Mrs. Cantor had arranged for a pilot to fly them to Scottsdale Airport in her husband’s airplane. She asked that we park her husband’s truck at the Flagstaff Airport when we’d finished processing it. She planned to return to Flagstaff after the funeral for some period in order to grieve and recover in privacy of the cabin.
I suggested that I meet with her on Friday afternoon. I would update her on our progress, and we could discuss any possible enemies that she had thought of. I explained it might be sometime before we officially listed the case as either an accident or a homicide. The case warranted extensive investigation. I watched for her reaction, but I could see none.
I asked Mrs. Cantor if she thought her husband knew many people in the Flagstaff area.
“Zack has some golf and poker buddies he might have seen while he was in town. I can give you their names. Most of them don’t live here fulltime. They come to escape the Phoenix heat in the summer.” She wrote down a list of names on my notepad.
I noticed a couple of cigar butts in an ashtray on the deck. Mrs. Cantor explained that Dr. Cantor was very opposed to smoking because of the damage it does to the skin as well as other medical problems. One of his poker friends, Hank Mayer, often took breaks on the deck to smoke his expensive Cuban cigars. She suggested that since the cleaning service came every Friday, the cigar remains would have been either from Friday evening or Saturday.
After they secured the house and set the alarm, I drove the sisters back to the airport.
“Is there any chance he was hunting with someone — maybe a guide?” I asked as we pulled up to the airport’s private plane passenger lounge.
“I think that’s unlikely. Getting his bull elk tag this year was a really big deal for Zack. He wanted to replace the one over the fireplace with one he killed himself. Personally, I’d rather have a nice painting there. Zack was so excited that he came to Flagstaff a week before the season started to scout the area. When I last talked with him on the phone, he bragged about coming up with a perfect strategy for the hunt. I don’t recall the details, but he planned to hike high up on the mountain before dawn and wait for the elk. He might have used someone local in planning the hunt, but I don’t think he would have actually let them go with him on his big day.”
“Did he mention the Weatherford Trail? We found his truck at that trailhead.”
“I think so, but frankly, I wasn’t paying close attention.” Was there a hint of disdain in her tone? “He was like a kid in his excitement about shooting an elk.”
“If this was not an accident, there’s a chance that someone was waiting to target your husband when he reached Doyle Saddle. Do you think he would have told anyone else about his hunting plan?”
She paused a second to think. “I guess he wouldn’t mind telling people he knew since none of them had elk tags for this year’s hunt. He was proud of his plan and might brag a little. Zack was a very successful man who came from modest means; he had a bad habit of telling people how smart he was and how successful he’d become. He often bragged about making three million dollars a year. I think his bragging is why we got blackballed at the Paradise Valley Country Club.”
The Paradise Valley police chief had told me they lived in a big house on the south side of Mummy Mountain. From that location, they would overlook the golf club that had blackballed them. If they were avid golfers, that might have been a constant irritant.
After letting Alexis Cantor and Sandra Hyde off at the airport I headed back to my office, determined to do a little more checking on the widow. Her husband had told her exactly where he would be hunting. Widows vary greatly in their reaction to their husband’s deaths, but it bothered me that she seemed concerned that the investigation was not going to close quickly with a verdict of a hunting accident. If she wanted Zack Cantor out of her life, she had known exactly where to find him last Sunday morning.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When I got back to my office, I was still curious regarding who Mrs. Cantor had been with at the beach Monday afternoon. I also wanted to know if there was any chance she’d been in Flagstaff this weekend and then returned to California in time to take my phone call. I asked the department’s research specialist to see if Alexis Cantor had been on any other recent flights to Flagstaff or if she’d taken a quick trip back to Phoenix over the weekend. I was just beginning to develop a suspect list, and Mrs. Cantor was the first name on it.
Next, I called the Flagstaff phone of Hank Mayer. If those were his cigar butts, he might have been one of the last people to see Dr. Cantor. I got his answering machine, which suggested that if I was not a solicitor or salesperson I could call his Phoenix office number.
When I called his office, the receptionist for one of Phoenix’s largest law firms answered. She listed eight partners in reciting its title; one of the names was Mayer. I worked my way through three layers of assistants until I was connected with Hank Mayer. He was already aware of Dr. Cantor’s death and seemed anxious to help. He’d been part of a foursome that played golf on Saturday afternoon with Dr. Cantor. The other men in the group were Tim Douglas and Peter Goodyear. The friends enjoyed drinks on the Cantors’ deck after their match, but Zack Canter had planned to get up at 3:30 for his hunting trip, so they did not play poker at his house. The group moved on to Tim Douglas’s cabin for a night of poker and scotch with some other poker regulars.
“Did Dr. Cantor mention any specifics of his hunting strategy while you were with him?” I asked.
“Hell yes. He was as proud as a new father and as excited as a kid at Disneyland. He’d figured out how to get a big bull elk that had been escaping hunters in the area north of the Peaks for years. Zack was certain that it would be the prize bull of the season, and he showed us where he was going to mount it over the fireplace. He wanted to replace the one that he claimed his father shot twenty years ago.”
“Why did you say claimed to have shot?” I asked.
“Alexis Cantor told me one time that Zack’s dad was actually a diamond merchant from Brooklyn who died when Zack was eight. Zack was really a good guy, but he often embellished his stories a little. We all assumed that the stuffed game in his Flagstaff cabin came from a dealer or a decorator. Anyway, Zack planned to wait somewhere above the timberline and shoot this trophy elk when it led its herd from the cover of the woods to cross over to the protection of a no hunting area on the ski slope slide of the mountain. He learned that this bull crossed Doyle Saddle every year on the first day of hunting season. As soon as the first shot was fired that smart old elk would lead his herd to safety.”
“So the three men who played golf with Dr. Cantor knew exactly where he planned to position himself for the first morning of the hunt?”
“Sure, and we talked about it at the poker game too. Zack was proud of his strategy. He might have told everyone from the gate guards to the paperboy. Actually, the plan sounded pretty smart; we were surprised he’d thought of it. Captain Damson, I’m astonished at the direction of your questions. I thought it was a hunting accident; did I miss some news?”
“We’re just being thorough. There were no witnesses, and the circumstances were ambiguous. Will you be in Flagstaff again this weekend?”
“Yes, we’ll get there late on Friday and leave Monday morning early. If you need to talk with me, just call my house or my cell phone, 602 555 5515.”
Mr. Mayer provided the names of everyone present at the poker game, and I said that I would contact him this weekend if I needed more information.
I returned several calls from hunting guides that I’d tried to reach this morning. On the second call I reached a Flagstaff guide named Joe Banning.
“I was sorry to hear about the accident with Doc Cantor. He seemed like he would know how to handle a rifle,” Joe Banning said. “He hired me to scout a good location for his hunt. We were together last Wednesday and Thursday.”
“Doctor Cantor’s rifle hadn’t been fired. What can you tell me about his plans for the hunt?” I asked
.
“I thought he must have dropped his own weapon. It’s hard to believe a stray shot could get way up to Doyle Saddle,” he said.
“It’s difficult for us to believe too. Tell me about your scouting trips.”
“Four times, I’ve seen that six-point bull cross the saddle on the first day of the season. It’s always been within half an hour of first light. My clients have never been in a position to get a shot because the herd was already so high on the mountain by the time we spotted it. It’s unusual to find one above the tree line in September. I think that old elk has been escaping hunters for a decade with the same trick.”
“So it was your plan to wait high on the ridgeline and harvest it as it fed from the hunting area below.”
“Yes. I showed Dr. Cantor exactly where he should wait at dawn for the best shot. He offered me a large bonus if he collected his prize elk based on my strategy. I was with another client hunting twenty miles to the south of Flagstaff on Sunday.”
“Who else knew of the plan?” I asked.
“I didn’t tell anyone; I wanted that $5,000 bonus.”
I had meetings and phone conversations with other guides from the area, but no one else remembered seeing Dr. Cantor in the Kachina Wilderness on Sunday. No guide had started his hunt at the Weatherford Trailhead or seen Dr. Cantor’s truck parked there.
About 5:00, Sean returned to the office with a similar story. None of the hunters that he contacted could shed any light on the death. All of them seemed surprised that he would have tried to hunt in the barren area above timberline, and every single man and woman claimed that they had fired no stray rounds that might have accidentally hit someone.
I was about to leave for the day when the department’s research specialist knocked on my open door. Even though I’d never said a cross word to the young woman, she had always seemed a little intimidated. Sometimes, I look scary to people who don’t know me, and my lack of progress had probably left a scowl on my face. I invited her to give me her progress report. She’s a recent NAU graduate named June Rosetta.
“Captain Damson, here’s the information you asked for.” She handed the page to me as if sticking it into a lion’s cage and quickly withdrew her hand once I had the single sheet of paper.
“Mrs. Cantor flew to Phoenix today from San Diego, and her sister flew from LAX. They met at Sky Harbor and took the same flight to Flagstaff.”
“Is that certain?” I asked after reading the printout.
“Yes sir. A photo ID would have been required at check-in. Alexis Cantor flew to San Diego the Sunday before last and returned this morning to Phoenix using a round trip ticket she purchased two months ago. I could find no record of other flights in the past four months. If she’d been to LA, she must have driven.”
“Thank you June; you’ve been very helpful.” I tried to smile reassuringly. She quickly left my office as if thrilled to get away from the ogre who managed the Criminal Investigation Unit. I needed to work on being more accessible. In the eight person Sedona Substation, that had never been a problem, but I’d replaced a much more formal man who retired after thirty-five years with the Sheriff’s Department. No one in the department had called my predecessor by his first name, including Sheriff Taylor.
After June hurried away, I sat back in my chair and smiled. Alexis Cantor had known exactly where her husband would be hunting. She had not been in LA as she claimed, and she had made her reservation for San Diego more than two months ago. I suspected that she went to meet the man I’d heard in the background when I called her.
Although I did not think it likely Alexis Cantor personally killed her husband, she might have arranged his death. If Dr. Cantor was really making three million a year, his estate might be substantial. I would look forward to learning more when I met with Alexis Cantor on Friday. In the meantime, I’d figure out who she’d been with in San Diego.
CHAPTER NINE
I finished some paperwork connected to a budget request for next year and left my office at 5:15. I was relaxed and in a good mood when I reached home. Margaret was sitting on the deck enjoying a glass of wine and listening to the NPR news when I entered the house. There was a wonderful oriental food aroma that filled the kitchen and spread out onto the deck. She had set the outside table with chopsticks and her Chinese plates.
After our kiss, Margaret got right to the point. “How’s the new case going?” It was our regular ritual when I was working a case that interested her. I needed to update her immediately so she had a chance to think things over before bedtime.
I started my story as we ate a tossed salad with a Thai peanut dressing. When I was describing the Cantor’s 6,500 square foot Flagstaff cabin, Margaret produced a covered bowl filled with Cold Noodles with Hot Oil. She had made it this morning before going to work. The dish contains a spicy mix of Chinese noodles, green onions, carrots, ginger, and chicken. It’s one of her prepare-ahead favorites.
I was finishing my account of Alexis Cantor’s trip from San Diego when Margaret served one of my all time favorite Chinese dishes. The wonderful smell that filled the house when I got home was from a crock-pot of Pork Ribs with Chinese Flavors, which she had let simmer all day. It was a recipe that she clipped from the New York Times several years ago. She always doubled it because the leftovers are terrific.
As we finished our wine and watched the sunset highlight the dramatic buttes and mountains of Sedona, Margaret made her first comment about the case. “I’m convinced it was a premeditated murder. You found Dr. Cantor had told a lot of people exactly where to find him early Sunday morning.”
“Yes, I’m leaning that way too, but I can’t completely rule out a freak accident or a hunting dispute,” I said.
“Not if you believe Pop Cramer. He was certain that it couldn’t have been a stray round, and a long distance shot doesn’t make sense in a heated argument over an elk. What’s next?” She had tactfully refrained from mentioning her Sir Isaac Newton theory comment of yesterday evening. The expert had agreed with her.
“My priorities will be to find everyone who knew Dr. Cantor’s hunting strategy and to find who Mrs. Cantor met in San Diego. Opportunity and motive are the keys to most homicide cases.”
“She might have either met someone or traveled with them to San Diego.” Margaret thought that over for a few seconds and continued; “In either case you’ll need to look for someone she knows who took vacation over that same time, maybe someone on the same flights.”
“I’ll check on her flights and see if the same person appears on both her San Diego flight and the return. I’ll wait until she comes back to Flagstaff to spring any information on her. I want to see her reaction. Mrs. Cantor is certainly a suspect, but I think she’s not the type to kill him. Arizona is a community property state; Mrs. Cantor would have gotten half of everything in a breakup even if she was the one who wanted it.”
Margaret nodded. She has a phenomenal memory and can recite the details of my investigations from two decades ago. “It’s usually been the spouse who was cheating that was killed by the one who was not. If she was running around, he was the one who had a motive. I think there’s more to this than adultery. Half the men I know would be dead if that alone was an adequate motive.”
“I’m just beginning to find suspects,” I said. “Maybe I’ll know more by tomorrow night.” I was tired of discussing the case.
I ate a second slice of the chocolate cream pie; I always say that chocolate is the best aphrodisiac. It was too cool to remain on the deck, and we enjoyed an intimate time together in front of the fireplace before bed.
I thought about my next steps in this investigation as I drove up to Flagstaff the following morning. Although the murder had occurred near Flagstaff, there was an excellent chance that the motive would be found down in the Phoenix area. I needed to learn all I could about the doctor’s practice and social life. I wondered if there were any patients unhappy enough with the cosmetic surgery results to kill him.
&
nbsp; By the time I reached the Law Enforcement Building, I’d decided on the place I wanted to begin. I found the cubicles of the support and accounting departments and located June Rosetta’s desk. She was drinking coffee when I entered her cube.
The young lady jumped to her feet sloshing coffee on her white blouse and said, “Sir, how may I assist you.”
My administrative assistant later told me that since the department move to this facility in 2002, neither the Sheriff nor the Captain of the Criminal Investigation Unit had ever entered the maze of cubicles where the research unit is housed.
“June, I’d like you to find out if anyone else was traveling with Alexis Cantor on her trip to San Diego. Do you have a way of determining that?”
“Yes sir. I can access the airline reservation database through Homeland Security. I can sort for names on both flights.” She picked up a clipboard and stepped back to the rear wall of the cubicle, moving as far away from me as possible. I wondered again why her reaction to me was so negative. I can seem physically intimidating, but I’m really a nice guy.
“Good; can you also find other San Diego travelers on those same days who took other flights?”
“I can probably do that, but there might be hundreds of names. It will take some time. Is there a way of limiting the search?”
“Check first on other flights from Phoenix.”
“I can do that in a few minutes. I’ll bring it to you, sir.” She remained pressed against the wall of her cubicle holding a clipboard to cover the coffee stain until I left.
When I reached my office, there was a message to call Grant Emerson of the Drug Enforcement Agency in Phoenix. I’d never met Emerson, but I knew him by reputation. He was known as a grandstander with political ambitions.
I returned the call and reached the DEA officer immediately. “We have an open file on Zackary Cantor. I thought it might be relevant to your investigation.”
The Dead Man at Doyle Saddle Page 4