Copyright © 2020 Tony Forder
The right of Tony Forder to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2020 by Spare Nib Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
tonyjforder.com
[email protected]
Also by Tony J Forder
The DI Bliss Series
Bad to the Bone
The Scent of Guilt
If Fear Wins
The Reach of Shadows
The Death of Justice
Endless Silent Scream
Slow Slicing
The Mike Lynch Series
Scream Blue Murder
Cold Winter Sun
Standalone
Degrees of Darkness
To everybody who worked so hard and supported me in getting this out there.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Acknowledgements
Landmarks
Cover
One
Sydney Merlot thought the man standing half in and half out of the yawning doorway had the most haunted eyes she had ever seen; glistening windows into the soul of someone who had suffered a great tragedy and had not yet come to terms with his grief. He appeared uncertain and lacking in confidence as he straddled the threshold. His eyebrows angled towards each other, and when he removed his ball cap, both hands squeezed and twisted it as if wringing out slops from a beer towel.
‘I… I’m looking for Sidney Merlot,’ he said. ‘I was told this was his office.’ He squinted as if hoping she might transform somehow into the man he was expecting to find.
Sydney smiled back at him, having experienced similar misunderstandings over the past couple of days. ‘I’m his daughter,’ she said, rising to her feet and moving briskly around the desk. She rubbed her right hand on the leg seam of her blue jeans before extending it, appraising his unruly, tangled hair and deep stubble of beard, eyes shot with red marble and white-hot agony. As they exchanged greetings she continued, ‘I do apologise, but my father no longer runs this agency.’
The man blinked at her twice before responding, in that moment looking both unanchored and crestfallen. She felt a twinge of sympathy for him as he shook his head, seemingly still bemused by the turn of events.
‘I see. Only, just this morning, somebody who led me to believe they know the agency well, gave me this address and told me to ask for Mr Merlot.’
Sydney gave a weak smile. Here was the next part of what she had already discovered would be an entire scene to re-enact in the coming days and weeks. As was her nature, she took a deep breath and confronted the issue head on.
‘My father passed away a short while ago,’ she explained, not allowing her tone to become grave. ‘I’m here to wind the business down in respect of existing clients.’
‘My condolences to you. So, you’re not keeping the agency going?’
‘Thank you. And no, not personally. I live and work in San Diego. I’m hoping somebody will take it over as a going concern, and that they’ll keep the name of Merlot at least during the period of transition. Oh, and to add to the confusion, despite my father no longer being with us, you’re still talking to Sydney Merlot. My name has the female spelling. Just think of the city in Australia.’
Sydney offered up the delicate laugh she’d been practicing to go along with the explanation. It sounded every bit as contrived and unconvincing as it had in her head while rehearsing it in the mirror over the weekend.
‘You are Mr..?’ she went on, seeking to recover before he turned on his heels and fled the building.
‘Muller,’ he said. ‘Dexter Muller. I’m so very sorry for your loss, Miss Merlot. And for bumbling in here like that asking for your father. An acquaintance who used to work with him gave me his details. I guess they were unaware of his passing.’
Muller came across as awkward, which was understandable given the circumstances. In what she hoped was a reassuring manner, Sydney told him the private investigations agency was, for the most part, a one-man band. Her father’s clients had respected his tenacity and integrity, putting their faith in an honourable man who served them to the best of his ability.
‘I hope to follow in his footsteps in the limited amount of time it takes me to sift through his current list of clients,’ Sydney finished, hoping she had done justice to her father’s work ethic and professionalism.
While Muller continued to regard her with a pained expression, he also visibly relaxed along with the easy rhythm of her words. Energised by the change she saw in him, Sydney made a swift decision.
‘Would you care to sit?’ Sydney indicated the soft chair by the desk, its wooden arms highly polished by the sleeves of many previous customers. ‘I’m not looking to take on any new business, but you’re here and I have time to hear you out. Please, feel free to explain why you came. If I think I can help, or refer you to another appropriate agency, I’ll tell you. If you don’t like what I have to say, then you’ll have wasted only a few minutes of your time. How does that sound?’
‘Good,’ he answered on a sigh. ‘It sounds good.’
After taking their seats, Muller continued to look disconcerted. Sydney guessed this was due to the reason behind him seeking an investigator in the first place. She gave him a few moments to formulate exactly what he wanted to say, and eventually he sat forward and nodded at her.
‘I assure you I heard only positive things about your father. However, I was also told he was the most experienced PI in the region. If you don’t mind my asking, as your father mostly worked alone, how long have you been in the business?’
Sydney shrugged. ‘Including this morning? Two and a half days.’
The man grimaced and huffed a sigh of disappointment. His entire body took on a dejected air. Sydney decided to use the speech she had rehearsed in her bathroom mirror a few hours ago. Hoping to allay his concerns, she insisted that alth
ough her experience of being a private investigator had begun only on Monday morning, she’d held a PI licence for a good while, renewing it several times. In addition, she was currently an FBI agent, having spent many years prior to joining the Bureau working in various forms of law enforcement.
‘I’m the first to admit that I still have things to learn about what it means to be a PI,’ she conceded. ‘But I have been an investigator in one form or another for more than fifteen years.’
Dishevelled, his eyes heavy with regret, Muller looked back at her with a new-found respect. Judging by his appearance, he had stopped taking care of himself in recent weeks; presenting as a troubled man in need of help. When he spoke he lacked confidence, but his fortitude eventually drew her in.
‘Miss Merlot, I confess my coming here today was pretty much a last resort. I’ve been to a couple of larger agencies and they wanted nothing to do with me. Sure, they never exactly said that out loud, but when somebody tells you they’ll get back to you and then they don’t, and when you call and leave messages and they still fail to respond, you eventually have to accept they’re not interested.’
Sydney ran both hands through her hair, sweeping it off her forehead and continuing on until both sides became tucked behind her ears. What she hoped to reveal in her eyes when she spoke next was the level of sincerity she truly harboured.
‘If that’s your experience so far, sir, then you have my sympathy. I can’t speak for anybody else. I’m taking over my father’s business slowly but surely in order to complete his ongoing work, and I guess I won’t do things the exact same way he did. But if I say I’ll do something, then I will do it. And if I’m not interested, then I’ll tell you that, too. At the very least, what you’ll get from me, Mr Muller, is a certain kind of bluntness. Not everybody can deal with that. If you can, then perhaps I may be of some help to you.’
Muller released what sounded to her like the sigh of a man about to unburden himself. ‘That sounds like a positive beginning,’ he said. ‘But I can tell you’ve not lived in these parts for quite some time, Miss Merlot. Otherwise, I’m sure my name would have been familiar to you by now.’
‘And why would that be, sir?’
‘I take it you know about the school shootings we had in town a few months ago?’
‘Of course. A terrible tragedy. Fourteen dead, as I recall.’
‘In fact, it was fifteen.’ Muller’s voice caught in the back of his throat. He swallowed something down, and by the twisted look on his face it was vile-tasting. ‘There were fifteen coffins either lowered into the ground or burned as a consequence of what happened that tragic morning, Miss Merlot.’
‘Please, call me Sydney. And I stand corrected.’ She narrowed her gaze, a terrible realisation creeping over her. Tiny hairs sprang erect on her forearms as his name suddenly seemed familiar. ‘Sir, forgive me, but did you lose a child that day?’
Muller sucked air through his nose and sat upright, as rigid as a steel crowbar. ‘I did. My son, Kevin.’
‘I’m so terribly sorry for your loss. It must have been an awful thing for you to have experienced.’
‘Do you have children, Sydney?’
‘No, I do not.’
‘Then let me tell you it is the very worst of experiences when you lose one. It’s a cliché that says parents should not have to outlive their children, but it’s also a fact. It’s not something you ever get over.’
‘I can’t even begin to imagine. So, what can I do for you, Mr Muller.’
‘I’m looking for some kind of justice for my son.’
Sydney frowned. Her mind ran through everything she had learned about the events of that harrowing day, both from news reports and a couple of brief conversations with her father. ‘Sir, am I wrong in believing that law enforcement from local PD and the sheriff’s office shot and killed the perpetrator on school grounds shortly after the shooting?’
‘No, you’re right about that. He was, in point of fact, the fifteenth student to die that day.’
‘So, if the gunman is already dead, what kind of justice are you looking for exactly?’
‘My son was murdered. I want his killer or killers brought to trial.’
‘Once again, I apologise, Mr Muller, because I’m clearly not understanding this correctly. But given the circumstances, I’m not at all sure how you think that is possible.’
He expelled a long breath and moistened his lips while he fought some kind of inner turmoil. Shoulders hunched forward and slanting in, he looked as if he wanted nothing more than to fold himself into a protective ball.
‘Miss Merlot, it was the police, the sheriff, and his deputies who murdered my son that day. Please understand I’m not seeking any form of compensation. I wouldn’t take it if it was offered to me. What I do want is for them to admit their mistake.’
Edging closer in her chair, Sydney was irritated with herself. She didn’t know what this bereft and gentle man was trying to tell her. ‘Excuse me if I have this wrong yet again, sir, but I thought the gunman murdered all the children who died that day.’
‘Not all of them, no.’ Muller shook his head firmly. ‘You’re forgetting there were fifteen coffins in all. Miss Merlot, my son was not killed by the gunman. According to the sheriff, he was the gunman.’
Two
The diminutive town of Moon Falls nestled comfortably in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains in northern California. Situated close to and east of Jamestown, Sonora, and Columbia, the Falls represents the fourth pillar of what is still referred to as gold country, and has maintained a huge number of its historical buildings in line with those three better known tourist attractions.
Settled forty-five years after the discovery of precious metal at Sutter’s Mill near Sacramento started the “Gold Rush” period, the town initially attempted to become the principal city in the area under the leadership of its founder, lumber magnate Edward Moon. When Moon died of consumption at the age of thirty-nine, there were no heirs to take his place, nor business partners with the same burning ambition to continue the development as originally planned.
Its residents number approximately three thousand, with as many again commuting in for work during the week. The waterfall from which Moon Falls takes its name gushes for only a month to six weeks during spring thaw, after which it barely manages a trickle. Many visitors consider the waterfall itself to be a massive disappointment. The town is a different matter entirely. It unobtrusively matches its more renowned neighbours for both charm and historical significance, and Sydney Merlot felt uplifted every time she set foot in Falls territory again.
The Tuolumne county sheriff’s office stands on Lower Sunset Drive in Sonora, though it retains an insignificant outpost in the Falls at the back of the town library; a legacy of its early years when horses and stagecoaches were the primary mode of transport. Because the sheriff himself lived in the town, he was more often tracked down to the closeted box barely large enough to house a desk, than the more modern, air-conditioned single-storey building ten miles away. This unofficial arrangement suited everyone concerned, and made life easier for Sydney that Wednesday afternoon after she had accepted her first ever case as a Private Investigator.
A tiny brass bell hanging above the door pealed as Sydney entered the library. A three-year campaign to move into larger, purpose-built premises, had stalled due to both a lack of state funding and protests from local townsfolk claiming there was enough tinkering with the past. Their library was a slice of history, they insisted, of which Moon Falls should be proud. The bell announcing every entrance and exit was not the original, but it was quaint and its gentle chime put a smile on Sydney’s face. She had forgotten all about it prior to walking into the narrow, leaning building that looked for all the world as if it were about to slide down the hill upon which it was erected.
The librarian, a portly man who had built up quite a sweat with only the tall, mullioned windows thrown open to act as air-conditioning, was busy behind
the counter. He looked as if he were wearing two different sized inner tubes beneath a shirt whose perspiration stains spread beyond the armpits. Sydney didn’t recognise him, but as he glanced up and their eyes met, she flashed a warm smile, offered a cheery wave, and continued on her way. The deeper she moved into the building, the less light filtered through from the front, and by the time Sydney reached the far end she was barely able to read the titles on any book spines.
The door to sheriff Benton Lowe’s office stood wide open. Sydney paused before entering, the past gathering around her like thick fog as she looked across at the man who, more than twenty years earlier, had stolen away her first proper kiss.
Another fond memory to prompt a smile.
Benton was not the typical boy a budding cheerleader would usually fall for. He was not a track or football star; barely enjoyed sports at all, as far as Sydney recalled. Neither was he the school stud. A gentle soul at a time when the world could have used more of them, was how she had regarded him in those days. As for the man he had become, she took a breath and decided to find out.
‘How’s it going, Doc?’ Sydney said, giddy as a schoolgirl all over again.
The TV show ER was popular back in high school. One of the key characters throughout its first eight seasons, was a doctor by the name of Benton. The obvious nickname for her friend ended up sticking. Him having later become a law enforcement officer caused precisely the right combination of bemusement and curiosity in those who heard it for the first time.
Lowe looked up slowly, as if initially trying to identify the voice. The moment his gaze fell upon her, the easy wide grin that had always been his best feature, slipped readily into place. A few pounds heavier, his natural blond hair a great deal shorter and shot with grey around the temples, Benton’s solid good looks still retained the power to give Sydney’s heart a gentle squeeze. Pushing himself back from the desk, his entire face formed a picture of unfettered delight at seeing her standing there.
‘Well, now,’ his voice boomed in the small enclosure, ‘if it isn’t the infamous and cosmopolitan Mrs Yates come to see how us country folk operate. Get the hell over here, girl.’
Fifteen Coffins Page 1