Silent Thunder

SILENT THUNDER Loren D. Estleman To Irene Estleman and to the memory of Randolph “Red” Estleman, my aunt and uncle CONTENTS 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 Preview: Sweet Women Lie A Biography of Loren D. Estleman Copyright Page 1 ERNEST KRELL LOATHED WINDOWS. The warehouse on the Detroit River that he had converted into offices with his wife’s money didn’t have any, and the house the Krells shared in Bloomfield Hills, a large brick splitlevel with an acre of slick lawn and decorative shrubbery masking the broken glass atop the brick wall that encircled it, was equipped with those tricky amber panels that allow light in but won’t let you see inside or out. Every journalist who had ever written him up in Detroit Monthly and Guns and Ammo had hauled out his vest-pocket Freud to explain the aversion, but the plain fact was Krell had been with the United States Secret Service for seventeen years and had grown tired of warning people away from windows. I rang his doorbell on the first lush day of summer. You know the one: You go to bed with rain rattling against the siding and when you get up, the trees are fat with leaves and the sky is so blue it hurts your eyes. The birds are in good voice, the breeze is like a lover’s breath on your cheek, and even in the city, under the soft asphalt and sweet auto exhaust, you can smell fresh-cut grass. It’s always a weekday, when you have to go to work. The door was opened by a small mouse-faced woman with short brown hair curling all over and graying at the roots. Her dress was just a dress and the clear buttons in her ears were just something to keep the holes from closing. She wore no make-up. “Are you Mr. Walker?” Her mouth was arranged in one of those fevered smiles that look as if their owners expect to have them slapped off their faces at any moment. I said I was. “I’m Mrs. Krell. Ernest is waiting. Please come in.” I followed the slightly stooping Mrs. Krell down two carpeted steps into a large sunken room with a stone fireplace the size of my garage. The walls were done in burled walnut and a carpet with an Oriental design lay on the floor on a pad as thick as a gym mat. Over the mantel hung an oil portrait in a baroque frame of Ernest Krell at twenty in an army lieutenant’s uniform, painted just about the time he had been wounded in Korea. He had a pale face and very black hair cropped too close and stood with one booted foot propped up on a leather dispatch case. His eyes were as blue as eyes get anywhere. “You’re late. The woman will be here any minute.” I blinked, as anyone would when addressed by a picture. “Sorry,” I said. “I thought you’d prefer me dressed. You called me at ten to seven.” It wasn’t the picture, of course. Across from it, like an image in a clouded mirror, stood its subject, forty years older in everything but hair color. The hair was a little longer now and not as thick, but every bit as black, and suspiciously so. His face was still pale but creased at the eyes and from the nose to the mouth, the way faces become when their owners spend seventeen years scanning the rooftops for snipers. A big man—he went six-three and two hundred—he had on a black suit with lavender fleurs-de-lis to soften its starkness and a magenta tie held in place with a steel clasp. Scuttlebutt said he had had the clasp made from the shrapnel that had gone into his hip in Pusan. There was a pause while he waited for me to come forward and shake hands and I wasn’t going to do it. “Well, sit down,” he said then. “I want to brief you before Mrs. Thayer arrives.” I took a seat on a soft leather sofa the color of gray chalk. Mrs. Krell, who had disappeared, returned while I was crossing my legs and placed a saucer containing four lemon cookies on the glass coffee table. That was a disappointment. I’d gotten home too late to eat supper the night before and had missed breakfast. “Coffee, Mr. Walker? I’m afraid decaffeinated is all we have. Ernest’s doctor—” “Decaffeinated will be fine, Esther. I’m sure Mr. Walker isn’t interested in hearing about my medical condition.” When she had left, I said, “Who’s Mrs. Thayer?” “In a moment. How long have you been working with Reliance now?” “Eight years off and on. Whenever things get slow down my street.” “All that time, and you haven’t been offered a permanent position?” “It’s been offered.” “Oh.” He went over to the fireplace, where the sunlight filtering in through one of the panels made his black hair and white skin look more painted than the painting, and spent some time studying Lieutenant j.g. Krell. “I built Reliance out of nothing. When I came to this city, people who needed an investigator had to depend on filthy little hacks who worked out of the backs of tattoo parlors. They’d as soon strike a deal with the party you wanted investigated as with you. I introduced integrity and science.” “They do go hand in hand,” I said. “Like bread dough and bicycles.” He ignored the comment, if indeed he’d heard it, which he probably had; it’s always a mistake to confuse pomposity with density. “Reliance now has two hundred operatives in four states,” he said. “They trace everything from computer fraud to threats endangering the national security. We almost never have to go outside the organization to satisfy a client’s needs.” “I live on ‘almost.’ Also cookies.” When Mrs. Krell came with the coffee I ate one and washed it down with the castrated liquid. The cookie tasted like the label from a bottle of ReaLemon. “Thank you, Esther. When Mrs. Thayer comes, have her wait in the foyer.” She went out. I had started to think it was the maid’s day off, but the way Krell’s requests sounded like orders and the way Mrs. Krell obeyed them without comment said that no professional menial had ever set foot inside the household’s three thousand square feet. The uninitiated would have been hard put to guess which was the retired civil servant and which the last survivor of the great industrial family that had invented the carburetor. The frequency with which the Ernests of this world latch on to the Esthers is one for Darwin. “Who’s Mrs. Thayer?” I asked. He stopped looking at the portrait and looked at me. Either the artist had gotten carried away with blue or Krell’s eyes had faded in four decades, to a zinc gray. “I spent yesterday going through the records, Walker. You’ve done the agency some favors. I deplore the way you operate, of course; but I suppose every grand army must have its Marshal Ney, charging the guns again and again and having his horse shot out from under him every time.” “I don’t guess the horses approve either. Who’s Mrs. Thayer?” “A woman who shot her husband to death.” “Oh. That Mrs. Thayer.” “You know the case?” “Just what they told in the papers.” The News and Free Press had been full of it for a while, and the national tabloids still were, despite a request by the attorneys involved to avoid trying the defendant in the media. Constance Thayer, after a night of clubbing, drugs, and alcohol, had seized an automatic pistol from the collection of husband Doyle Thayer Jr. and emptied it into his back as he lay naked and unconscious on his stomach in the bedroom of their Iroquois Heights home. The drugs and charges of wife-beating, together with the fact that Thayer was the heir to Thayer Industries, which specialized in the manufacture of the fuel solenoid that went into every recreational vehicle made in the United States, had kept the story fresh for weeks, and when it began to fade, the news that Constance Thayer had appeared in triple-X films before she met Doyle had breathed new life into it for another month. Depending upon who was telling it, she was either an abused woman pushed beyond endurance or a gold-digging slut who had seized her opportunity to inherit millions. “Mrs. Thayer’s attorneys have engaged Reliance to investigate her late husband’s affairs,” Krell said. “They feel that when the truth comes out about what kind of man he was, she’ll be acquitted on grounds of justifiable homicide, if not out-and-out self-defense.” “Like he didn’t wear pajamas, so he deserved to eat lead?” “Like he was a monster who enjoyed degrading his wife in public and private as a vacation from his dealings with pushers and traffickers in contraband weapons. Like if she didn’t stop him when she did, it could be Doyle Thayer Junior facing the charge of beating his wife to death, and likely getting off because of his father’s influence. I thought you fancied yourself a protector of the weak.” “She seems to have done a pretty decent job of protecting herself.

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