Still Life With Crows

“Well now,” Ludwig paused. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Rickey—”

“Joe.”

“Well, Joe, I don’t really have anything new at this point myself.”

“But surely you could get something?”

Ludwig looked at the kid. In a way he even looked like himself, forty years before. “I could always try,” he said.

“I’ve got to file by eleven tonight.”

Ludwig glanced at his watch. Three-thirty.

At that moment the door burst open and Corrie Swanson came barging into the diner, tossing back her purple hair, all the little chains and doohickeys pinned to her tank top astir.

“Two large iced coffees to go,” she said, “one black, one with double cream and sugar.”

Ludwig watched her, palm resting on her hip, elbow jutting out, tapping her change impatiently on the counter, ignoring everybody in the place. She was working for Pendergast, his girl Friday. And here she was, getting two coffees to go.

To go where?

But even as he asked the question, Ludwig guessed the answer. Once again, Pendergast would come to his rescue.

Maisie delivered the coffees. Corrie paid and turned away.

Ludwig gave Rickey a quick smile and stood up. “I’ll see what I can do.” He started to take out some money but Rickey stopped him. “Coffee’s on me.”

Ludwig nodded and was up and out the door after her. As he left, he heard Rickey’s voice: “I’ll be here, Mr. Ludwig. And thanks. Thanks a lot.”

Thirty-Five

 

All FBI buildings look the same,Hazen thought as he squinted up at the white, slablike facade with the smoked windows, burning in the afternoon sun: brick-shithouse ugly. He tucked in his shirt, straightened his tie, ground out his cigarette on the asphalt, and adjusted his hat. Then he passed through the double doors into a blast of cold air that, had it been wintertime, would have caused an uproar of complaint.

He paused at the desk, signed in, got directions, clipped a temporary ID to his lapel, and headed down the polished linoleum hall for the elevator.Second floor, second right, third door on the left . . . He repeated the directions in his head.

The elevator opened onto a long hall, decorated with government bulletins and typed lists of esoteric directives. As he walked along it, Hazen noticed that every door was open, and inside each office sat men and women in white shirts. Jesus Christ, there weren’t enough crimes in the entire state of Kansas to keep this bunch busy. What the hell did they do all day?

Hazen threaded the hallways, finally locating an open door labeledPAULSON, J., SPECIAL AGENT IN CHARGE . Within, a woman in cat’s-eye glasses was pecking away at her computer with robotic precision. She glanced up, then nodded him past into an inner office.

This office seemed as sterile as the rest of the building, but there was at least a framed photo on the wall of its occupant riding a horse, and another picture on the desk of the guy with his wife and kids. The man himself pushed his chair back from his desk, rose, and held out his hand.

“Jim Paulson.”

Hazen grasped it and was just about crushed. Paulson indicated a seat, then settled back into his chair, threw one leg over the other, and leaned back.

“Well, Sheriff Hazen, what can I do for you?” Paulson said. “A friend of Harry McCullen is a friend of mine.”

No bullshit, no small talk. Here was Mr. Straight-Shooter, crew-cut, fit, dressed in a decent suit, blue eyes, even dimples when he smiled. Probably had a dick as big as a bargepole. A wife’s dream.

Hazen knew just how to play it. He was the small-town sheriff, just trying to do his job.

“Well, now, Mr. Paulson, it’s right kind of you to see me—”

“Jim, please.”

Hazen smiled a self-deprecating little smile. “Jim, you probably don’t know Medicine Creek. We’re a town down Deeper way.”

“I’ve sure heard of it, what with the recent killings.”

“Then you know we’re a small town with solid American values. We’re a close-knit community and we trust each other. And as sheriff, I’m the embodiment of that trust. You know that better than I. It’s more than just law enforcement. It’s abouttrust. ”

Paulson nodded sympathetically.

“And then these killings happened.”

“Yes. Tragic.”

“And being a little town, we can use all the help we can get.”

Paulson smiled, dimpled. “Sheriff, we’d love to help you with this case, but we need evidence of interstate flight or other interstate or terrorist activity—well, Sheriff, you know when the FBI can justify involvement. Unless there’s