A Fountain Filled With Blood

Ray’s smile faded away. “There are a few who just can’t seem to let it alone. Like Charlie back there. They always gotta have some snotty remark about Bill and his ‘lifestyle.’ ” Ray made quotation marks with his forefingers. “You work on a construction site, you expect to hear some pretty raw stuff. And the guys like to rib you. If I had a dime for every ‘dumb Dutchman’ joke I’ve heard, I could retire to Florida right now. But there’s a difference between making queer jokes to be funny and garbage-mouthing someone personally.”

Clare, who had endured way too many sexist jokes during her years in the army, thought the difference might not be all that apparent to the person who was the butt of the joke. But she knew what Ray was trying to convey. The former was the casual cruelty of ignorance, like the major who had been truly baffled when she took offense at his endless string of dirty jokes. The latter was viciousness, designed to fence someone off from the group with a line as subtle as barbed wire. She thought of the Hustler babes she used to find taped up in her cockpit. “Yeah,” she said, “I know what you mean.” She swiped away another trickle of sweat. “So who is it doing the trash-talking? And does it stop at talk?”

Ray squinted up at the sky, frowning in thought. “Well, there’s Charlie; you met him. Matt Beale and Toby, they have a pair of potty mouths on ’em, but they’re both so lazy, I can’t imagine either of ’em working up the sweat to beat on somebody. Elliott McKinley, him I can see doing it, but not on his own. He’s like a dog that slinks around on the edges of a pack, whining. He wouldn’t dare come out to bite until another, bigger dog had done it first. Gus Rathmann is the sort who could definitely do it. You should hear the way he talks about his wife. I’ve never met her, but I’ll bet good money he’s beating up on her.”

“Could he be the big dog that this McKinley would follow?”

“Nah. Gus can’t stand Elliott. The thing I’m wondering is, Would he risk it?”

“Gus or Elliott?”

“Gus. He’s on probation. I don’t know what for. But I’ve heard him turn down offers to go out for a beer after work. I got the impression he was trying to keep straight for his probation officer.”

“Either of these guys here today?”

Ray looked at her, alarmed. “These are not people you ought to be hanging around with, Reverend.”

“I know. But are they here?”

Ray sighed. “Gus Rathmann was here this morning. He took off when we were told to stand down until further notice. Which wasn’t unusual—half the guys left after Opperman called.”

“Did Elliott leave, too?”

“He had to. Whitey Dukuys was leaving, and he’s Elliott’s ride.”

“Are they roommates or something?”

“Nah. Elliott’s truck broke last week and he’s been bumming rides with Whitey ever since.”

Clare blinked. “His truck?”

“Yeah. Whitey lives out in Glens Falls, and he drives right past where Elliott—”

“What kind of truck? What color?”

Ray looked at her as if the heat and the bouncing Jeep ride had scrambled her brains. “I don’t know. Let me think. It’s a Chevy two-ton. Red. Why?”

Chapter Fifteen

The first thing Russ saw when he turned into the construction site was Clare’s car. He was following Opperman and Peggy Landry, who were undoubtedly a hell of a lot more comfortable in Landry’s well-sprung Volvo sedan than he was in a five-year-old cruiser that needed new shocks bad. He hadn’t been real gung ho on the idea of the two of them alone in their car, able to coordinate their stories, but since they had both shown up promptly at the station when asked and were about to open their office for a voluntary search, he was willing to extend himself a little.

Then he saw her car.

What is it with her and tiny red cars? More important, why was he stumbling over her every time he made a move on these cases? Next thing he knew, he was going to start seeing her in the urinal when he went to take a leak.

He rolled in beside Landry’s sedan and threw his cruiser into park. He sucked in a lungful of air-conditioned air. The hell with it. He was here for background on Ingraham. Clare had nothing to do with it, or with him, or with this case.

Except, of course, that she had found Ingraham’s body. For a moment, he allowed himself to think of her sitting on the damp ground, barricaded behind those two dogs. Then he snorted. She was about as weak and vulnerable as a Sherman tank. And about as subtle. He turned off the engine and stepped into the midafternoon heat.

Bill Ingraham’s business partners were waiting for him. John Opperman, who looked like the kind of guy who took his suit and tie off only to shower, seemed awkward and out of place standing in dust and scrub grass, framed by construction machinery. Landry could have stepped off the cover of one of his wife’s Martha Stewart books. Although, as Linda liked to point out, Martha ran her own billion-dollar empire. He suspected he ought to keep that in mind when dealing with Peggy Landry.