“Could you reschedule either one?” Arn asked.
“I don’t see how. It took all my persuasion for her to agree to even talk. I am just afraid if I postpone it, she’ll think something’s up. I can’t say for certain, but I got the impression that Beth is deathly afraid that Pudgy will find her. As for Ethan, he has to catch a red eye out of Denver for a conference in D. C. tomorrow night, so he won’t be available for another week.”
“Someone has to make that interview. If Pudgy is involved, Beth may have the one piece of information we need to find him,” Arn said. “I’ll go.”
Ana Maria picked at her food with her fork. “Didn’t you hear a word I said? Beth is so paranoid; I know she won’t agree to talk with you. The minute you call her and tell her you’re replacing me, the interview will be off. She might even skip town.”
“I didn’t plan on calling her.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m not going to call her. I’m just going to show up at the time you’ve arranged and hope to hell she agrees to talk.”
“How are you going to get her to talk?”
Arn flashed a grin.
Danny groaned. “Not that old Anderson charm again.”
44
ARN WAS ABLE TO SWAP his name for Ana Maria’s on United at the last minute. DeAngelo had bulled-up when Arn dropped by the TV station and told him he wanted to fly to Washington state and interview Beth. “Why the hell should I pay a private investigator to fly all the way up there? If Ana Maria can’t go, I’m getting a refund,” the old man said.
“What if I go on my own dime and glean enough information from Beth that I can solve these deaths? And suppose that I give that information to an affiliate in Denver, perhaps the ABC affiliate?”
“I see your point,” DeAngelo told him. “Doesn’t mean you have to hold me hostage.”
As it turned out—Arn thought as he looked at the seat assignment online—DeAngelo had held Arn hostage. Or at least got some vengeance when the old man cheaped-out on the ticket—he hadn’t even paid for Business Class or Economy. The cheap skate had paid for Luggage Class—all the way in the back of the plane right next to the toilet.
Arn got through the security line at DIA and headed to his boarding gate when his phone rang. “You sound like you’re in a stadium or something, “Agent Kane said.
“Hold on.” Arn walked to the gate labeled Pakistani Airlines. There was no one sitting waiting, and Arn just figured there weren’t many brave souls who wanted to fly there. “What cha got?”
“Nothing earth shaking,” Kane said. “I put a man on Samantha Holder—not literally, though he would have loved to once he saw her—and followed her to those private stables west of Rapid. She was giving private riding lessons to Duane Dagbe.”
“I know that name from somewhere.”
“You should. He’s a Ghana national who is a major supplier of meth and coke who beat the rap in state court last year. Since then, he claims to have reformed.”
“Don’t they all,” Arn said as he watched a woman push a double stroller while the little darlings screamed loudly as she got onto the escalator. “Is that what you wanted to tell me?”
“No,” Kane said. “My agent trailed her to those stables, and—when she and Dagbe disappeared into the hills—my man… stumbled onto Samantha’s toolbox in back of her truck. He might have been looking for something else—I won’t be able to testify if it comes to that. She was telling the truth—every one of her tools is Snap-On brand and they all are engraved. with her initials. It looks like she wasn’t the one who waylaid you outside the Outback after all. “He chuckled. “Unless she stole someone else’s Craftsman crescent wrench.”
“That is good news,” Arn said, a sinking feeling overcoming him. He had considered her a suspect. Even brought her name up to Oblanski and thought that Mike the Mauler would tweak a confession from her.
But if she hadn’t attacked him, who had?
—
Arn waited patiently to get onto his flight. They had just now started to board the Neat and Elite—the First-Class passengers, and he had enough time to call Oblanski. “The flight’s going to about forty-five minutes late arriving in Seattle.”
“I’ll pass that along to Sven.” Oblanski’s old Field Training Officer in Seattle, Sven Olesen, had retired last year. Oblanski said he had contacts all over the state and had put out feelers until he found where in Olympia Beth Randall Schwartz had moved to. “He’ll pick you up at the airport,” Oblanski told had told him. “Man doesn’t have much else to do now that he’s retired. You and Sven ought to have a lot in common—you’re both Norwegian.”
—
The only thing Arn and Sven had in common was they were both Scandinavian. Arn had waited at the curb side pick-up area, looking frantically for Sven, walking the length, seeing no one until he heard the sound of a motorcycle idle up and stop in front of him. “You must be Arn Anderson.”
A man nearly as big as Arn, but older—in his early seventies perhaps—shut the Harley off and swung his leg over the bike, his bare leg protected by leather chaps. “Ned said you’d be traveling light” he nodded to Arn’s overnight bag. “Strap it on the sissy bars and hop on.”
“On this?”
Sven took off his helmet and twirled his handlebar mustache as he frowned at Arn. “Sure, on this Harley. Don’t tell me you’re a BMW man. Or worse, someone who rides one of those Japanese bikes like a Gold Wing.”
“I don’t ride any bike,” Arn said. “At least I haven’t since I was in high school. And then just piddly little dirt bikes. Not like this… behemoth.”
Sven tilted his head and laughed heartedly. “Then this will be a learning experience for you.” He unsnapped another helmet from the back of the sissy bar and handed it to Arn. Buckle up tight… we’re not going to let any grass grow under us on our way down there.”
Arn had no choice. He had to get down to Olympia and try to convince Beth that he only wanted to find the killer of innocent vets. And convince her he would never reveal to Pudgy her whereabouts.
Arn strapped his bag onto the sissy bar using bungie cords that dangled from Sven’s side saddles. He had instantly considered renting a car and following him down to Olympia when his phone saved him. For the moment. “Did Sven make it there?” Oblanski said.
Arn turned his back and said quietly, “You never said he’d be picking me up on a motorcycle.”
“Did I forget to mention that?”
“You did.”
“Oh well,” Oblanski said. “Don’t look a gift horse and all that. But I wanted to tell you that a Lt. Ordway in Denver called—.”
“Did Matthew find Jimmy’s dope dealer?” Arn had asked Matthew Ordway, a detective who had trained under Arn, to find Jimmy’s dope dealer. “He located a pusher who operated behind a small cigarette shop on Colfax. The man knew Jimmy as a regular. But he did not know any of the people Jimmy conned for a ride to Denver. Seems like someone different brought him down every time, and the only thing the dealer knew was that Jimmy’s rides were squares—dressed like they had a job. Or dressed like they were Jimmy’s chauffeurs. That help any?”
“Not much,” Arn said. “Could you send a man down to Denver with Jonah and Winger’s photos. And for the hell of it, throw in Seth Barnes’ picture. Maybe the dealer can ID one of them.”
“You don’t suspect Barnes, too?”
“Let’s say he was a little too guarded as to who he gave the Xylazine to.”
“I got just the man to send down,” Oblanski said. “A single officer who just loves to hit Shotgun Willie’s when he’s down in Denver. He says it’s for the free buffet, but who goes to a strip club wanting to eat… meat?”
Arn pocketed his phone and looked warily at the big motorcycle like it was an evil thing come alive. “Don’t just stand there,” Sven said. �
��Put your helmet on and flip down the visor. Wouldn’t want you talking to the lady with bugs stuck all over your face.”
—
Arn had seen footage of World War II Air Corps crew members drop down and kiss the ground when they landed in their shot-to-hell B-27 bomber. Although Sven didn’t damage his motorcycle, Arn felt the same way as those air crew members must have felt. The sixty miles from Seattle had taken a little less than an hour. Through bumper-to-bumper traffic. Arn stretched his leg that had brushed against a florists’ delivery van when Sven had cut it a little close and he was grateful for the face shield when the bike rode for miles in back of a smoke-spewing Mercedes diesel.
“We walk from here,” Sven said. He locked it and Arn’s helmets in his saddlebags and walked down the street. “Beth Schwartz’ house sits back from the street a ways sheltered among some trees. I did some homework—she’s a little goofy. Neighbors say she only comes out of the house to run to the grocery once a week. Hires her yard work done, so they rarely see her outside. One of the neighbors came up to her to visit and she jumped like a rabbit, her top flopping up and showed a small automatic in a belt holster.”
“Hope she don’t pull it on me,” Arn said. “Only thing I got going for me is that Beth’s expecting Ana Maria at seven o’clock sharp. That first instant when she opens the door and sees it is not Ana Maria will tell if I get an interview. Or get shot.”
“Might as well wait here,” Sven said, and leaned against a pine tree. He pointed through other trees to a beige ranch-style among other houses much bigger. “Thirty minutes until your interview time,” Sven said. “Might as well take the opportunity to figure out what your game plan is going to be, ’cause I know it won’t include me. She sees two burly bastards like us at her doorstep she’s as likely to start shooting as slamming the door in our faces.”
Arn had thought of what he would say to Beth that first moment when she realized Ana Maria hadn’t come. After all, he had spent the two-hour flight gathering his thoughts between grunts from passengers visiting the restroom directly in back of seat, and countless flushes that threatened to interrupt his thoughts. Too damn much green tea.
“Time for me to head on up there,” Arn said as he checked his watch. “If I’m not back in an hour, better call 911 because Beth decided to shoot me for deceiving her.”
He walked slowly, accessing the front of the house leading to the entrance. Heavy curtains had been pulled across the windows, and faint light showed between cracks in the curtains. Arn kept his eyes on the windows as he mounted the four steps onto the porch. He kept to one side of the door before knocking.
Arn put his ear to the side of the house.
Footsteps approached slowly and paused for a long moment before opening the door. Beth Randall Schwartz was a small woman who came up to Arn’s chest, but the bulge under her apron told him she was ready for whatever came along. She didn’t see anyone through her screen door, and opened it, craning her neck out when…
…her eyes locked on Arn’s.
Her hand snaked under her apron.
Arn held his hands flat in front of him as he sputtered, “Ana Maria Villarreal.”
Beth stopped and blinked several times before asking, “What did you just yell?”
“Ana Maria Villarreal. She had an appointment to speak with you. It was important to her.”
“Who are you?”
“I am her friend,” Arn said, keepings his hands in front of him, even though she was close enough that he could disarm her if she drew on him. “And I dearly need to speak with you.”
She looked both ways along her porch. “I keep to myself, so if you can kindly step off the porch—.”
“More innocent veterans might die if you do not talk with me.”
Beth took her hand away from her gun butt and her head drooped. “That is just what Ana Maria said when she talked me into visiting with her. Said my Pudgy is a suspect.”
Arn nodded. “Please. Just a few moments of your time.”
“You are not going to tell anyone here I live?”
“You’re afraid of Pudgy, aren’t you?”
Her eyes widened. “By now, he is as crazy as his father. Sure, I’m afraid. But he don’t know where I live.”
“If we can find you, so can he. Help me locate him so you are not in any danger anymore.”
Beth looked a final time outside before opening the screen door wider and motioning Arn inside. “This way to the parlor,” she said and started through the house, all the while keeping Arn in her peripheral vision. She motioned to an occasional chair across from a recliner with a knitting project sitting on the seat. An afghan. Perhaps a sweater, with the pink colored yarn intermixed with lavender.
Beth picked up her knitting and grabbed needles stuffed in the cushion. She resumed the click, click, clicking of them loudly in the quiet room until she said, “You want to know about Pudgy?”
“I do,” Arn said. He pulled his notebook out of his pocket and rested it on his knees.
“But you already know my boy.”
“I have never met him, Mrs. Randall—.”
“Schwartz!” she snapped. “No one knows my married name around here. I took my grandfather’s name on my mother’s side. Figured no one would think of looking for me under Schwartz.”
“I apologize,” Arn said, digesting what she had just said. “But I don’t know your son.”
“Have you researched my late husband? Have you learned about Bo?”
Arn nodded.
“Then you know Pudgy, for he was just as… evil, just as crazy as his father the day my girl and I fled Custer.”
Arn waited silently, knowing some people just need a moment to gather their thoughts. Especially when bad memories resurface. “Bo Randall was a man consumed by hatred. Even before we were married, he had a nasty streak. Foolish me… I thought he’d come out of it once we were a couple. But he didn’t. Everything the man did was to fuel that hatred.”
“I read his service record. He developed a loathing for officers. Probably as a result of him getting court martialed for black marketing in Vietnam.”
Beth forced a laugh. “A hatred for officers was just an excuse. He hated everyone and everything after he got out of prison. If it wasn’t officers, he would have come up with someone else to hate—cowboys or farmers or mechanics. Anything to justify his sick hostility.”
She stopped and looked over at Arn. “And when officers were not the subject of his anger, he began hating me. Oh, I could take the beatings. Any farm girl like me has endured far more than Bo dished out. But when he started brainwashing Pudgy, things got even worse.” She leaned closer to Arn. “Bo killed and buried a man in the forest outside Custer a few years before we split. I always suspected Bo took Pudgy along when he did it.”
Arn looked at his notes. “Pudgy was… thirteen when you and Bo broke up. Have you ever had contact with him since you moved from Custer?”
Beth stood. “That is the reason I moved so suddenly from Seattle to here.”
She walked to a writing desk and dropped the leaf. She reached into one of the pigeonholes and came away with a letter. After looking at it for a long moment, she handed it to Arn. “Read it if you think there’s anything that’ll help you.”
Arn unfolded the one-page letter Pudgy had sent to his mother.
I’m doing good in the Army, Ma. Just in case you wondered. Going to enroll in college after this special school that the Army intend sending me to. I think the running will help me drop some weight. You might not even recognize me when you see me again. I apologize for siding with Pappy all those times he was mean to you. But at least I tried to protect Jen. Though now, I seem to have developed a dislike for officers. Like Pappy did, and I don’t know if it’s something he instilled in me, or if is because I had some bad dealings with officers in the Army myself. I hope
you do well in Seattle, and I’ll come see you soon.
Love you guys,
Pudgy.
Arn handed the letter back and she said, “Keep it. There might be something you can use to find him.”
Arn noted the APO on envelope’s the return address. “Did Pudgy serve in the Middle East or Europe?”
“Who knows,” Beth said. “All I know is when I received that letter with his promise to come see me, I took Jen—that’s my girl—we left that same night. Spent it in a motel in Tacoma huddled together. Jen was always so close to Pudgy, but even she got to be afraid of what he might do if he came visiting. Luckily, I found this place.”
Arn looked around the tiny parlor with its paisley wallpaper and tattered area throw rugs and noted there were no photos hanging on the walls. Nothing to distract from the dreary atmosphere of the house. “Do you have any pictures of Pudgy?”
Clicking of the knitting needles grew faster. “When Bo kicked me out of the house, that just what he done—kicked me and Jen out. He allowed us to take one change of clothes. That was it. So, I have no photos of Pudgy.”
“Pudgy enlisted in Sheridan.”
“To hide it from Bo, no doubt,” Beth said. “He was dead set against anything military and would have thrashed Pudgy if he knew he was enlisting.”
“We found no record under Pudgy Randall.”
“Pudgy’s Christian name is Allen,” Beth laughed. “Allen Randall. As if there was anything Christian about him after Bo worked his hatred on the boy.”
Arn made note that photos were unavailable, something he had hoped to find when he spoke with Beth. “Is there anything that would distinguish Pudgy?”
Beth set her needles down and began curling more yard into a ball. “Look for someone dressed to the nines. That is the only positive thing that rubbed off from Bo—he was always insisted in dressing nicely since he was a youngster.”
Arn circled dressed well. He had that note and Pudgy’s given name to begin referencing once he got the information to Wagner. “What did he look like?”
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