Masquerade in Blue, page 7
“What did she say?”
“Oh, it wasn’t anything she said. Not really. It was more, I don’t know, a way about her. Distracted almost. Pleasant, but distracted.”
The way she’d sized up Elaine in fifteen minutes, when it had taken me all night, made me want to tell her to mind her own business. But I checked myself and waited for the advice I figured was coming next.
But all she said was, “She needs to talk to someone about it. If I were you, I’d be certain that someone was me.”
“Well, I know that. How can I talk to her if I can’t find her?”
“Find her.”
“Don’t suppose you’ve got a crystal ball I can use?”
She regarded me for a moment, then stood and, bracing both hands against the edge of my desk, said, “I think if you put your mind to it, you’d have no trouble finding her at all.” She turned and left the room, closing the door gently behind her.
After staring at the door for a minute, I muttered, “Must be nice to have it all figured out.”
I briefly debated whether to keep pushing on the Novotny investigation or trying to track down Elaine. What did she want me to do? Surely she’d call if she wanted to talk. Why the hell was she being so damned mysterious? She was stubborn – that I knew for a fact – revealing a piece of information only when she was good and ready. Revealing a piece of herself just when you thought it was closed off to you forever. I hadn’t thought of myself as being tied down to Foxport. Not really. Not until she pointed it out to me. For the first time I thought of how much simpler my life would be right now if she hadn’t come back. Why didn’t she call?
The hell with her. At least I knew what Jeff’s problem was.
I figured the SOW group wasn’t big enough or organized enough to have its own office, and I was right. Fortunately, David Reaves was the type of politician who spent a lot of time in the district he represented. The fact that there was an election in less than two months didn’t hurt either. He was a partner in a law practice with two other attorneys: Kendall and Phelps. Their office was on Second Street, just two blocks north of Main, in a half block of restored homes. Reaves had come to office in the last election, narrowly beating out the older, less photogenic incumbent, Barry Haller, who had voted for a tax increase once too often. Apparently Haller had also been involved with a young woman who worked for him. It seemed that the conservatives who could forgive the tax increase couldn’t forgive the indiscretion and vice versa.
David Reaves was on the phone when I got there. He waved me into his office and motioned toward a chair. He was saying, “Look, Pete, I don’t care what you have to do. Just handle it.” He paused to listen, then said, “Isn’t that what I pay you for?” Another pause. “Okay, then go earn some money for a change.” He seemed to catch himself and, shaking his head, went on, “I’m sorry. Nerves are short today, I guess. Go ahead with your idea.” He leaned back to listen.
The first thing that struck me about Reaves’s appearance, was his beard. It’s unusual for a politician to sport a beard these days. Some people think it makes a man look menacing, and the one thing a politician doesn’t want to do is scare little kids and their parents. But on Reaves, the close-cropped beard made him look earnest, almost priestly. It wasn’t long before I noticed he had a habit of stroking it as though it were a favored pet. Even sitting, he appeared to be a tall man – not massive, but tall – so that the large, campaign-style desk looked as though it were made to order. On one corner of this desk was a photo of the handsome blond politician, his lovely blond wife, and their three little towheaded offspring. No questioning that lineage.
The office was small and without the usual establishment trimmings. He had posters, not framed pictures, on the wall, and one was of a heroic-looking pig with its four feet planted in a pond. The pond’s denizens flocked around him, seeking support. It reminded me of a Disney picture. “Save Our Wetlands” was printed across the top so that the first letter of each word was monstrous in proportion to the others.
In less than five minutes, Reaves and Pete, whoever he was, were back on better terms and the conversation over. He apologized for the wait. I introduced myself and said I was investigating the Novotny murder. His brow creased up. “May I ask who you’re representing? I mean, the police are handling the investigation.”
I smiled and nodded. “Yeah, they are. But they’re convinced the Blue Fox is the murderer. My client believes otherwise.”
“I see.” He fondled his beard again. Maybe it stimulated brain cells. After a few moments, he lowered his hand and said, “Then you are either representing the Fox or Jeff Barlowe.” Maybe it worked.
“Jeff Barlowe.”
He nodded, apparently still chewing on it. “So, Barlowe’s going to tough this one out.” He frowned as though calculating how this was going to affect him, then said, “Knowing the identity of the Blue Fox could put you in the middle of a bad situation.”
“I didn’t say I knew.”
Shrugging at the obvious conclusion, he said, “How can you investigate this and not know what Barlowe knows?”
“Easy.” I decided it was okay to dispense with the truth. “I told Jeff I didn’t want to know.” Then I added, “Besides, what better way is there for me to conduct an objective investigation? If I don’t know the identity of the Blue Fox, I won’t be eliminating any possibilities before I start. You know, Jeff isn’t serving time just to help a murderer stay at large. He thinks the investigation’s taken a wrong turn. And he’s willing to suffer some for the cause. On the other hand, if I can prove to him that this Fox character killed Novotny, he’ll do the right thing.”
“Which is?”
It seemed obvious to me. “He’ll tell them what they want to know.”
Reaves seemed to be busy in some other corner of his brain. After a minute he said, “All right. What can I do for you? Barlowe’s a damn good reporter. I hate to see him in this situation.”
“Don’t suppose you could put in a word for him? For the sake of the First Amendment?”
Smiling, Reaves shook his head. “It wouldn’t help.” He gestured toward the pig poster. “My stand on this wetland issue is well known. My motives would be questioned.” He paused. “And rightly so.”
“Okay,” I said, “Then let’s start with this. What do you think? Are the cops right?”
Leaning back in the chair, Reaves propped his feet on an open desk drawer and clasped his hands against his blue pin-striped shirt. “Oh, I don’t think so. The Fox has never hurt anyone. He’s never even used tactics that might result in injury. No.” He dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “I’m convinced that’s the last thing he wants.”
“I buy that. But what if he was trapped, cornered? What if Novotny walked in on the Fox while he was spray painting his office? The Fox panicked and shot him.” I paused, then added, “I understand there was already bad blood between them.”
Reaves frowned. “I don’t know. I suppose it could have happened that way.” Then he nodded. “I guess it’s possible.”
I locked my gaze onto his and, before he could stroke his beard, said, “Do you know who the Blue Fox is?” This might sound like a stupid question since it’s the one thing I did know. But, I was real interested in learning who those few people were who Julia Ellison trusted with her life.
Smiling slowly, he shook his head. “But you’re not the first to ask me that.”
“Who beat me to it?”
“Ed Carver.” Inwardly I sighed. I knew it was just a matter of time on this case before I got to tangle with Foxport’s chief of police again.
“Okay, then do you have an educated guess as to who the Fox might be?”
“No names. But I’d say he’s a supporter of environmental issues, who doesn’t appear to be a zealot. He’s probably a person who is careful not to draw attention to himself.” He smiled. “Doesn’t narrow it down much, does it? But the fact is, he’s probably a very low-key person who’s not going to be caught, unless it’s with a can of paint in his hand.”
“How old do you think he is?”
“That I don’t know.”
“Well, he was active in the early seventies, wasn’t he?”
Reaves conceded the point.
“So, he’d have to be in his late thirties at least.”
After a brief mental calculation, he said, “Yes. I guess that’s true.”
“But who’s to say that the Fox has always been the same person? Easy enough to pull off the impersonation of someone who’s never been identified.”
Reaves frowned, then shrugged. “I suppose that might be the case.” He played with the idea. “Or how about this. Maybe the Fox is a woman.” I held his gaze and he added, “A mother-earth type. It’s possible.”
“Hasn’t Jeff Barlowe always used the masculine pronoun when writing about the Blue Fox?”
He waved his hand as though brushing away a mosquito. “Could be his way of protecting her.” He paused, then added, “If the Fox is a woman.”
I nodded. “Interesting,” then gestured toward the poster and asked, “What does Novotny and Associates have to go through to get a permit to fill in this wetland?”
“Well, first there has to be a study by the Army Corps of Engineers. That’s already happened. Novotny has to convince the corps that the wetland will either remain untouched or he will create a new wetland that’s as good or better than the existing one.”
“And SOW’s convinced that can’t be done.”
He got up and moved over to a coffee maker on the far corner of a wooden table. Picking up a mug that said World’s Best Dad, he poured a cup. Before he returned the pot to its warmer, he held it toward me in a gesture of offering. I declined.
Back in his chair, elbows propped on its wooden arms, he continued, “Basically, you’re right. We’re talking a tremendous impact on the wildlife and surrounding area – the ecological impact. Some believe there are wetlands still developing in that area. Still growing.” He drank from the mug, studying me over its rim. When he lowered it, he said, “Mr. McCauley, I don’t mean to lecture here, so stop me if I do, but I don’t know how environmentally aware you are.” He’d hit a rhythm he was comfortable with now, and the earlier signs of stress had faded.
“You keep talking. It won’t hurt me to listen.”
His smile was a little thin, but he said, “All right.” Then he cleared his throat and continued. “There maybe species of fishes, fowl, insects, plants – you name it – that are unique or environmentally necessary to that area. Forty percent of Illinois’ threatened and endangered species either live in wetlands or depend on them for part of their life. Then there’s the fact that wetlands act as a flood plain. When you fill in an area like that, where is the water that would have been soaked up there going to surface?” He raised his eyebrows. I imagined my feet getting wet and made an appropriate face. Satisfied, he continued, “Wetlands are also a source of pollution control. It’s fascinating. Their vegetation works along with microorganisms to filter and neutralize organic matter and chemicals. In addition to all this, we’ve got to consider the state of the wetlands in Illinois. Do you know how much of our wetlands we’ve lost since the early eighteen hundreds?” He gave me time to work out an answer. When I shrugged and told him I had no idea, he prodded. “Take a guess.”
“Oh,” I looked toward the ceiling for an answer. “Fifty percent,” I said, figuring I’d guess low so he could impress me.
He smiled, pleased with the naivety of his pupil. “Try ninety-five percent.”
I was impressed. He continued. “More than seven-point-six million acres. We’ve got to be very careful about what we’ve got left. And, personally, I don’t believe that his industrial park is a good trade-off. Tax revenues and everything else considered, I just don’t believe, in the long run, we’re going to get more than we lose.”
Reaves spoke with conviction all right, but there was a trace of something else there – maybe it was because, given his position, he’d had to give this speech so many times, he didn’t think about the words anymore. Sort of like the national anthem. Who actually thinks about the bombs bursting in air when you’re waiting for the home team to take the field. It was bound to get a little stale. Then I glanced at the pig poster. For every SOW supporter he wowed with his talk, there was bound to be at least one, probably more, who for financial reasons, would rather see the pig sliced into strips and frying in lard. Maybe Reaves was genuine.
“Getting back to the Fox,” I said. Reaves nodded and steepled his hands, waiting. “Do you approve of his brand of protest? Assuming he didn’t make the ultimate statement by killing Novotny.”
He cocked his head and stared off in the direction of the coffee pot. “Yes and no. What he’s done is illegal, but if you put it in terms of the ends justifying the means, then,” he made a shaky boat movement with his hand, “maybe I’m willing to look the other way. Don’t quote me, though. This eco-terrorism, monkeywrenching, or whatever they call it, makes the point in a dramatic way, and sometimes that’s what’s called for.”
I took a moment to swallow all that. Reaves appeared confident in a fabricated way, as though he were running on some hidden reserve. “What’s this industrial park going to do to your chances of reelection?”
“Depends on how it turns out.”
I heard a door close and a voice that was familiar, but which I couldn’t at once place. Then she stepped into Reaves’s office and the mystery was solved.
“I’m starting to hear things that are worrying me.” Julia Ellison was talking directly to David Reaves and hadn’t noticed me, sitting to the left of the door. When she did, a flicker in her eyes was the only sign that she knew me from Adam. I played along. What was more interesting was the look of horror that slid across Reaves’s face during the seconds before Julia spotted me.
Blandly, she turned her attentions on me. She wore her tan trench coat open, revealing a black and blue checked blouse and a black skirt that fit snugly and stopped a few inches above her knees. Reaves stood for introductions. “Julia, this is Quint McCauley. He’s investigating Leonard Novotny’s death in the interest of Jeff Barlowe. Quint, this is Julia Ellison.” I started to stand, but she waved me off and, although there was another chair, she perched on the edge of the table in sort of a sidesaddle position, which added a few more inches between her knees and the edge of her skirt. I could see that wasn’t lost on Reaves, either.
Concentrating on her eyes as I spoke, I asked her if she knew Jeff Barlowe.
She glanced at Reaves before answering. “Yes, I do.”
Seated again, Reaves said, “Julia is familiar with Barlowe’s plight. She’s one of the SOW organizers. She also teaches sociology at Abel County College,” he turned toward her and finished with, “where she is molding tomorrow’s ecologists.”
Julia was watching me with a slightly amused expression and didn’t respond to Reaves. He continued. “I’m glad to see someone is trying to help Jeff Barlowe. None of this is his fault.”
I returned Julia’s gaze. “I know someone who could help him out.”
“Who’s that?” Reaves asked.
I turned and said, “The Blue Fox. He or she could turn him or herself in.”
Reaves gave me an odd look, a look he shared with Julia as well. Then, summoning up some authority, he stated, “I don’t know if that’s the solution.”
“Sure it is. It’s the only one, because Barlowe’s not going to do it, which is pretty commendable when you realize that he’s not a person who handles confinement well. And I don’t just mean that it cramps his style. He’s got a real problem. Besides, if the Fox is innocent, what’s he got to hide?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Sure it’s the point. And it’s a simple point. This heroic Fox character is really a garden variety coward.” I smiled and added, “That’s what I think.”
“Perhaps it looks that way, but I don’t believe that’s the case.” Reaves shook his head. “The good the Fox has done is immeasurable. You can’t put a price on it. What good would it do for him to come forward? Maybe this thing with Barlowe is all a hoax. Maybe they’re just trying to flush him out.”
“Yeah, well, maybe it’s time the Fox turned the spray paint over to a successor.” I looked at Julia who didn’t appear at all ruffled. What would it take? “What do you think the Fox is doing?”
She folded her arms over her chest and stared at me for a moment before she said, “I have no idea. I don’t presume to know what other people are thinking. Even the simplest mind is difficult to read.”
“Yes, maybe that explains it. He’s simpleminded.” I had a sudden and intense craving for a cigarette, but figured that lighting up in the presence of these two would be right up there with wearing a raccoon coat to an animal rights’ benefit. So I resisted. After a few minutes, it was over anyway. And though I was real curious to know what business Reaves and Julia had to conduct, I had the distinct impression the meeting wasn’t going to be called to order until I was out the door. It would have been interesting to be a fly on the wall in that room. I suspected that Reaves knew more about the Blue Fox than he let on.
I rolled down the window of Louise’s Grand Prix, lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply. Nasty habit, but damn it felt good. A woman once told me that I smoked because I hadn’t been breast fed as an infant and was compensating as an adult. That might be true, though I never considered it an appropriate question to put to my mother. Some families talk about things like that; some don’t. Mine never did. Maybe there were just too many of us, and there wasn’t time to ask anything but essential questions. There are six kids in my family. I’m the fifth and final son. Then there is my sister. Mom always said Dad wanted a daughter so bad, he didn’t care how many sons it took. I guess I’m glad it took at least five, though I used to think there was a little kid’s soul floating around somewhere who would have been my little brother, but didn’t make it because Patricia and Joe McCauley finally had a girl the sixth time out. Kids have weird thoughts.
