she stood on the porch steps, head turned, looking back into the sunshine and over Kimiko’s immaculately manicured front lawn, she had the sense that she had stepped back in time.
The feeling of nostalgia passed quickly, and she found herself thinking about a man whom she, Kimiko, and Rikia had all once known: Thurmond Giles. A man they now needed to talk about openly and frankly. There could be no reminiscing about the past, and she’d make certain that today there’d be no staring off into space by Rikia, no retelling of sixty-five-year-old Japanese history by Kimiko, and no discussion of the old protest days by herself. Someone they’d all detested had been murdered, and ultimately they’d all likely be suspects. Everyone would speak his or her mind this time around. This time nothing could be left unsaid.
Staring at Freddy Dames in disbelief as he strained to be heard over the engine rumble of the half-dozen idling eighteen-wheelers surrounding his pickup, Cozy practically yelled across the seat, “Freddy, you what?”
“You heard me,” Freddy shot back, watching Cozy check out the pump prices at Cheyenne’s Flying J truck stop. “I paid the little snot of a deputy for the information about the stab wounds. Now we know one thing for sure. Giles could have died from any one of at least three stab wounds in the back. According to Sykes, the other two were too superficial to have killed him.” Freddy shifted his weight forward in the seat and glanced through the windshield at the darkening sky. “Looks like we’ll be heading into rain on the drive home. Hope we don’t catch any hail,” he said, looking out toward his Bentley, which sat a couple of gas pumps away, already fueled.
“Damn it, Freddy! Would you stay on point?”
“I will if you’ll try and remember this: no harm, no foul. We’ve got a news story that could earn us a Pulitzer, man.”
“Or time behind bars.”
“There you go again, turning all negative on me. For once would you try thinking a little more positive?”
“Yeah, positive,” Cozy said, thinking,
You passed on a major league baseball career when you had all the tools to be a star, and instead you cruised around the world for half a decade drinking champagne and screwing anything in a skirt. And now, after buying some two-bit, web-based news outlet that peddles information that’s barely a cut above gossip, you’re looking for the big score
.
Not wanting to press the issue, Freddy said, “So here’s the agenda. I want you to head over to Hawk Springs, talk to the Goldbeck woman, and get her and her swollen-balled husband’s take on the Giles murder. In the meantime, I’ll post a story or two back in Denver.”
“Are you sure Hawk Springs is where they live?”
“Yes. I had Lillian dig up the dirt on them, and you know what that means. The information’s rock-solid. Lillian turned over a few other rocks, too. Turns out Goldbeck’s mother was a prominent University of Nebraska physicist and a mover and shaker in the antinuke movement during the late ’70s and early ’80s. Seems Sarah went underground between the time the movement faded and when her mother died. For most of the past twenty-five years she’s been living in Hawk Springs, earning a pretty good living as a potter.”
“Guess if Lillian’s the one who dug up the info, it’s golden,” Cozy said, aware that Lillian Griffith, Freddy’s rat terrier of an executive administrative assistant whom Freddy paid $200,000 a year, rarely made mistakes.
Eyeing the nearly pitch-black sky, Freddy said, “I better get started for Denver. By the way, you haven’t told me what you got out of that sexy kickboxing major this morning.” Freddycupped his testicles and smiled. “I’m thinking she could put a love hurt on you till you screamed. Wouldn’t want to piss her off, though.”
“Not much, but I did find out that Sergeant Giles was a nuclear-warhead maintenance expert and that Major Cameron,
The feeling of nostalgia passed quickly, and she found herself thinking about a man whom she, Kimiko, and Rikia had all once known: Thurmond Giles. A man they now needed to talk about openly and frankly. There could be no reminiscing about the past, and she’d make certain that today there’d be no staring off into space by Rikia, no retelling of sixty-five-year-old Japanese history by Kimiko, and no discussion of the old protest days by herself. Someone they’d all detested had been murdered, and ultimately they’d all likely be suspects. Everyone would speak his or her mind this time around. This time nothing could be left unsaid.
Staring at Freddy Dames in disbelief as he strained to be heard over the engine rumble of the half-dozen idling eighteen-wheelers surrounding his pickup, Cozy practically yelled across the seat, “Freddy, you what?”
“You heard me,” Freddy shot back, watching Cozy check out the pump prices at Cheyenne’s Flying J truck stop. “I paid the little snot of a deputy for the information about the stab wounds. Now we know one thing for sure. Giles could have died from any one of at least three stab wounds in the back. According to Sykes, the other two were too superficial to have killed him.” Freddy shifted his weight forward in the seat and glanced through the windshield at the darkening sky. “Looks like we’ll be heading into rain on the drive home. Hope we don’t catch any hail,” he said, looking out toward his Bentley, which sat a couple of gas pumps away, already fueled.
“Damn it, Freddy! Would you stay on point?”
“I will if you’ll try and remember this: no harm, no foul. We’ve got a news story that could earn us a Pulitzer, man.”
“Or time behind bars.”
“There you go again, turning all negative on me. For once would you try thinking a little more positive?”
“Yeah, positive,” Cozy said, thinking,
You passed on a major league baseball career when you had all the tools to be a star, and instead you cruised around the world for half a decade drinking champagne and screwing anything in a skirt. And now, after buying some two-bit, web-based news outlet that peddles information that’s barely a cut above gossip, you’re looking for the big score
.
Not wanting to press the issue, Freddy said, “So here’s the agenda. I want you to head over to Hawk Springs, talk to the Goldbeck woman, and get her and her swollen-balled husband’s take on the Giles murder. In the meantime, I’ll post a story or two back in Denver.”
“Are you sure Hawk Springs is where they live?”
“Yes. I had Lillian dig up the dirt on them, and you know what that means. The information’s rock-solid. Lillian turned over a few other rocks, too. Turns out Goldbeck’s mother was a prominent University of Nebraska physicist and a mover and shaker in the antinuke movement during the late ’70s and early ’80s. Seems Sarah went underground between the time the movement faded and when her mother died. For most of the past twenty-five years she’s been living in Hawk Springs, earning a pretty good living as a potter.”
“Guess if Lillian’s the one who dug up the info, it’s golden,” Cozy said, aware that Lillian Griffith, Freddy’s rat terrier of an executive administrative assistant whom Freddy paid $200,000 a year, rarely made mistakes.
Eyeing the nearly pitch-black sky, Freddy said, “I better get started for Denver. By the way, you haven’t told me what you got out of that sexy kickboxing major this morning.” Freddycupped his testicles and smiled. “I’m thinking she could put a love hurt on you till you screamed. Wouldn’t want to piss her off, though.”
“Not much, but I did find out that Sergeant Giles was a nuclear-warhead maintenance expert and that Major Cameron,
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