Dying For Revenge (The Lady Doc Murders Book 1)

by Barbara Golder

  He laughed, and I was surprised that it sounded full of good humor; he had clearly shifted mental gears again.

  “It took me a while to get over it all, but it turned out for the best.”

  “Celibacy has its merits,” Connor agreed. “There’s something to be said for not answering to a woman.”

  “Indeed.” Father Matt looked quizzical for a moment as he took in the seating arrangement, then settled in again. “Answering to the bishop, however, is not much easier. Must be nice for you — no wife, no boss, just you.”

  For an instant, I could have sworn I saw a cloud pass over Eoin Connor’s face, but his reply was light.

  “Long loneliness is better than bad company. I get on.” He sipped his coffee again and I regarded him with curiosity. He continued, “Fortunately for me, there’s never a famine in crime. And this place is a ripe field indeed. That was some bad business last night.”

  “It was. We were just talking about it, nothing much to connect the deaths except money.” Father Matt looked thoughtful. “Except for that man last night. He didn’t look particularly rich to me.”

  Connor beat me to the punch, laughing and leaning forward to slap Father Matt on the knee, brushing against me in the process. “You’ve a lot to learn about this place, Father. The richest of these lot still dress like bums. That young fellow, as it turns out, was the grandson of one of the original principals of the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. Paul Kessler. Daddy is a hotshot lawyer and kingmaker in Chicago, with aspirations for Washington. Seems he and that climber were boyhood buddies — their fathers worked together.”

  “That was fast work,” I remarked. “At least we know that the pattern holds. Such as it is. Being rich in this town is no particular distinction.”

  Father Matt frowned. “I expect more from you, Jane,” he chided. “Most of the people in this town are making a living just like anyone else.”

  “Only better.”

  Having engaged the idea, I wasn’t about to let it go. If I couldn’t figure out the tangles of these murders, I could, at least, be dogged about the things I did know. And among Telluride residents – not the workers that kept the town going but lived in nearby, and cheaper, places – poverty was at best a relative term. A bit like Marla Kincaid’s functional indigency.

  Father Matt was forced to concede the point.

  “Only better. So what’s the reason? Why is someone so dead set,” he cringed at his inadvertent malapropism “…on killing rich folks?”

  “Individually,” Connor added. “I suspect that there are those in town that would ditch the rich on political grounds, but only as a class. Do you think that’s what’s driving this?”

  He seemed genuinely interested, as anxious to puzzle out the meaning of these deaths as he was to figure out what the photos of the Putnam murder told him about the victim’s life.

  “No idea,” I admitted. “There has to be something that connects these people, at least in the mind of the murderer.”

  As if reading my mind, Father Matt said, “I assume the rifle that Ivanka brought down matched the bullet.”

  “Probably. I hope so.”

  The ballistics on the Kessler murder weren’t back yet. If the bullet matched the one taken from Cosette Anira, Tom Patterson could still peddle his one-shooter theory. If it matched the rifle, then we’d have some chance at running down the owner from a registration. Some. Not much. When I left the Center, Norman, Lucy and Jeff were hot on the trail; there would be an answer by lunchtime. I hoped it would be one I liked.

  “It is odd,” Connor said. “This feels somewhere between a serial killing and a mass murder. Sort of like a school massacre, only strung out over time. As though anger, not some other compulsion— sex, thrills, money — is the motive. Makes it harder, I would expect.”

  I reflected on that thought. Connor was right. Some serial killings are linked by some common physical trait: girls with long brown hair, for instance, or some overtly sexual connection, like prostitutes or johns. Those are almost always personal, kinky, and have sexual overtones. These murders felt intensely personal because they were so uncannily linked to wealth, another kind of killer altogether. Despite my words to Father Matt, a series of random assaults in Telluride was at least as likely to involve a working man as a remainderman. This was more like the enraged office worker who comes back with a shotgun after being fired. Something I didn’t yet understand had given rise to truly murderous rage.

  “I don’t think so,” Father Matt said.

  I bristled at his tone more than his words, then reminded myself that he was talking to Connor, not me.

  “It seems so random. Indifferent. As though the killer doesn’t care whom he kills as long as he kills. Like that kid who got his jollies dropping concrete blocks off overpasses onto oncoming cars.” He paused. “It’s almost worse.”

  Connor pulled a pipe out of his pocket and began tamping tobacco absently with his thumb. He clamped it between his teeth, and with a dismissive wave, shooed away the anxious barista who hurried toward him.

  “Don’t worry, lass, I’m not going to light it. I just need it to think.”

  I was surprised at how articulate the man could be without actually moving his jaw. He continued without missing a beat, echoing the thoughts in my own mind.

  “No, lad, those kinds of murders are really local, not very imaginative and not very daring. Dropping a concrete block from a deserted interstate gives a man time to run off before anyone figures it out. Thrills, to be sure, but the thrill of a coward. Shooting from a car makes for an easy escape.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, unlit pipe in his right hand, punctuating his comments like a professor addressing a class.

  “Same kind of killing, all of these, shot with a rifle, and a damn fine shot at that. But look at them: Town Park, broad daylight, lots of people around. Same with the one down from the church and the one last night. Gutsy. Only the climber doesn’t fit in that regard, almost as if the shooter saw an opportunity he couldn’t pass up.”

  He paused. “Then again, if the one-car accidents and that explosion are connected, it argues that the killer is decompensating. Likely to be more killings, faster, more risky. Bad for the town, but eventually he’ll slip up.”

  He impressed me in spite of myself.

  “Not bad for a crass crime writer,” I said, then added, “What makes you think the others are murders other than Wilson’s wild speculation?”

  I hoped he might tip his hand and either confirm my fears that my last-born was the source of the annoying leak to the press, or reassure me otherwise. I should have known better. Connor just sat back, smiled and put his pipe back in his mouth. “Wilson makes sense, but if it’s just the shootings in town and in Ophir, the logic still holds. Revenge, not random. Only perhaps the killer is completely in control, in which case, it’s going to be a long hard spell before he’s caught. Which would you prefer?”

  He waited, one eyebrow cocked but with the good sense not to smile.

  Before I could answer, my cell phone buzzed, and I held up a hand in excuse as I answered. It was Norman with the ballistics report.

  “Bad news,” he said in his laconic voice. “The bullet from the victim came from the rifle, but the others didn’t. Two guns.’

  It didn’t much matter what I preferred. Two guns. Two shooters. Copycat or tag team. Take your pick. Either way, it was going to be, as Connor said, a long, hard spell.

  **********

  They finished roofing the garage just before noon. The day was hot and sticky, and the work was hard. Roofing gave no shelter up in the sun. There were no trees, especially in this end of town, to give even a little bit of shade. Sweat trickled down Raul’s back between his shoulder blades and ran stinging into his eyes. His ball cap was drenched, a blurry line of white showing the ebb and flow of perspiration as he worked.

  The lady who owned this house drank something dark and sweet and very strong that she had called a so
l y sombra. She’d had it in one of those odd glasses with the short stems, with the mouth much smaller than the bowl, and had nursed one drink all afternoon. She’d taken care to offer it to them one Friday at the end of the day. He sipped it and felt it burn all the way down, liquid fire, too much for a tired man. No wonder she had nursed it along all afternoon. He’d preferred a cold beer and told her so. Sol y sombra. Today, all sol, no sombra.

  “Diego!” He called to his partner nailing the last of the shingles in place. “Vámanos.”

  It was a good stopping point, and they had business to conduct for Pelirojo. Diego lifted his head, and nodded in acknowledgement, taking his straw hat off and drawing his red kerchief across his forehead. He stood and hopscotched across the roof, climbing down the ladder just after the balding man in the blue tee-shirt who had called his name. They met a third man, Luis, by the burn barrel. He was older and a little taller, barrel-chested, with a drooping dark mustache. He acknowledged them with a squint and a scowl, authority and anger in his bearing. He was Pelirojo’s right hand man, mean, hard and cunning just like Pelirojo, but without the size and the connections to be anything more than Pelirojo’s peon. Still, not a man to cross.

  Diego listened in silence as the two other men conversed in hushed voices about the woman who was causing Pelirojo all the trouble, and how he had instructed them to take care of her.

  A chill went down his spine, fear mingled with anger and helplessness. He wanted to stop them but had no way. He made good money as a roofer, but most of it went home to his mother and baby sister, who had no way to survive since Papá had died. He’d gratefully accepted a place to stay at the big house, needing the comfort of familiar sounding voices and the smell of home- cooked food. He had been so lonely and so homesick. The little one, Isa, had been particularly kind, always setting aside a dish of food for him, so that no matter how late he came in, there was something warm and good to eat. She didn’t say much; she was shy, but she would smile at him when she passed him his plate, and his world sang.

  He never heard exactly what had happened, but the fire in his belly told him that Pelirojo had finally decided to take her like he took anything else he wanted. Diego had wanted to stand up to him, to beat him for what he did and to make him pay, but the plain fact was that he was afraid. Afraid of being killed, for Pelirojo was twice his size or better and without a conscience. Afraid of being sent back, for everyone knew that if the police ever got their hands on a Mexican, it was into jail and back across the border. He couldn’t afford that, so he had spent the days since in miserable, shameful silence. Only the work on the roof, sweating out his disgrace in the hot sun helped, and that not for long.

  The two other men finished their negotiations and looked around the work site casually. It was lunch break, and the dozen or so workers on the site had sorted themselves out into various spots of shade, opening lunch boxes and drinking from cold, dripping bottles of water. One of the older men had started up a small grill and was making fajitas his daily habit. The smell of cooking meat and onions drifted across the site and made Diego’s mouth water. It went dry again as he heard the voices calling him on, arms beckoning and faces threatening.

  “Vámanos. Isa nos espera.” Come on, she is waiting.

  Diego’s reluctant steps followed the two as they headed up the street to the big green house that stood near the entrance to the trail that went up the mountain. The men had assumed an air of casual friendship, chatting about nothing, gesturing at each other, just workmen walking among ever-remodeling neighborhoods, invisible because they were so common. Diego lagged behind, desperate to escape and afraid to do so, knowing what was coming and powerless to stop it.

  The foreman, a slim, aristocratic-looking man, watched the three of them disappear. Raul and Luis were up to no good, that he was certain of. He’d caught a few words of their conversation, despite their whispers. Something about a woman, a payment. With these two, it always was. It made him angry. His family had come here many generations ago, living in New Mexico, then Colorado, ranching, mining, keeping shops. He still had family in Sonora, and he loved both his countries. It made him angry that these two filled up all the dark and fearful fantasies the Anglos had about Mexicans. They brought disgrace to him, to his family, to his profession, to his culture. He was sorry the boss had ever hired them, but he hadn't been able to find a good excuse to fire them yet. They were on time, and they worked hard. He suspected that the big red-headed guy who had brought them to the site until recently made sure of that.

  His eyes narrowed as he followed their disappearing figures. They still wore their tool belts, unusual. Most men couldn't shed them fast enough at break. And there was poor Diego, their lap dog. Diego was a nice kid, honest, hardworking, even taking time on Fridays to go up to the little church nearby for Mass at noon. The foreman knew he sent most of his money home; that was why he’d ended up living with those two thieves.

  He saw them turn up a distant street. Something was very wrong, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. He decided to follow along, distancing himself far enough back that Diego wouldn't see. He flipped open his cell phone to make certain it was working. You never knew around here. He was gratified. What did that silly commercial say? More bars in more places? He had plenty of bars.

  **********

  Pilar was just finishing the dishes. Señora Doctora had a fine kitchen, but Pilar had never seen her use it. Ever since she had arrived more than a week ago, Pilar had taken it as her own domain. It reminded her of the hotel restaurant she had worked in before coming here: big, efficient, the best of appliances and pots and pans. It gave her great joy to make good things come out of it and to care for it. The lady doctor had resisted turning it over to Pilar, but when she finally had, her tired, sad eyes told Pilar she was grateful not to have to worry about cooking. Perhaps the best was being able to go to the market— the big, fancy one in the Village — and get anything she wanted. Anything.

  She still couldn’t imagine the luxury of making something other than rice and beans for two of the day’s three meals. And the lady doctor complimented her and ate it all, though not enough, not nearly enough.

  Ignacio, Mariela and Pablo were playing hide-and-seek in the house. Pablo had begged to stay home today with the two older ones rather than go to the center at the church, and Isa had indulged him, kissing him before heading off into town to clean one of the big houses near the entrance to town. She would be back soon for lunch. Lupe had gone to Montrose to work for the day and would not be back before dark. That left Pilar in charge of the house and the kids. Missing her own grown brood, that suited her just fine. This was a beautiful house. It was a joy to keep it clean. At first, the lady doctor had tried to tell her she couldn’t, something about being arrested for letting her work.

  Such nonsense. Arrested for cooking and cleaning! It was ridiculous, and she had told her so. They had squared off in the front hall, making polite arguments back and forth until finally, by sheer persistence, Pilar had won. It was the same technique she had used with her stubborn husband, Dios le bendice, and her children, and it still worked. She wiped the last of the counter clean just as the children piled noisily in to sit at the granite center island, clamoring for lunch.

  Pablo was the last to wiggle his way into the tall chair. He was so much like her own. She ruffled his hair even as she scolded him for reaching for a cookie from the jar in the middle of the table. He smiled up at her, slipping his hand back from the tempting vessel. Ignacio, seated next to him, turned his attention to the keys that Señora Doctora had left on the table. He was turning them over in his hand, using them as a noisemaker to taunt Mariela when Isa walked in from the front hall. Ignacio stood up in his chair, welcoming Isa with open arms and a broad smile.

  Isa hugged him and extracted the keys from his hands.

  “You mustn’t play with this, Nacio,” she said. “It’s not a toy.” She showed him the electronic fob. “Besides, this is an alarm. To protect
the car. If you push it by accident, it makes noise and the police will come. What will you say to them if they come, Nacio?” She was scolding, but her eyes were kind. It was obvious to anyone how much she loved this one, almost as much as her own son. She laid the keys on the counter and kissed the chubby hands. “Go wash, Nacio. Your hands are dirty.”

  Ignacio started to argue but decided it was futile. He climbed down from the chair and crossed from the kitchen to the small bath off the hallway. Isa was relieved to hear the sound of running water and turned to greet the other children and Pilar, who was taking lunch meat from the big white refrigerator. Isa gave her a quick hug before pulling the bread from the roll-front cabinet on the counter, and pulling a knife from the block to slice the tomatoes that lay on the cutting board.

  She had started on the second one when the back door burst open at the hands of two men. Pilar started and dropped a plastic glass decorated with saddles and ropes and cowboy hats onto the floor. It bounced away, making a hollow clatter.

  “Dios mío!”

  Pilar stepped back as the men strode into the room toward Isa, confident and menacing. The older, bigger one brandished a hammer from his tool belt. Pilar scooped Mariela and Pablo into her protective arms and backed away toward the door. The men ignored her. The smaller man reached Isa first, strutting and speaking in rapid Spanish.

  “So what did you think you were doing, trying to get rid of Pelirojo? After all he did for you. Ungrateful witch.”

  He pushed Isa roughly as the second man approached.

  *********

  Something flared in Isa, and she whirled around to face him squarely. She was not afraid, not anymore, not living here in comfort and security. The knife went from produce to assailant, opening a gash on the man’s right arm, just below the dirty shirt sleeve, then another across his face.

  He screamed in pain and dropped back, cursing her as the other pushed him aside, swinging the hammer wildly in Isa’s direction. She ducked and the hammer came crashing down on the granite counter. She heard it split and heard him curse with the shock of metal on stone. She stabbed the knife blindly and felt it hit. The hammer clattered to the floor as the second man screamed and caught her by one hand, the other clutching the side of his leg where his jeans were rapidly staining. He pulled Isa aside, wide, making an arc to slam her into the broken counter when the kitchen exploded with sound. Loud, violent, wailing sound, an alarm.