Mesa found herself looking around, wondering if anyone noticed the pair. She felt uncomfortable, but Irita didn’t seem to see them. She just kept right on talking.
“Kathy works at the new Legal Aid Office on Park Street.” They started back up the hill. Irita had opened her pasty. She stopped to rearrange its foil wrapper and take a bite. But her expression was ominous, as if her thoughts were far away.
“But she was with us on Monday at the Labor Day picnic, right?” Mesa asked.
Irita nodded.
Maroon and white were the school colors of the University of Montana Grizzlies, as well as the local Catholic high school. More than a few obsessed Montanans, male and female, liked to show their school spirit by the color of the car they purchased. “A maroon Bronco isn’t exactly an exotic vehicle in this part of the country,” Mesa said.
They were in front of the Messenger office now. Irita looked drained, as if telling the story of Kathy DiNunzio had given her time to realize the difficulty Kathy might be in. “Listen, don’t say anything to Chance yet. Let me talk to Kathy first. I can’t imagine she would have anything to do with this. She’s a bell ringer in the Methodist choir, for God’s sake.”
“Tell you what,” Mesa said, why don’t we give Kathy a call, see if she can clear this up right now?” She was tired of taking a backseat to the evolving story. Erin would still write the feature. Mesa would just do a little investigating of her own.
Inside the Messenger office, she waited in the reception area while Irita made the call. Mesa nibbled half-heartedly on her pasty—too much pastry and not enough innards for her taste, and tried to focus her thoughts.
They drifted to the night before and Hardy. Something in him had changed. Maybe it was the thirties career crisis—i.e., getting a real job.
Her address book was filled with friends who had avoided what they called the trap of corporate America, or any steady-paying job for that matter. She knew plenty of fishing-boat poets, taxicab-driving playwrights, not to mention voter rights volunteers who lived in dormitory digs because they couldn’t afford their own apartment.
Hardy was no different except that his dreams were of the extreme sport genre. Only his body had betrayed him, not social convention. She wanted to tell him to buck up. He could still make good, run the family business, marry one of a host of local babes who would love to have him and his children. Wait. Was this the first glimmer that she might really be over him?
“Kathy’s not in the office,” Irita said, her voice taut. “She called in sick yesterday and today. I don’t like it. I think I’ll go over to her place and see what’s up.”
“I’ll go with you,” Mesa said. She left Erin and Micah, now sitting at the table in the middle of the newsroom eating their pasties, to hold down the fort. Both of them expressed instant exhilaration, followed by panic. “If you hear from Chance anytime soon,” Mesa said, “have him call me.”
* * *
After lunch, Chance and Adrienne walked back up to Park Street where he left her at the Mining City Boxing Club, which ran a training gym on the second floor above Terminal Meats at Park and Dakota. Chance climbed the dimly lit staircase that led up from the sidewalk. Even before he opened the door to go in, he could hear the thwat, thwat of leather gloves finding their mark.
The cave-like interior—a high ceiling with black painted windows— made it impossible to tell it was daylight. Two boxers were sparring in the ring, which was banked on three sides by tiered rows of empty wooden seats. On the fourth side, several other boxers were working out on a speed bag, two others on the heavy bag.
Chance walked over to the far side of the ring to a stocky man with a broad nose and a broader smile. “Hey, Sam, I thought I might find you here. Whose corner you in?”
“Patrick Windy Boy, in the headgear. He’s gonna be a good one.”
Sam chewed raggedly on a piece of gum and watched the methodical punching of the sparring partners. They were light on their feet and both moved quickly, but their punches did not always land.
“He’s driving a haul truck on that seven days on/seven days off shift at the mine. He can’t train with my other boys, so I come in on his off days and give him a few pointers.
“Your grandmother need something?” Sam asked while they watched the boxers dancing around the ring.
Like a lot of guys in Club Boxing, Sam Chavez had learned the sweet science in prison. After a stint in the Deer Lodge penitentiary, he had moved to Butte and become Nana’s number-one handyman for years, especially after Gramps had died.
Sam could fix anything—the lawnmower, the snow blower, the car. He also fixed the roof, painted the house, and shoveled the snow, often without being asked, or paid. All because Gramps had befriended Sam when he first came to town.
“She’s fine,” Chance said and felt a warmness toward Sam for asking. “That’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”
Chance pulled the newspaper photo of Lowell Austin from his shirt pocket. “It’s about this guy. Did you happen to see him the other day? I heard he might have come in here.”
Sam held the photo in his thick rough hands, nicked, and scarred from years of working outside in a cold and dry climate. He nodded. “He come in here Saturday, I think it was. I figure he was just sprung. Takes a while before you let down your guard.”
Sam did not miss much. “Was he looking for somebody?” Chance asked, wondering if Lowell had another contact in Butte besides the mysterious Kate.
The boxing circuit welcomed guys who had done time, even the outcasts who didn’t have anything else going for them—of which Butte had more than its fair share. What with the pre-release center and the ne’er-do-wells who were rumored to receive free bus tickets to Butte from the Bozeman or Missoula police, Chance had heard the sheriff say his department had three thousand outstanding warrants in Silver Bow County, which was about ten percent of the population.
“Dougie Kincaid,” Sam said and shook his head.
“Strike out,” Chance said, his voice deflated. Dougie Kincaid was a Butte rat who in his day had a legitimate knockout punch for the middleweight ranks. Unfortunately, he had used it in a street fight and nearly killed a man in Coeur d’Alene.
Dougie’s was a cautionary tale. Welcomed home with open arms once he served his time, Dougie was often seen in the corner of numerous young fighters, at least until this past spring.
In March, he had been caught trying to pawn tools that, as it turned out, had been stolen from several construction sites in the county. Dougie maintained that he was doing a favor for a friend, but the friend was long gone and Dougie was left holding the proverbial stolen property. He was currently serving four months in Deer Lodge at the state penitentiary. “Did he talk to anybody else?” Chance asked.
Sam shook his head. “Wasn’t anybody in here except me and Patrick, and Patrick was working on the speed bag. I told this Austin guy about Dougie, and then we talked some. Said he had done some boxing and wanted to stay involved. Dougie could be out soon, I said, and told the guy to come back, that I would introduce him around.”
Chance liked the idea that Lowell Austin had gotten to talk to Sam, who would have treated him with some respect. Austin might have begun to think Butte was a decent place.
“Some guys, they come outta prison,” Sam said, “They go looking for trouble. But I didn’t think that about this guy. I thought I had a good read on him. Course, you can make enemies in prison. Too bad.”
Chance took the picture and replaced it in his pocket. “Yep, sounds like maybe somebody come looking for him all right.”
* * *
Kathy DiNunzio lived on Gold Street in a turn-of-the-century bungalow that had been added onto like most of the houses on the Lower Westside. Three blocks away from Nana Rose’s house, it was a neighborhood Mesa could see herself living in. Not that she ever seriously thought about settling in Butte.
Irita rang the doorbell. When no one answered, she opened the door to the
enclosed sun porch and began banging on the front door. Thankfully, at two in the afternoon, presumably the rest of the neighborhood was awake.
“Kathy, you home? Let me in,” Irita called in between pounding the door. “I know she’s in there,” Irita said, nodding toward the maroon SUV at the curb and then shaking her head in disbelief. “We’re going to get this sorted out and pretty damn quick.”
Mesa looked at the late-model vehicle, parked in front of the house in the quiet, residential area. Most of the neighbors were professional people or professors at the college a couple of blocks away. Kathy DiNunzio must be doing all right for herself if she could afford to live in this part of town.
Finally, the door opened, barely. Kathy peeked out. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you.” Then dejectedly, “Come in.”
“I was worried about you when I couldn’t reach you at your office,” Irita said. Her voice echoed in the sun porch, sounding like the loud speaker at K-Mart. “Why aren’t you answering your phone? Are you sick?’
Kathy sighed. “You better come in.” Mesa wanted to explain her presence, but Irita beat her to it.
“You remember Mesa. I invited her to come along. We’re working on a story,” she said and looked back at Mesa with a conspiratorial glance.
Kathy wore jeans and a University of Montana sweatshirt with a stain on the front—a far cry from the soccer mom Mesa had met at the Labor Day picnic. She didn’t appear to be sick, but the bags under her eyes made it clear she had not been sleeping well.
“What’s happened? You don’t look good,” Irita said. “Are you home alone? Where’s Garrett? Has he upset you?”
Kathy shook her head miserably. “He’s long gone.”
She led them through a cozy, well-kept living room to a narrow den off the kitchen. A fireplace and mantel filled one wall. A half dozen framed photographs sat along the mantel. Family photos, Mesa guessed.
Built-in barrister bookcases stood along the far wall jammed with books, tapes, DVDs, and an empty couple of shelves where the CDs, currently piled on the floor, must belong. Kathy waved half-heartedly at the sofa for them to sit.
Mesa gingerly stepped around the several stacks of CDs. Kathy resumed her place on the floor amongst the piles, taking a handful of CDs from a wall shelf and continuing to sort. “I’m reorganizing,” she offered weakly.
Mesa wondered whether Kathy’s desire for order grew out of more than a love for domesticity. Mesa knew firsthand that ordering one’s surroundings gave comfort when life seemed too overwhelming.
Next to a half-filled cup of coffee, Mesa could see a stack of newspapers on the coffee table. The Tuesday edition lay on top. Mesa’s curiosity was piqued when she saw the paper folded to the photo of Lowell Austin. The Standard had devoted the lower half of its front page to the plane crash, complete with Austin’s last mug shot before leaving prison.
Considering that he had been locked up for two decades, he wasn’t a bad-looking guy. With metal-framed spectacles and graying temples, he stared into the camera with a docile expression. Perhaps he knew even then that he would soon be leaving prison. He reminded her of Nana’s cardiologist. Kathy matter-of-factly turned the paper over when her guests sat down.
“Bizarre story, isn’t it?” Mesa said not about to let Kathy off the hook. She was partly trying to make conversation, but she was keen to discuss the investigation and Kathy’s unlikely, but still possible, connection to it.
Kathy looked up but said nothing and began reordering a stack of CDs of female country music singers.
“Lot of irony in that story,” Mesa continued. “Guy survives twenty plus years in prison and then dies the week he gets out.”
Kathy had moved on to a group of jazz albums—Norah Jones, Diana Krall. “The article doesn’t say much about what happened to him,” Kathy said. “Do you know how he died? I mean, is your paper covering the story?”
Mesa nodded. “Not every day someone dies in a plane crash in uptown Butte.” She said this in a jocular tone, hoping to lighten the moment. But Kathy DiNunzio didn’t seem to notice. She put down the CDs and put her hand to her mouth, as if she were unsure what would come out.
Irita reached over and touched Kathy’s shoulder. “Do you know something about this man’s death?” she asked.
Kathy picked up the paper slowly as if it was a rare book, looked at the picture again, and said, “It says his death is still under investigation. Didn’t he die in the crash? What would that mean, ‘still under investigation’?”
Mesa looked at Irita, whose rolling eyes suggested that she was skeptical how to proceed. There was no need to upset Kathy. Aside from incurring Irita’s wrath, Mesa rarely found that browbeating a source made for a good story. “Apparently, he wasn’t killed by the impact of the crash,” she said finally.
“How could that be?” Kathy asked, her voice quivering with concern.
“A copy of the autopsy came into the office this morning,” Mesa said. “Somebody in the plane stabbed Lowell Austin. It looks like he was murdered.” She paused to let this unnerving information sink in. “A witness also saw two men leaving the wreckage.”
“Oh, my God,” Kathy whispered and sunk back against an ottoman behind her, her hands over her eyes.
Irita couldn’t take it anymore. “Kathy, I don’t understand why you’re so upset about this. What’s wrong?”
“It’s him,” she said finally and tapped Austin’s photo. “I knew him.”
And then in a low, almost shameful voice, she said, “He came to Butte to see me.”
Mesa was shocked. There they had it, straight up. Kathy DiNunzio was the Kate from Austin’s letter. But the realization of the statement was too weird to be believed. Kathy might as well have said that aliens had kidnapped her.
Time seemed to stop. Irita’s eyes widened as if she had just seen a rattlesnake. For a moment, Mesa thought Irita might faint. Finally, her survival instincts kicked in and she spoke.
“How did you know him?” Irita asked in a tone reserved for interrogating witnesses.
Kathy took a deep breath, picked up more CDs, and gently began sorting again. Then the words finally trickled out. “He killed my father.”
Chapter 15
Chance crossed Park Street and then cut through the pre-release center parking lot toward the police station, thinking about Dougie Kincaid. People said his troubles had always revolved around money and that with his record he could never get a decent job even in Butte. Once you did your time, you were supposed to be able to start over with a clean slate, but it really didn’t seem to work that way.
Now past 3 o’clock, maybe Rollie would be back from Preach’s and willing to talk about what else they had found there. Not that the FBI could be expected to share much, even with the sheriff. Inside the police department building, Bernice Hanover sat at her desk behind the glass barrier that separated the public from the inner confines. She always talked to Chance in a slow, sweet way, as if he was still in fifth grade. She had been a close friend of his mother, and came to visit her in the last days, so he didn’t mind. She explained that Sheriff Solheim was still with the federal agents at Daniel Swoboda’s house.
Chance returned to the street, feeling stymied. Nothing appeared to link Austin to flying or anyone who owned a plane. But how he had ended up in one and why he had been killed there had to be more than coincidental.
Had Lowell Austin figured he would face the same prejudices Dougie Kincaid had? Had stealing the plane been part of some scam that would help build a nest egg to secure his future? Except the plan had gone down the toilet.
Preach had said Austin knew no one in Butte except for the woman. Had she lured Austin into that Cessna? If so, why?
According to Mrs. Penmarron and Kev, two men had abandoned the plane. Had they missed seeing the woman? Or was she an accomplice? And what was their motive for killing him? Had Austin become expendable, or disagreeable, or a liability to their scheme, maybe all three?
Chance decided to return to the Messenger to see what, if any, progress Erin had made identifying Lowell’s lady friend. If he could find her and she was cooperative, maybe she could lead him to the pilot of the plane.
He supposed a woman could have been the pilot, though the only one he knew in Butte was an upstanding geology professor at the college. She had a German name like Hildegard or Brunhilda. He couldn’t quite remember but he did recall she drove a red Suburban.
The professor had a reputation for being a little testy, but unless Edith Penmarron’s ability to see at a distance was weaker than she had let on, he did not think a woman had gotten out of that plane.
Chance strolled downhill toward Mercury Street, resisting the urge to make a quick detour past Adrienne’s gallery, to see her standing at the counter or talking to a customer. Get a grip, he said to himself with a smile and pressed on down the hill to the office instead.
The call from Layton James of McCall Investigations out of Lincoln, Nebraska, came through half an hour later. Chance was huddled with Erin and Micah in the newsroom, hypothesizing over a list of names of thirty or so women in Butte named Kate who might be worth checking out.
Mr. James explained that he was representing the interests of Consolidated Controls, Inc. in the matter of a stolen Cessna 180. Mr. James’s voice was deep and smooth, and all business. “You called Consolidated’s main office asking about the plane on Monday?”
Chance explained why he had called. James listened but offered no new information. “I’ve put in a call to your sheriff. I understand he’s already talked with the Moab police.”
“Any leads there?” Chance asked, only half expecting an answer.
“Maybe,” James said, his voice sounding even more serious.
* * *
Just listening to the facts surrounding the death of Donovan Birch left Mesa emotionally drained. Kathy described how her mother had lit a candle each night, clutching her children together to pray for the safe return of their father, or rather their father’s body.
At first, Kathy thought maybe he would come back. No one talked about the eyewitness who had seen Lowell Austin outdraw Donovan Birch and then shoot him in the back of the head to be sure he was dead. After all, Kathy was only ten.