Shallow Graves by Jeffery Deaver Page A

azaleas, rhododendrons, boxwood. She’d given up on tulips and annuals. (“The damn deer can find their own entrées,” the woman had said shrilly.)
    Standing now at the edge of this pond, Ambler whipped his fishing rod back and forth, trying to drop the tiny dot of burgundy fly into the yellow plastic hoop floating thirty feet away. Each time he’d flick the willowy rod he came close to his target but there was an uneven breeze and he was having problems compensating. Although he’d hunted all his life and fished frequently with a spinning reel he’d only been fly-fishing for a year, and learning it was hard as hell. Still, he kept at it, patient, squinting at the hoop, which looked white through his yellow-lens glasses.
    The footsteps came up slowly behind him. The steps were deliberately loud (and, he decided, male); someone was walking heavier than necessary to announce himself. So he wouldn’t startle Ambler.
    He glanced over his shoulder at the young man. “Mark.”
    “Howdy, Wex.”
    The man wore blue jeans, a plaid jacket, a blue down vest, engineer boots. He was in his late twenties, heavy. His thin lips curved into a sincere smile. His sand-colored moustache was irritatingly meek. He had brush-cut hair, parted in the middle. Put him in a polyester suit and he’d be a model Kmart manager. He didn’t look like what he was: a facilitator. Ambler didn’t particularly like the young man; on the other hand, labor and accounts receivable problems at Ambler’s construction company had nearly vanished since he’d hired Mark.
    The boy was chewing tobacco and Ambler hoped he’d spit ugly so he could dress him down for it. But he just kept the wad in his mouth like a New York Yankee pitcher and looked happily across the lake.
    “Catching anything?” Just a salutation. Snappers, snakes and algae were the only living creatures in this lake. Everybody knew that.
    “Nope.”
    “I’ve asked around. Seems like it’s right. About that guy.”
    “He’s staying around.”
    “Yessir.”
    “What for?”
    “Asking questions about his friend was killed.”
    “Goddamn.”
    “You don’t have to worry, Wex.”
    “Any chance at all that somebody saw you?”
    “Where?”
    “Near his car—the kid who was killed.”
    “No. I’m sure.”
    “How sure?”
    Mark was completely patient. It was funny how calm and patient truly dangerous people could be. “No one saw me.”
    “When you called the sheriff there’s no way to trace it? Maybe they could do a voice print.”
    “Tom doesn’t have that kind of equipment, Wex. You know that. Anyway, he was out getting his haircut. I left the message with Gladys. She doesn’t even know my voice. Said a couple of us had seen him.”
    “I shouldn’t have told Moorhouse to plow the ground over.” Ambler thought of something else. “What about fingerprints?”
    Mark didn’t say anything, just stared at the band of colorful trees across the pond.
    Ambler said, “I’m sorry. I’m sure you thought of that. I just thought Pellam would have left. It’s upsetting.”
    The fly went wide and caught in some reeds. “Damn,” Ambler said. He pulled out his complicated fishing knife, with a hook remover and scaler on it. He was going to cut his line but then thought maybe a Canada goose might get tangled. Ambler was wearing two-hundred-dollar L.L. Bean shoes. He had no idea where his wading boots were. He sighed and started walking into the lake to free the line. He felt soft muck under his shoes. Bubbles of sour air rose around his legs.
    Mark said, “You want me to do that?”
    Ambler said, “No.”
    He walked unsteadily to the weeds, unhooked the fly then returned slowly to the shore.
    “I know the kind of man he is.”
    “Who?”
    “The man from the movie company. He’s not leaving till he gets some answers.” Ambler sighed.
    “You know him?”
    “I know his kind, ” he said impatiently.
    The young man looked out over the lake, squinting at a phalanx of geese