then were silent when the lift swung around and seated us. Wesley lowered the bar as the cable slowly pulled us toward the mountaintop. The air was numbing and deliciously clean, and filled with the quiet sounds of skis swishing and dully slapping hard-packed snow. Snow from snow machines drifted like smoke through the woods between slopes.
"I talked to Downey," he said. "He'll see you at headquarters just as soon as you can get there.”
"That's good news," I said. "Benton, what have you been told?”
"Marino and I have talked several times. It appears you have several cases going on right now that aren't connected by evidence, necessarily, but by a peculiar coincidence in timing.”
"I think we're dealing with more than coincidence. You know about Ronnie Waddell's print turning up in Jennifer Deighton's house.”
"Yes.”
He stared off at a stand of evergreens backlit by the setting sun. "As I've told Marino, I'm hoping there's a logical explanation for how Waddell's print got there.”
"The logical explanation may very well be that he was, at some point, inside her house.”
"Then we're dealing with a situation so bizarre as to defy description, Kay. A death row convict is out on the street killing again. And we're supposed to assume someone else took his place in the chair on the night of December thirteenth. I doubt there would have been many volunteers.”
"You wouldn't think so," I said.
"What do you know about Waddell's criminal history?”
"Very little.”
"I interviewed him years ago, in Mecklenburg.“ I glanced over at him with interest. "I'll preface my next remarks by saying that he was not particularly cooperative in that he would not discuss Robyn Naismith's murder. He claimed that if he killed her, he didn't remember it. Not that this is unusual. Most of the violent offenders I have interviewed either claim to have poor recall; or they deny that they committed the crimes. I had a copy of Waddell's Assessment Protocol faxed to me before you got here. We'll go over it after dinner.”
“Benton, I'm already glad I'm here.”
He stared straight ahead, our shoulders barely touching. The slope beneath us got steeper as. we rode in silence for a while. Then he said, "How are you, Kay?”
"Better. There are still moments.”
"I know: There will always be moments. But fewer of them, I hope-. Days, perhaps, where you don't feel it.”
“Yes," I said. "There are days when I don't.”
"We've got a very good lead on the group responsible. We think we know who placed the bomb.”
We raised the tips of our skis and leaned forward as the lift eased us out like baby birds nudged from the nest. My legs were stiff and cold from the ride, and trails in the shade were treacherous with ice. Wesley's long white skis vanished against the snow and caught light at the same time. He danced down the slope in dazzling puffs of diamond dust, pausing every now and then to look back. I waved him on by barely lifting a pole as I made languid parallel toms and floated over moguls. Halfway into the run I was limber and warm, thoughts flying free.
When I returned to my room as it was getting dark, I discovered Marino had left a message that he would be at headquarters until five-thirty and for me to call ASAP.
"What's going on?”
I said when he answered…
"Nothing that's going to make you sleep better. For starters, Jason Story's badmouthing you to anyone who will stand still long enough to listen - including reporters.”
"His rage has to go somewhere," I said, my mood darkening again.
"Well, what he's doing ain't good, but it also ain't the worst of our problems. We can't locate ten print cards for Waddell.”
"Not anywhere?”
"You got it. We've checked his files at Richmond P.D., the State Police, and the FBI. That's every jurisdiction that should have them. No cards. Then I contacted Donahue at the pen to see if I could track down Waddell's personal effects; such as books, letters, hairbrush, toothbrush - anything that might be a source for latent prints. And guess what? Donahue says the only things Waddell's mother wanted were his watch and ring. Everything else Corrections destroyed.”
I sat heavily on the edge of the bed.
“And I saved the best for last, Doc. Firearms hit paydirt and you ain't going to believe it. The bullets recovered from Eddie Heath and Susan Story was fired from the same gun, a twenty-two.”
“Dear God,” I said.
Downstairs in the Homestead Club, a band was playing jazz, but the audience was small and the music was not too loud to talk over. Connie had taken Lucy to a movie, leaving Wesley and me at a table in a deserted corner of the dance floor. Both of us were sipping cognac. He did not seem as physically tired as I was, but tension had returned to his face.
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