Last to Know: A Novel(20)

“Hey, Len,” Harry said easily, giving him a half salute since he obviously could not shake the man’s hand, already occupied with the Black & Decker power saw. “Long time no see,” he added, searching for a response.

Len’s dour expression did not change. “I keep to myself,” he said. “More folks should be doing that, there’d be less trouble.”

Harry had known Len—that is, he’d seen him around, passed the time of day, seen him fishing, and like that, for years, but they had never gotten beyond that point. Now, though, he had questions.

“I see you’re busy,” he said, indicating the saw and the wood shavings swirling in the breeze, out of the cracked-open door. “I’m sure you know some things have been happening here, at our lake.” He carefully put the “our” in front of the word “lake”; he wanted Len to feel they were comrades in arms against anything that disturbed their peaceful retreat.

“Bad things.” Len put down the saw and carefully closed the door behind him. He wore a T-shirt that had once been gray, and smelled strongly of sweat. Rossetti took a step backward though Harry did not flinch.

“Why not let’s sit down a while, Len,” he said. “Here on your good bench, you and I need to talk.”

“That bench is not mine,” Len said, standing right where he was while Harry took a seat then immediately felt wrong for doing so. “It’s that Havnel woman’s. I guess she won’t be needing it now.”

Harry hoped his jaw had not dropped at the mention of the name Havnel. He ran a hand through his dark hair, adjusted his dark glasses, gave Rossetti an inquiring glance out of the corner of his eye.

“Didn’t know you even knew her,” he said casually.

Len’s face twisted into what might have been a skeptical grin, though under the beard it was hard to tell. “If you’ve come here to ask about her, you’ve come to the wrong place. All I did was take her order for a bench and a table for her terrace. She didn’t look like the kind of woman that sat on redwood benches admiring the view but,” Len shrugged, “she offered good money and I took it.”

“Have you seen her since?” Harry asked.

“No, sir, and I won’t, not now she’s dead. All burned up in the fire they said.”

“A fire you could see easily from here, Len, but you didn’t bother to come down the hill to ask if you could help, until it was too late. Remember? When you and I met?”

Harry watched Len’s face close, his eyes narrow into slits, his mouth become a tight line.

“Wasn’t none of my business.”

“Did you see the girl, the young daughter, run into the lake?”

“Didn’t see her.” Len looked straight at Harry as he said it.

“Then you didn’t see her hair was on fire, see her throw herself into the lake to save herself?”

Len shrugged and turned away.

Harry said, “Len, I’m asking you as a cop now, did you see anyone else on that lake that night? It was three A.M. Len and I know there were two boats because I was there and I heard them. I saw them. I know who was in one, but I’m still puzzled about the other. Now you and I know you miss nothing. If anybody would know who that person in that second boat was, it would be you. I’m talking murder, Len. Better tell me if it was you.”

Len wiped his hands on his shirt, stood looking up to the sky for a long moment, as though seeking inspiration. “I saw the one boat,” he said finally. “It was Wally Osborne.” He glanced back down at Harry. “Don’t know nothing about a second boat.”

“And the girl with her hair on fire?”

Len shrugged. “Too far for me up here on my hill to save any swimmer, besides you did a better job, the helicopter and all that.”

Harry got to his feet. So did Rossetti. The dog gave an impatient yup from the car.

“Thanks, Len.” Harry did not give a little salute goodbye. “I’ll need to talk to you again, later.”

The two men walked to the car, both aware of Len’s eyes on them.

Rossetti got in, found a tissue, and wiped the dust carefully from his shoes. He handed Harry one and told him to do likewise. “Not f*ckin’ up my car for a truculent bastard like that,” he said. “What did he tell us anyway?”

“Not as much as he knows,” Harry replied. “I’ll bet even money it was him in that second boat.”





15


Len watched the two detectives drive off down his hill. When the cloud of dust raised by the car settled, he went back into his shed and shut the door. There were no windows. The inside was lit by a single hundred-watt lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. A hand-carved worktable occupied the far end, with tools for gardening hung neatly along the left wall, power tools attached by clamps to the right. A collection of knives fronted the workbench, behind which were stretched the drying skins of two small animals, a badger and a coyote, both shot and dismembered by Len.

It was a kind of hobby with him. Amateur taxidermy. The smell was terrible at first but it disappeared after a while into a kind of mangy fustiness he barely even noticed. A third skin hung on twin cables from the slatted wooden ceiling, a larger rougher pelt, which, since it still had its head, was immediately identifiable as a German shepherd dog whose thick coat and erect ears closely resembled Harry’s malamute, Squeeze.