by Cliff Black
“I teach math on the side,” I said. “Or maybe it’s the other way around. Depends on whom you ask.” Bloody Mary’s ambush was still fresh on my mind.
“Seems odd Shelly would tie up with you,” Collins said. “She knows about you, doesn’t she?”
“Knows what about me?”
Collins looked at me like I was dense. “That you’re a P.I.”
Where was he going? “She knows I’m involved in an investigation. She may not know about the one last spring. We’ve only been out together twice.”
“What are you working on now?”
“Missing person.”
“Local case? Anything I might know about?”
I didn't think I needed to elaborate, so I said, “Probably not.” Collins didn't say anything, so I said, “I need a drink of water. Want one?”
“Yes, thank you. Sounds good.”
I went in the house and came back with two large glasses of ice-water. When I was settled again I asked, “You said it seemed odd Shelly would go with me. What’s odd about that?”
“I think she killed her husband. I haven’t figured out how she did it, or where she put the body, but nothing else makes sense. It seems strange she’d invite someone like you into her life. You might pick up on something, if you’re around long enough.”
“Or maybe you’re wrong, and she has nothing to hide.”
Collins lifted his glass as though he would take a drink, set it back down, and said, “Naw, she killed him. I’d bet a year’s pay on it.”
Collins didn't seem stupid, and he seemed so sure he was right. “What makes you think she killed him? Unless she misrepresented the facts, she had nothing to gain. All she has is their equity in the house, and he’d already given her that. You sure he didn’t just take a powder? That’s what Shelly thinks. She told me she even hired a Denver P.I. firm to find him.”
“Smoke screen. Why would he leave with nothing? What was he running from? His partner doesn’t think he had any hidden assets, and he left nearly thirty thousand bucks in a joint checking account–which Shelly has managed to spend. He didn’t even take one of his cars. No, I think he’s dead, and I think Shelly Grafton knows how he got that way.” This time Collins lifted his glass to his mouth and drank some water.
“Shelly gave me a message for you,” I said. Collins looked over his glass with raised eyebrows. “She said to tell you she’s an ax murderer. That she chopped up Barry’s body and fed him to the neighborhood dogs.”
Collins chuckled and almost choked on his drink. He shook his head. “That sounds like her. She doesn’t scare easy. Ever see her pitch softball?”
When I didn’t respond, Collins took another swallow of water, got to his feet, and said, “I may want to talk to you again. Let me know if you see anything peculiar.”
“I may be hard to catch,” I said. “I’ve been saddled with two night classes.”
He gave me a half-salute and walked gingerly away through the carport. He stopped for a minute to look over my Model-A again then hobbled on out of my sight.
Night classes, I thought. Dumbbell math at seven and eight at night, three days a week. Curse Bloody Mary and her equal opportunity claptrap. I knew now that I was the male teacher she had in her sights. She’d do her best to drive me out to make room for her old school chum. I was half a mind to go willingly. While I liked teaching, I was fed up with the bureaucracy, the idiotic programs trickling down from Washington. On the other hand, I didn’t really think I could support myself and Nat doing P.I. work. If I let Bloody Mary push me out, I’d have to go somewhere else to find a teaching position. I didn’t want to go somewhere else; I liked Durango. Besides, I couldn’t let Mary win. Revenge might fall outside the Cherokee Way, but I would wait and watch. My chance would come.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Since I had a free Saturday, I drove to Blanding and picked up the BMW motorcycle I had wrecked on the Moki Dugway. On the way back I planned to bring my trailer home from Cortez. Nat took the day off and came with me. The motorcycle was at my niece, Lori's, place. Nat was always anxious for a visit with Lori.
On the way back from Blanding, I stopped for a few minutes in Dove Creek to talk to Ezzy Miller. As it transpired, I didn't even get out of the truck. Ezzy was mowing his lawn and came to my window.
After we got past the usual, I introduced Nat to Ezzy. He greeted her then turned to me and said, “Tell me something, Geronimo, how did an ugly aborigine like you get such a gorgeous daughter. Is she adopted?”
“Miracles happen,” I said.
“Hey, Geronimo, I heard about what happened down in La Luz. Are you sure it was Smith? Why would Smith be sticking his nose into your missing person case?”
“Probably has something to do with McLaughlin’s being worth half a billion dollars.”
“That would do it. Are you making any progress finding that girl?”
“Not now,” I said. “Old man McLaughlin fired me Thursday. He thought I was spending too much time looking into his daughter’s background and not enough finding his granddaughter. Maybe he’s right, but I’ve figured out something no one wants to know.”
“Like what?”
“I think Mary McLaughlin and Jimmy Smith killed Laura Strassburg, contrived the auto accident, and used Laura’s body to fake Mary’s death.”
Ezzy looked at me for fifteen or twenty seconds, then said, “I’ve been thinking the same thing. Any proof?”
“No, but it all fits, and Laura’s mom said she was no dancer.”
Ezzy stared at me. I could see him adding up the numbers. Finally he said, “It does fit. Mary wanted to find her daughter. She found Smith, and the girl wasn’t with him. When he died she took his trailer and his records and came here looking. The girl must be close to Cortez.”
I agree, and finding the girl shouldn’t be that big a problem, except Smith didn’t die.
“You should tell McLaughlin that story, Geronimo. That would knock the wheels off his hay wagon.”
“Yeah, and I came close to doing it. I’m not sure his wife could handle it though.”
“He’ll be back, Geronimo. Who else is he gonna hire to find the girl? Who else can even hope to learn what you already know?”
“That’s what I keep thinking. Which reminds me, do you know Allen Collins? He’s a detective sergeant for Cortez City.”
“Skinny guy, gray, curly hair, walks like his feet hurt? Yeah, I've met him.”
“They’ve found Barry Quintana’s pickup.”
Ezzy got serious. “No bull? Where was it?”
“Menefee Mountain. It’s south of Mancos.”
“I know where it is.” Ezzy hesitated for a few seconds and then said, “Sorry about all this, Geronimo. I wasn’t even aware Shelly’s ex was missing until after we sicced her on you. I thought she was divorced. All you needed was another mystery.”
“Yeah, I’ve been wondering if it’s something I’m doing, or if I’m really lucky.”
Ezzy said, “You asked about Collins. Is he the one investigating Quintana’s disappearance?”
“Yeah. I was wondering if he’s any good, or if he only goes through the motions like Corporal Brown.”
“From what I’ve heard, he’s no brilliant detective, but he has good instincts, and he doesn’t give up.”
Tuesday, I received a phone call at the school from McLaughlin’s bookkeeper.
“Mister Corbin, I hope it’s all right to call you at the college. I tried your house and the answering machine gave me this number.”
“It’s okay. That’s why I put it on the machine.”
“I’m glad I was able to find you. Mister McLaughlin asked me to call you and get a justification for the travel you billed to him. Do you have a minute?”
“What do you need to know?”
“Mr. McLaughlin wonders why you went to Mexico, and didn’t go to Reno.”
“I had a lead in Mexico. Assuming Philo Carter told me the truth, there was no need for me t
o go back over the ground he’d already covered in Reno.”
“The methods you used on Mister Carter almost guaranteed truthfulness, didn’t they?” the bookkeeper asked, dripping sarcasm.
“I take it McLaughlin has been talking to Carter again,” I said. “Is the old tightwad really that dumb?”
“I’m going to forget you said that, Mister Corbin.”
“I’ll bet you are.”
“About this trip into Mexico, Arthur says you found the woman who adopted Cherish. Who is she?”
“Nice try,” I said. “I don’t think I’m obligated to tell McLaughlin that, and I’m certainly not about to tell you. How do I know you’re who you say you are?”
The bookkeeper ignored my question and said, “Mister McLaughlin thinks you are obligated. He told me to tell you he can’t pay for your time unless you submit a full report on everything you’ve learned.”
“Well, you tell him I said to hang it in his ear.”
“Are you refusing to give him any more information?”
“I didn’t stutter.”
“This won’t make Mister McLaughlin very happy.”
“You can’t imagine how concerned I am with McLaughlin’s happiness. He can call me himself if he wants to discuss it further.”
I thought he'd quit there, but he was persistent. “You show a second trip to El Paso and a trip to Dove Creek. And then you went to Shiprock and Cuba. You surely don’t mean the island do you?”
“Cuba, New Mexico. I thought I had a lead on someone who might know where Cherish is, but it didn’t work out.”
I was instantly sorry I had identified Cuba. The town was too small. In the wrong hands, even knowing I’d gone there could put Rosa Cisneros in danger.
“Where is Dove Creek? And why did you go there?”
I decided I’d had enough of trying to spare McLaughlin’s feelings. “Dove Creek is over by the Utah border. I went there to view the remains of McLaughlin’s daughter. Now pay the bill and don’t bother me again.” I slammed down the handset. A desk phone can be so emphatic.
About an hour later, as I walked into the house, McLaughlin called.
“Corbin, I want the name of the woman who adopted Cherish. I paid you to find who she is. Now give me her name.”
“I think I already told you her name. If I didn’t, score one for me. If I did, and you forgot what I told you, subtract one of yours. You think you can push me around, Arthur. You’re wrong. When you’ve covered my expenses, I’ll tell you what I know, but only what I know. What I’m still working on, or what I suspect, will have to wait until the case is closed. If you want everything I’ve dug up, so you can hand it to some sleaze-ball like Philo Carter, you’ll either have to pay me the bonus you offered or stake me over an ant hill. Besides, you asked me to find your granddaughter. You didn’t ask for the name of her adoptive mother.”
“We gave you an advance–”
“You did, and I spent it and more doing what you asked me to do.”
McLaughlin sputtered a bit as he said, “I still don’t like the way you were going about it.”
“How do you think I should have gone about it?” I asked.
“I’m not paying you for digging up Mary’s past. What’s this crock about going to Dove Creek to view her remains, anyway?”
“I exaggerated a little there. I didn’t see her remains. I saw photographs of her remains. Her bones are now in the Utah crime lab in Salt Lake City. Your daughter was murdered about eight months ago. Her body was dumped along Highway 666 barely across the state line into Utah. The body wasn’t discovered until three weeks ago.”
There was a short pause until McLaughlin growled, “You’re out of your mind, Corbin. You told me that was the woman who owned your trailer. My daughter died right here in Kentucky more than seventeen years ago. And it wasn’t murder. She died in an automobile accident. I can show you her grave.”
“You can believe what you want, Mr. McLaughlin, but I'll bet my fee that the grave you’ve been mourning over contains the remains of Laura Strassburg. Your own daughter was alive until eight months ago. Then someone killed her–probably because she was looking for Cherish. If you want to pay for the DNA testing you can prove or disprove it.”
“But why would . . . ? How did . . . ?”
When Arthur stopped stumbling I said, “You keep telling me you know what your daughter did, and that you don't want me digging into her sordid past. Well, now you can work out the hows and the whys. I was hoping I wouldn’t need to tell you. I have no proof, but I’m ninety-nine percent certain.”
Mclaughlin hung up at that point. Half an hour later he called again, said payment was in the mail, asked me to continue the search, and begged me not to say anything to his wife about Mary’s death.
“I’ll do what I can,” I said. “I have classes to teach now. I’m free most of Friday, and all day Saturday and Sunday. I’ll need that sorority information I asked about.”
“Call Alice, it’s her sorority. Just don’t tell her . . . .”
I hung up the phone and mentally kicked myself. Why hadn’t I asked to talk to Alice McLaughlin in the first place? Alice was the best source of information, and she was also the driving force behind the search for her granddaughter.
I booted up my computer and began to update my notes. Another thought intruded as I looked at the screen. Everything I knew about the case was in my computer. I copied all my files to a Zip disk and then wiped the hard drives in both my computers. I took the Zip disk out to the garage and slipped it into a side pocket in the Model-A’s passenger door. If Philo Carter was back in Arthur’s employ, he’d get no gratis information from me.
Chapter Twenty-Five
When I called Mrs. McLaughlin, I found she was a national officer of the sorority her daughter had pledged soon after enrolling at Miami of Ohio. It had been Mrs. McLaughlin’s own sorority when she attended the same university some twenty-four years earlier.
As she put it, “I had so hoped Mary would follow in my footsteps, but she was too much like her father. She was so head strong. The university experience could have given her the polish she needed. I pled with Arthur to let her go back, but he said a tech school was good enough for him, and she’d had her chance at Miami and blown it. All I can say is, she would never have met someone like that Jimmy Smith if she’d gone back to the university.”
No, I thought, she’d have met somebody like that Paul Kennedy person Virginia Teresa found. I had no idea then how insightful the thought was.
What I said to Mrs. McLaughlin was, “Do you maintain current addresses for all the sorority members?”
“We try to, but it’s a confidential listing. I couldn’t let anyone have access to it.”
“Mrs. McLaughlin, I won’t ask you to compromise your position, but I believe the woman who adopted your granddaughter was a sorority sister of Mary's while they were at Miami of Ohio. I will keep anything you send me in confidence. It’s up to you.”
Three days later, I received a registered letter. There was no return address. All the envelope contained was a list of names and addresses. There was nothing to indicate what the list was, but it wasn’t hard to figure out. Mary McLaughlin was on the list with the note, “deceased.” Virginia Teresa Castillo was also on the list. The current address showed, “Virginia Martinez, C/O Rosa Cisneros, Box 311, Cuba, NM.”
Now, I was down to one lead. How could I get around Rosa Cisneros? I thought about it the rest of the day. I decided to write to Rosa. Monday was Labor Day. There was no school. I spent part of the day writing and polishing a letter.
I told Rosa who I was and gave her the main college telephone number as a reference. I explained about my part-time work as a private investigator and gave her my New Mexico license number. I gave her my home address and phone number in Durango, and told her I lived there with my seventeen-year-old daughter. I gave her Deputy Miller’s phone number as another reference. I told her about A.A. McLaughlin and his millions.
Finally, I told her about Mary McLaughlin, Ricardo Valenzuela, and Sam Lawler, and what had happened to them. Then I told her what we suspected about James W. Smith. I explained everything he had done and what he was likely to do–that he was aware of the search, that he was making his own search, and that Virginia’s life was in danger. I explained that Virginia was the only person alive who knew what Smith had done. I told Rosa how important it was that I find Virginia and her daughter before Smith did.
The letter ran two and a half pages, double-spaced. I polished it, printed it, and then read it over. I saw that I had made an excellent case for Virginia to remain in hiding. If I didn’t find her, and if Smith didn’t find her, her life could continue as it was. Assuming Virginia and her daughter weren’t frothing at the mouth to return to the lifestyle of the rich and famous, the only persons hurt would be the McLaughlins. Well, I’d miss my twenty-five-kilobuck bonus.
I read over the letter again, decided I had nothing to lose, and mailed it.
Other than writing the letter and making a few phone calls, I didn’t have time to do more than think about the search for McLaughlin's granddaughter during the next week. I hadn’t taught remedial math ever. I had lesson plans to prepare, and I had to get used to doing night classes. Friday was an easy day. I had a nine o’clock class and an eleven o’clock class. After that, I was free.
I had lunch in the college cafeteria Friday, arriving home a little after one o’clock. I parked in the carport, leaving the drive clear to my garage out back, thinking I’d get the Model-A out and go for a spin. I didn’t go. My afternoon became otherwise occupied. Someone had disabled the alarm and kicked in my back door.
My first concern was for Natasha. She had classes during the morning and should have reported for work at one o’clock. I called her cell number. Nat was at the store. Thank goodness for that.
I called the police. Then I walked through the house mentally inventorying valuables–most of which were of only sentimental worth. My new guitar, only a week old, was undisturbed. The pot Juanita had given me to replace the one lost in my trailer fire was still on the mantle. Nothing was disturbed until I walked into my study. All the drawers in my desk were hanging open with files and other contents scattered across the floor. My computer monitor was lying on its side, and the computer box itself had the cover off. I looked more closely. The hard drive had been removed.