The Thunder Keeper(46)

“Jana comes from a wealthy, influential family,” Vicky plunged on. “The mansion is probably hers. Why would she take a chance on throwing it all away?”

Steve shrugged. “You ever know wealthy people with enough money? There’s never enough, Vicky.”

“Jana had started divorce proceedings,” she said.

“I know that.” He looked away, and she could see the vein pulsing in his neck.

“The point is,” she went on, “Jana Lewis was represented by the company’s lawyers.” She had his attention now. “Vince was the vice-president, not his wife. Why didn’t the lawyers represent him?”

“You’re the lawyer,” Steve said, a harshness in his tone that surprised her. He might have been interrogating a street thug. “Suppose you tell me?”

She drew in a long breath. “I think Jana Lewis is having an affair with Nathan Baider. He arranged for a divorce attorney at the company’s firm to represent her.”

“Jesus, Vicky. First it’s diamonds on the reservation. Now Jana Lewis and Nathan Baider are having an affair. Where’s the evidence? Nobody’s ever heard of diamonds up there, and nobody at Baider Industries has mentioned Jana and the boss in the same breath.” He leaned toward her, his voice low now, precisely controlled. “I want you out of this investigation, understand? Your theories stink. Forget about Vince Lewis.”

Vicky dropped her napkin beside her plate. “Sometimes, Steve, you can be a real bastard.” She got to her feet, took her bag from the back of the chair, and started for the door. What he’d said had the sting of truth. She had a theory. There was no evidence. She was forcing every scrap of information into her own preconceived image of what had happened. Why should it matter to her that some white man killed another white man?

She was across the sidewalk and walking around the Bronco when Steve caught up with her, took her arm, and turned her toward him. His grip was strong. She tried to pull away, scraping the back of her leg on the bumper.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m a bastard. But I can’t stand the idea of your being involved in murder. If there’s anything to your theory—I’m not saying there is—then it could be dangerous. Whoever wanted Lewis dead could want you dead, too. I can’t stand to think about it, Vicky.”

“It’s okay,” she said, finally pulling free.

He took her hand. “Please try to understand. It’s just that I feel so damn helpless, so frustrated, every time I see you. Every time I think of you, and . . .” He paused. “I mean, couldn’t you like me a little?”

“You know I like you, Steve,” she said, forgiving him, an old friend from that time when she was scared and alone, except for the young white man fresh out of the navy.

“I’m asking for something more, Vicky.” He tightened his hand around hers. “I can be a bastard, but I’m working on that.”

She slipped her hand free and ran a finger along the edge of his jaw. She could feel the prickly growth of today’s beard. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re a good man. You deserve more.”

A phone started ringing, a muffled noise nearly lost in the dark evening. He reached inside his sport coat and extracted a small black cell phone. “Clark,” he said, his eyes on hers, as if he could hold her in place.

A second passed, then another. His lips moved close to the phone. “I’ll be right there.” He tapped a button and slipped the phone back inside his coat.

“What is it?” she said. Please, God, she was thinking. Not another murder.

“Vicky . . .” He hesitated. “I’m sorry, Vicky. A patrol car just spotted a woman’s body dumped next to the tracks behind the union   Station. It’s Jana Lewis.”

“What?” Vicky felt the muscles in her stomach constrict, and her throat went dry.

“Looks like somebody beat her to death.” Steve took her hand again, then let it go. “I’ll call you,” he said.

He whirled around and ran to the Ford. A second passed, and the car turned into the street and accelerated, leaving behind the faintest smell of exhaust.

Vicky retraced her route through the neighborhood. Left turn. Down three blocks. Another left. Only half-aware of the houses lining the streets, as if some part of her had switched into automatic. She parked the Bronco in front of her house, went inside, and dropped onto a dining-room chair next to the phone. She dialed the number at St. Francis Mission.





22


“Father O’Malley.” He had picked up the phone on the first ring.