Persons Missing or Dead

by Cliff Black

  I was unaware of the article until Bloody Mary came steaming into my office waving the newspaper and shouting, “I thought we had an understanding about doing private investigative work. You excused yourself last time because it was family. Well, this isn’t family, and it reflects badly on the college and on the department. What were you thinking, Mr. Corbin? What will it take to make you understand your first allegiance is to the college?”

  Bloody Mary was waving the newspaper in my face, so I finally took it away from her to see what the commotion was all about. She kept yapping until I lost patience and said, “Be quiet until I have time to see what’s got you in such a lather.”

  It didn’t take long to scan the article and figure out Philo Carter was behind it. Was this payback for the anthill episode, for keeping his Ruger, or for anticipating his break-in and wiping my hard drive? Carter needed another lesson in manners.

  “Don’t try to deny it,” Bloody Mary said when I looked up. “There’s no one else in the department that would do this sort of thing.”

  She didn’t stop there. I think she wanted me to lose my temper and say something she could use against me. She succeeded. “Wait, wait.” I said. I stood up and put a hand out that almost covered her mouth. “Don’t say another word, Mary. Get off my back. I may have to take the schedule you’ve dumped on me, but I don’t have to listen to your lectures.”

  “You can’t talk that way to me,” she said and nearly strangled on the words.

  I lowered my voice to barely above a whisper, leaned down, put my face about six inches from hers, and said, “I not only can talk to you that way, Mary, I have. There's something else you should know. That article was right about my ancestry. I’m one quarter Apache. When I get angry, the Apache takes over. That’s why that guy wound up staked over an ant hill. And if you even think of using my ancestry to make your equal opportunity figures look better, you'll be the next one staked over an ant hill. I may do it anyway unless you go away and leave me alone.”

  Bloody Mary staggered back a step or two, put a hand to her neck, stared at me wide eyed for a few seconds, then whirled and fled out the door. I knew I hadn’t had the last word, but I got her attention.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The photo of James W. Smith came two days later. There was a note with it:

  Mr. Corbin. This is the only photo we have of Smith. It's his driver's

  license photo and about six years old. Smith had no record, and there are no

  finger prints on file anywhere.

  So, how could Smith do the kind of things I suspected him of and not have a record? Maybe Smith really was dead, and the fake death was only a figment of Carter’s imagination. Still, McLaughlin’s granddaughter was out there somewhere, and I wasn’t getting any closer to finding her. And if Smith wasn’t the one who assaulted Rosa Cisneros and the Valenzuelas, then who was it?

  That reminded me that Philo Carter might also be nosing around somewhere. Who else could have planted that story in the newspaper? I figured he was the one who broke into my house and took the hard drive out of my computer. The break-in irritated me, but at the same time I hoped Carter had done it and triumphantly delivered his prize to McLaughlin. It was awkward getting the zip disk from the Model-A’s rumble seat whenever I wanted to make notes on the case, but the thought of McLaughlin’s frustration at finding nothing of interest on my hard drive made it all worthwhile. And then I thought about the Jeep Cherokee that may have followed us to Cuba. Was that Carter? And why was McLaughlin pitting us against each other?

  On Thursday night, I got a call from Shelly. She’d be having her yard sale Saturday and Sunday, and she’d appreciate anything I could do. I told her I’d come early and help her set up.

  Friday afternoon, mostly out of curiosity, I drove up on Menafee Mountain to have a look at the site where Barry’s pickup was found. I called ahead and found a man from Hesperus to show me the place. He was a member of the Search and Rescue Posse. I would never have found the spot without him.

  I don’t know what I expected to see there, after the area had been combed by experts. I guess I hoped I’d come across something that would get the cops off Shelly’s back. I didn’t see anything except car tracks and a lot of beat down brush and grass.

  Shelly’s sale was supposed to start at eight o’clock Saturday morning. I got there about six-thirty. There was plenty to do. Shelly was selling most of her furniture. The new owners had opted to buy the dining room furniture and that in the spare bedroom. Shelly was keeping barely enough to furnish an apartment. Four of the women from the softball team, plus Shelly and I, packed the sale stuff out and set it up on the front lawn. Shelly already had price tags on each piece. The prices were high, but there wasn’t a store closer than Denver with furniture of that quality.

  By seven-thirty the early-birds and bargain hunters were beginning to show up. Shelly assigned me to crowd control. She didn’t want anyone to set foot on the property until eight o’clock.

  The sale opened and I was helping a pair of older ladies carry trinkets to their car when Barry Quintana’s law partner showed up. He looked like trouble and made a beeline for Shelly. I drifted that way to see if she needed backup.

  She didn’t. That girl didn’t kowtow to anybody. The lawyer was saying, “ . . . in contact with his children back east. His personal items should be part of his estate. You have no legal right to sell them.”

  There were quite a few of Barry’s things in the sale. Some quite expensive–like a knife collection, several guns, golf clubs, clothing, a pile of silver dollars, and a bunch of proof sets.

  Shelly didn’t bat an eye. “Well, you may think this stuff is part of his estate, but it was left in my house. I’ve sold the house, and I’m not about to move or store Barry’s junk. If you want it, come back with a court order.”

  Barry’s partner seemed to lose most of his enthusiasm for the project when Shelly wouldn’t knuckle under. He shrugged and left. That was when I noticed Sergeant Collins looking at the guns. He still crept around like his feet hurt.

  I strolled over to him, and said, “Toenails still bothering you?”

  “You wouldn't believe how bad. I’ve gotta get ‘em fixed.”

  “You buyin’ or just lookin’?” I asked, pointedly.

  He put down the rifle he was looking at. “I thought maybe I’d be hearing from you,” he said. “I figured a guy like you would have heard or seen something off kilter by now.”

  “Shelly and I aren’t all that close. This is only the second time I’ve been to the house.”

  He turned back to the guns and said. “This all of them?”

  “I think she’s already sold a .22 rifle and a .38 revolver.”

  “No more hunting rifles?”

  There were six in the sale, a 30-30 Winchester, a bolt action Remington 30-06, a lever action Savage 308, a Winchester 22 Hornet, a custom made, double barreled, elephant gun, and an M-1 Garand. The Garand was an army rifle from World War II, not really a hunting gun.

  “Isn’t six enough?” I asked.

  “Quintana’s law partner claims he gave Barry a high-dollar Weatherby Magnum. For some reason he evades telling us where he got it, but he claims it’s the one that showed up in a pawn shop a few weeks after Barry came up missing. We’re still trying to run down the serial number. I can’t help wondering if maybe he was mistaken, and there might be another one like it in the sale here.”

  “I haven’t seen one. I think this is all there is.”

  “Okay. See you around.”

  He didn’t make any move to leave, so I asked, “Why do you keep pestering Shelly? Do you have any hard evidence she had anything to do with Barry’s disappearance?”

  Collins rubbed his face and said, “Just little things, and a gut feeling.”

  “Little things like what?”

  “Like Barry didn’t show up for work on a Thursday, but his pickup was still here until Saturday.”

  “Did you have the
place staked out?” I asked.

  “Only Shelly’s nosey neighbor.”

  I couldn't believe what I was hearing. “Mrs. Ortiz? What makes her more credible than Shelly?”

  Collins didn't seem at all bothered by my apparent disbelief. “She came by here about nine o’clock that Thursday–the day Barry didn’t show up in his office, and the day Shelly claims he went hunting. Mrs. Ortiz says she often comes by about that time. She goes to a friend’s place for coffee, or the friend comes to her place. She claims she often saw Barry and Shelly leaving together in the Jaguar about that time. That Thursday morning she saw Shelly alone in the car. And before the garage door closed, she thinks she saw Barry’s pickup inside.”

  This was too much. “Why would the old lady remember those details?” I asked.

  “That’s what nosy neighbors do.”

  “How can she be sure what day it was?”

  “It was her birthday. She was anticipating something special at her friend’s place.”

  The source of information was suspect, but Collins’ arguments held up. I said, “The truck being there is peculiar–assuming old lady Ortiz saw what she thinks she saw, and assuming it really happened on her birthday. Shelly told me Barry bailed out about four o’clock in the morning. What makes you think the pickup was here until Saturday?”

  “Well, maybe I don’t know that. And again I have to depend on the eyes of Mrs. Ortiz. She came by about sunup Saturday morning. Her parish was having a rummage sale that morning, and she was going in to help set up. She claims the sprinklers had been on here at the Quintana place, and they still hadn’t fixed the one that wasted water spraying their fancy brick drive. She says there were wet wheel tracks on the drive that could have been caused by Barry’s pickup leaving.”

  I was a little shaken by Collins’ story, but I said, “One old woman’s fantasy? That’s all you have?”

  Collins continued in his matter-of-fact tone. “There’s a little more. About two o'clock Saturday afternoon, Shelly was seen in the neighborhood coming home from a bike ride. Men do notice when Shelly rides by on her bicycle. Nice buns.”

  “So?”

  “No one saw her leave.”

  I tried once more, even though my defenses were crumbling. “Sounds like you’re trying to build a car with nothing but a hubcap for a start. You’ve dogged her trail, quizzed her neighbors, made up all sorts of fantasies, and even dug up her rose garden. Seems to me you’d cut your losses and leave her alone. This isn't the first time Barry has bugged out.”

  “No, but it's the first time he's disappeared without a trace.”

  “That doesn't mean Shelly had a hand in it.”

  “Oh, she killed him all right,” Collins said, with no trace of doubt in his voice or manner. “We just haven’t dug in the right place yet.”

  When I figured out what happened to Laura Strassburg, it was like flood water seeping through an old stone wall. This was different. It was as though the wall crumbled and the water gushed through.

  During the next week, the only thing I did on my quest for Cherish McLaughlin was to search all of the telephone listings for people named Martinez anywhere within a hundred miles of Cuba. I did it by computer using the Internet. I knew Nat could have done it better and faster, but I was trying to keep my distance from her. I came up with nearly a hundred listings and eliminated them one by one with phone calls. I knew my method wasn't foolproof, but I didn't have time for personal visits. Saturday I went gambling. Actually, I mowed the lawn, changed the oil in my Model-A, went to Nat’s soccer game, and then went gambling. Wilson’s shift was from six p.m. to two a.m.

  Ezzy’s friend was supposed to watch for me. He found me about half an hour after I got there. I was standing near a crap table watching the suckers lose their money.

  Ezzy’s friend introduced himself and told me to act as if I was a job applicant being shown around. He said Wilson was the only man in the repair shop right then. I walked through, pretending to look at the machines to see what make and model they were and got a good look at James Wilson. The description we had said Smith was six feet two inches tall, 210 pounds, with brown hair and blue eyes. Wilson was about the right height, but he looked closer to 300 pounds than 210. His eyes were brown, not blue. Instead of dark, wavy hair, he was nearly bald, and what hair he had was gray. He also had a gray mustache and a Van Dyke beard that weren’t on Smith’s driver’s license photo. There was still a good sized bandage across his left cheek, and one on the back of his left hand. I couldn’t see any others as he wore a long-sleeved dress shirt. He sure didn’t look like James W. Smith. Then I passed close behind Wilson’s chair and caught a whiff of body odor. Maybe this guy wasn’t Jimmy Smith, but I’d swear he smelled like the guy who broke into my trailer.

  I noticed Wilson and my guide were wearing photo-ID badges. I asked Ezzy’s friend, “What are the chances of getting a copy of Wilson’s picture?”

  He said, “I’ll work on it, and let Ezzy know.”

  Sometimes it’s dumb little things that solve a case. If it hadn’t been for the ID photo and Nat’s soccer team, things might have turned out much differently.

  Chapter Thirty

  Monday, I was warming a can of stew for my supper when I got a call from Ezzy.

  “How, Geronimo. I have a photo for you. Do you wanna come and get it, or shall I mail it to you?”

  “I have a class at seven and one at eight, but I want it now. I have a buddy that owes me. If he’ll take my classes, I’ll be there. Will you be at home, or are you on duty?”

  “I’m on duty. If we don’t have a crime wave, I’ll meet you at the county line.”

  “Okay, Ezzy. I’m about to sit down to supper. Unless I call and tell you different, I should be there in about an hour and a half.”

  Ezzy’s Cherokee was parked on my side of the highway, pointing back toward Dove Creek. I pulled in behind him, took my briefcase, and got in the Jeep with him.

  “How, Geronimo,” he said. “You’re right on time.”

  “Thanks for meeting me.”

  “No problem. Parking here slows down the tourists as they enter our fair county.”

  I opened my briefcase, got out my copy of James W. Smith’s driver’s license picture and said, “Let’s see yours.”

  Ezzy took a photo from a white letter size envelope and handed it to me. It was getting dark, so he turned on the overhead light. I took his photo and held it next to mine. They were both about three by five inches.

  After I looked at them for a few minutes, I said, “About all we can go by is eyes, nose, and ears. Smith had hair and no whiskers. Wilson has no hair, but he has a beard and mustache. And there’s something these photos don’t show. The driver’s license info has Smith at six–two and 210 pounds. If I can believe Carter, Smith was in good shape. This Wilson guy needs Weight Watchers. He must weigh at least 280.” I looked again at the two photos and said, “I wonder if Nat knows a way to scan both pictures, and superimpose one on the other.”

  “Maybe he’s been on a 5000 calorie diet,” Ezzy said with a grin. “It looks to me like they both have the same nose, and look at those eyes. If they’re not the same guy, they’re at least both crooks. I think you’ve got a match there, Geronimo. You should be able to prove it if your daughter can put one over the other, though.”

  “I think you’re right, but given the shape he’s in, Wilson doesn’t look like he could win an encounter with Ricardo Valenzuela. If he did it, he must have used Valenzuela’s wife as a shield.”

  We sat there in silence for a few minutes, each absorbed with his own thoughts. Then,

  I said, “The main reason I still want to pursue this is because I smelled Wilson at the casino. I know it would never hold up in court, but Wilson smells like the guy that broke into my trailer.”

  Ezzy said, “We should do a smell line up. Maybe it would hold up in court if you could pick him out of a bunch of guys. It would be fun to try.”

  “You think I c
ould talk Corporal Brown into arresting Wilson based on his odor?”

  “No, but I’d like to be a spider in the corner when you ask him.” Ezzy paused for a few seconds and then asked, “What do you hear from Rosa Cisneros?”

  “I called her doctor a few days ago. He said she was conscious and talking, but she can’t remember what happened to her and doesn’t recognize some of the people who come to see her. He didn’t want me to talk to her yet.”

  “Dang, Geronimo, there must be some way to find that Virginia woman. She has to be somewhere close.”

  “For all we know, she's flown to Argentina,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Ezzy agreed. “She may have figured out someone was on her tail and boogied.”

  I cracked my window to let in the evening air while I thought about things. Finally, I said, “What I don’t understand is, why is she hiding? If she is, or even recently was, in the Four Corners, she’s not going by Virginia Martinez. What is she afraid of?”

  “Maybe she’s worried that someone like Arthur McLaughlin will come along and try to give her a whole pile of money.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Maybe she knows her daughter's real mother is, or was, still alive and looking for her. Maybe she’s afraid of serious trouble because of buying the girl.”

  “She didn’t seem worried about any of that when she was throwing money around Santa Fe, but then maybe it wasn’t until later that she learned Mary McLaughlin was alive,” I said.

  “Maybe she has creditors looking for her, or maybe there was something about the divorce that has her concerned. Maybe she’s dodging her ex,” Ezzy said.